Engaging Bodyguard Page 17

  “Evidence I’m sure they’ll find once I kill Cambridge.”

  “Only a small challenge for someone of your caliber,” Gabriel reminded him. “By the way, I have front-row seats at the burial today. So I’d better see lots of blood when he dies. That way there’ll be no doubt.” With one last glance at the lake, he walked past Cain. “Remember, the woman has only a few hours left. Don’t disappoint me.”

  After a couple of steps, he stopped and faced Cain one more time. “And Prometheus. When you report back to Mercer, speak kindly of me, would you?”

  THE SHADOWS grew long and jagged, creeping forward like the Grim Reaper. Raw fury fed what little strength Celeste had left. She yanked on her restraints wincing when the steel gnashed her wrists, shredding more of her skin and leaving the warm, steady trickle of blood on her palms.

  She shifted her feet, giving her bad ankle a respite and automatically easing the throbbing in her calf.

  The gearbox stood beside the lever, while inside, the steady click of the mechanism ticked its countdown.

  FOREST HILL CEMETERY was larger than most would expect for such a diminutive population. Fortunately for security purposes, it was also located past the western edge of town and fairly isolated by a small forest. Hence the name, Cain thought wryly. Rows and rows of cement markers, various shapes and sizes—all pris tine, most bare of flowers—stood serenely behind a five-foot wrought-iron fence that stretched around a four-block radius.

  Just as Gabriel had predicted, Cain had no problem securing an invitation to the burial service. The problem would be getting close enough to the president to kill him.

  His eyes skimmed the perimeter from behind mirrored sunglasses. In one glance, he spotted a dozen state troopers patrolling the area, others in sniper positions. The Cambridge family plots were located in a lavishly manicured garden beside the cemetery’s mausoleum. Lassiter, along with several deputies and a few agents, were positioned on the roof of the weathered building, their rifles sighted on the spectacle below.

  A damp, murky mist shrouded the hills, providing a dramatic backdrop to the discreetly plain but large drum-shaped mausoleum that stood alone amidst the cluster of pines and dormant maple trees. Constructed of cut limestone and covered with leafless brown vines, the mausoleum appeared nearly black with age. Two curved staircases, ornamented with various religious symbols, flanked opposite sides of the double oak doors, winding from the ground to the roof’s flat surface.

  President Cambridge stood near the newly dug, oversize grave. Oversize, Cain decided, to match the opulence of the more weathered gravesite of the president’s father.

  Snow dusted the ground and the scent of fresh, wet dirt hung heavily in the air in spite of the wind that gusted and swirled around them, stirring coat tails and flapping pant legs in its wake.

  President Cambridge was tall, distinguished in a charcoal-gray overcoat with a subdued shirt and tie. His brown hair, peppered with gray, was cut tastefully close and neat, and although time had thickened his chest and waist, at fifty-five, the man was the epitome of elite.

  Beside him, stood the slighter, shorter vice president, his thinning straw-blond hair standing at attention in the wind. Bowden’s long, sleek Armani overcoat showed a peculiar contrast to the president’s less showy attire.

  There was a third man at the head of the gravesite. A slightly hunched, plump man in his late fifties. He was dressed in black, a white strip of cloth displayed in the open collar of his coat.

  “We are gathered here in prayer for our dearly departed sister,” the reverend intoned, raising a gloved hand toward the suspended mahogany casket while the other held a small, red Bible. “Olivia Ruth Cambridge.”

  Of the Secret Service, nine men and one woman surrounded Cambridge and Bowden. For a moment, Cain studied his brother, the largest of the dozen Secret Service agents. Ian, opposite in looks from his siblings, had cobalt eyes, hidden at the moment by sunglasses, and their father’s chestnut hair, cropped militarily short.

  In the distance a wail sounded, like a baby crying. Cain bit back a curse, knowing better. Pan was cheerfully shredding the rest of Cain’s leather upholstery and letting everyone within earshot know it. At first, Cain had thought about leaving the damned cat behind, but for some reason he couldn’t. Pan was the only thing Celeste would have left after this mess. Now, as the howling continued, he wished he’d thought harder about it.

