Page 16 of Fiery Romance

Not so different from war.

The VIP climbs out. He’s wearing an oversized coat, sunshades and a hat pulled low over his face. A bit over-kill, but I guess it serves its purpose.

We start the trek to the venue. Every now and again, I check on the newbies. They seem to be handling it pretty well. Their eyes are alert. Fingers lax. Steps sure.

We’re halfway to the door when something glints on a rooftop nearby. I glance behind me and then look around.

None of the newbies seems to have noticed.

My heart picking up speed, I motion for the others to press closer to the VIP. They interpret my hand motions quickly and form a protective huddle.

I lift a finger to my ear and am about to contact my team leader when the first pop goes off. One of my men grunts and flops to the ground.

Panic surges through the other newbies like a visible wave. All earlier composure flies through the window. I can see the whites of their eyes. Their stances are loose, wild, anything but controlled. Flailing hands. Gaping mouths. Shaking knees. Trigger-happy fingers.

Only one man seems unfazed. He takes the VIP by the shoulder and pushes him down. Covering the client with his body, he lifts his gun.

“I think the sniper’s on one of the rooftops to the east.” His voice is low and chilled. He pins steady brown eyes on me. “What do you want us to do, sir?”

“The client’s safety is the most important. You and you,” I point to two others who—though they lost it at first—quickly regained their equilibrium. “Cover the client and get him to…”

My words trail off when I notice the one thing I never want to see while on protection duty.

Regan.

She’s picking her way through the street. Obnoxious princess crown. Rainbow tutu. The most beautiful, bright, oblivious six year old in the world.

Her steps are swift and fearless. Bold as her mother. Unconcerned by the chaos of grown men pissing their pants or the active sniper on the roof.

My heart flogs my ribs. The brutal wave of panic hits me like a firing canon.

Every nerve pulls tight.

My daughter sees me and grins like she doesn’t have my heart by the throat.

A part of me hopes I’m dreaming.

“Regan?” I whisper.

She smiles wider.

The step I take toward her is jagged and tipsy.

No, no, no.

My mind gets fuzzy.

I joined the army because I didn’t have any other paths I wanted to take and I didn’t really care if I made it out alive. Life and death never used to matter. Not until I met Anya and realized there was something worth living for.

Then we had Abe and opened our home and hearts to Regan.

Suddenly, a man who’d struggled with finding a purpose his whole life had three brilliant stars guiding him home.

That count turned to two.

But it made me even more determined to live, to thrive and to see my kids do the same.

Something that’ll be a little difficult if my six-year-old steps into the middle of a bullet rain.

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