Page 26 of Her Bossy Bodyguards

Iwoke up beside the SUV, my mind groggy like I’d been in a coma for years. I forced myself up to my feet, trying to remember what had happened before my whole world had gone dark. The last thing I recalled was what sounded like drag racing, like there were suddenly several cars all headed in the cabin’s direction. But before I’d had a chance to react to the sound, there was someone’s boot pressing into my back, forcing me down to the ground.

Then they’d delivered a blow to the back of my head, the hit that knocked any semblance of consciousness right out of my system.

“Fuck! Fuck!” I shouted, trying to steady myself against the side of the van, my mind still dizzy and unfocused. A few minutes later, it felt like I was able to think clearly again, heading back into the cabin. Everything came crashing down on me at once.

Power surge.

Barca had somehow overcharged the electrical system for the cabin. While we didn’t have access to Wi-Fi or any connected technology, we weren’t completely off the grid. And it seemed like Barca had figured out not only how to locate the cabin but how to knock our lights right the fuck out, too. Thinking fast, I felt my way around the cabin until I located the drawers underneath the kitchen counter, pulling out a flashlight to cut the darkness.

I stepped through shattered glass as I made my way to Natalie’s bedroom, hoping against hope that she’d somehow still be on the other side of the door. But almost as quickly as I walked through the doorway, I realized that she was already gone. The only traces left of her were her clothes tucked away in her suitcase and a half-full glass of water beside her bed.

“Kingston?” I whispered his name, my flashlight catching his outline on the floor in the dark. There was blood pooled around his mouth, but his expression was peaceful, his eyes closed like he’d just been taking a nap.

“Fuck. Kingston? Kingston! Wake up!” I crouched down beside him, trying to shake him awake. “Kingston, come on, man. You have to wake up!”

“Stop fucking screaming,” he groaned. “You’re right next to my fucking ear.”

“Kingston!” I let out a relieved laugh. “Fuck. You scared the shit out of me. Are you okay?”

“I feel like someone just kicked my ass with a tire iron,” he replied. “What the fuck happened?”

“Barca happened,” I explained. “From the looks of it, he found a way to surge the power, knock out all the lights. And I’m guessing he must’ve had some people waiting in the woods, because these assholes moved faster than the speed of light.”

“Did they take Natalie?”

“Yeah,” I answered, and something ached behind my chest. “Yeah, they took Natalie.”

“Fuck!” Kingston shouted. He struggled to get up on his feet, his hand braced against the wall beside him. “We have to go get her back, Zeke.”

“Not until we finish collecting the intel.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” he roared. “Zeke, he could be taking her anywhere.”

“No, he couldn’t,” I replied. “We already figured it out, remember? Barca doesn’t really want Natalie. He wants Mr. Hanson. He wants to make him play ball. So if we want to get Natalie back…”

“We need to make Barca think that Peter’s willing to play ball,” Kingston finished my sentence for me, his arm wrapping around his middle. “Fuck. I haven’t felt this fucked up since bootcamp. I had this old sergeant who’d make us stand in the same place for twenty-four hours straight, and if we fell asleep, he’d let people use us as target practice with those goddamn rubber bullets.”

“I think I might’ve had that guy, too.” I chuckled. “But hey, at least it taught us something.”

“Yeah, it taught me what happens when assholes think they have all the power,” Kingston muttered, standing up straight. “Which is why we need to teach Barca a fucking lesson.”

“Is this the compound?”I asked, staring down at the map King had just handed to me in the car. “What is it? Some kind of old factory or something?”

After we’d recovered slightly from having our asses handed to us by Barca, we’d spent the next twenty-four hours coming up with a plan. It was easy enough to figure out what we’d do to Barca when we saw him in person, but it was a lot harder pinpointing where exactly the asshole had chosen for his hideout. We hadn’t received any intel updates until a few minutes ago, and once we had it, we rushed to the car, speeding down the city streets.

“I think it’s his mansion,” Kingston replied.

“Wait. His mansion?” I was confused by his response. “Montel Barca has a mansion? In Texas?”

“Montel Barca has a mansion in pretty much every state,” he answered.

“How the hell is that even possible?” I mused. “Wouldn’t the IRS be all over that kind of shit?”

“The trick is that none of the mansions are in his name,” he went on. “He’s a really generous guy, Barca, giving people houses as gifts, sometimes cars, too. But the funny thing about his gift-giving is that it tends to come a few days too late.”

“A few days too late?”

“All of Barca’s big gift recipients are already dead by the time he registers something in their name,” Kingston explained. “But he tends to move pretty fast, so before the family even has time to make their arrangements with the funeral parlor, Barca’s already made his move.”

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