Page 24 of Escorting the Bodyguard
“Could be coincidence,” but his tone suggests he doesn’t believe it. “He’s only used his card twice in the last three weeks—both ATMs, staying smart about it. But this morning he switched up and used it for gas.”
“So now he’s in the neighborhood.” I throw on pants and a clean shirt as I head for the bedroom, phone pressed to my ear.
“Looks that way. Could mean your location’s compromised, could mean he’s just passing through. Hard to say.”
If Tim’s that close, we need to reassess everything. Security protocols, exit strategies, whether this location is still viable.
“I need to brief Gemma first. Get her ready in case we need to move quickly.”
“Copy that. I can be there in twenty if you need backup.”
“Let me talk to her and check the feeds, then I’ll call you back.”
I push open the bedroom door, expecting to find her curled up under the covers.
Empty.
“Gemma?” I call out, louder than necessary. Maybe she’s in the bathroom.
I check. Nothing.
My pulse kicks up a notch. I move through the safehouse systematically—living room, kitchen, even the surveillance room. She’s not here.
“Gemma!” This time I’m shouting.
Silence.
I rush to the surveillance room and pull up the security feeds on the monitors. I scroll back through the footage, watching in reverse until I see it—Gemma slipping out the front door twenty-three minutes ago. Right after I got in the shower.
While I was standing under hot water, completely oblivious, she walked out into a city where a predator was hunting her.
“She’s gone.” The words come out hollow. “She’s fucking gone.”
My chest tightens. Vision starts to tunnel at the edges. No, not now. I need to stay present, need to think, but my body’s already betraying me. The taste of dust and cordite. Mason bleeding out while I pressed my hands to the wound, watching the life drain from his eyes because I made the wrong call.
I drag in a shaky breath. Focus. Gemma’s not Mason. This isn’t a warzone.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone to track her location. Thank fuck for standard protocol—every client gets a tracking app installed on day one. The tracker shows her fifteen blocks away at an address I don’t recognize. What the hell is she doing?
I need to get to her before Tim does.
I call JJ back, my voice tight. “She’s gone. Tracking shows her fifteen blocks away.”
“Want me to meet you there?”
“No, I need you on surveillance. I’m texting you the address now. See if you can get eyes on her through any nearby cameras.”
I’m out the door before he can respond.
The address leads me to a small medical office building. Through the windows, I spot Gemma’s distinctive copper hair in what looks like a waiting room, and my lungs finally start working again. She’s alive. She’s safe.
My knees almost buckle. I want to run in there and touch her, just to make sure. But then I do what I’ve trained myself to do: check the perimeter. Always check the perimeter.
And then I see him.
Tim Roberts, partially hidden behind a parked car across the street. Watching the clinic. Watching her.
Rage floods my chest. That fucking bastard.