  Cain caught Lara Mercer in his peripheral vision. Slight in build and of average height, she wore the standard black Secret Service suit and still managed to stand out from the other agents. Her hair flashed red even with the lack of sunlight. She’d bound it tightly to the crown of her head, accenting her refined features and bringing out the riot of freckles on the otherwise flawless skin. But Cain knew that under those freckles existed a competent operative…when she curbed her emotions. Efficient and reliable.

  Removing his sunglasses, he gave the signal, hoping that for this mission, she’d stay that way.

  Lara and Ian slipped their hands into their pockets. Cain braced himself when they pulled out their fists and watched as the coffin was slowly lowered into its hole. With a flick of his wrist, Cain hit the detonator on his watch.

  Simultaneously, three sheriffs’ cars, no more than two hundred feet away, exploded. The ground shook, the Secret Service yelled as they dove for Cambridge and Bowden.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chaos hit Forest Hill Cemetery.

  Smoke bombs exploded, mingling with the rich, dark clouds from the burning cars. Ian and Lara had taken care of the protection detail—leaving them in thick, green curtains of smoke that defied the wind currents.

  Behind Cain, shots sounded, the distinctive pop of specialized bullets from Ian’s and Lara’s guns. The veterans screamed for coverage while the less experienced scrambled in confusion and others coughed—their eyes red and tearing, their throats clogged with the smoke. Several agents lay at Cambridge’s feet, unmoving, leaving their chief vulnerable.

  Grimly, Cain launched himself, tackling the president and propelling them both into the grave.

  Cain heard the grunt of pain, the whoosh of air as Cambridge landed back-first onto the casket. The instant Cain’s knife filled his hand, he buried it, hilt deep into the president’s chest. He heard the squeal, the sharp intake of breath. A sound that had almost become a litany for death during Cain’s years with Labyrinth. Only this time, a good man exuded the noise. He pushed that thought away and pictured Celeste in his mind. Without hesitation, he yanked the blade clean, then forced himself to bury it again.

  Blood flowed, covering his hands, slicking his grip. The smoke dissipated and still he stabbed, only stopping when the president no longer moved. He left the knife embedded as bullets peppered the hole. A flash of heat stroked his side. Without checking, Cain knew the bullet had gone clean through.

  With one hard shove, Cain pushed Cambridge off the coffin and onto the dirt beside it. Then he disappeared on the opposite side, wedging himself between the casket and the dirt wall. Fire lanced his ribs. He glanced down at the wound then, saw where the blood darkened his shirt from hip to rib. With cold indifference, he pulled out his gun, and glanced out the hole.

  “Get going!” Ian shouted as he dropped to the ground next to the grave. Breathing heavily, he reached down and grabbed Cain’s forearm and pulled. Cain came up, his weapon firing. Bodies littered the ground. “They’ll stay unconscious for at least ten minutes, but no more than twenty,” Ian advised, before dropping his clip and jamming another into his pistol.

  Vice President Bowden threw himself into the hole and covered the president with his body. Neither brother looked twice at the man.

  “Lara’s got Lassiter’s men pinned from behind the building.” Ian tossed Cain a spare pistol and watched him tuck it in his waistband. “I’ll cover you from the front. Be careful,” he warned. “Those bullets aren’t real. They’re knockout pellets.” Ian glanced at the roof as another shot exploded by hi
s feet. “That friendly fire is from our minister,” he spat sardonically, pointing to the top of the mausoleum. “I’m betting he’s your man. One shot and I can take him down.”

  “No. Unconscious doesn’t help me find Celeste.”

  “What’s your plan?” Ian scanned the perimeter for Lara. She was crouched behind one of the larger grave markers a few yards away, systematically shooting the agents and troopers with the pellets.

  “You distract Lassiter’s men.” Cain nodded toward the roof. “I’ll do the rest.”

  Ian quirked his brow. “What’s your backup plan?”

  Cain’s eyes met his brother’s. “If I fail, make sure he does, too.”

  “My pleasure,” Ian promised, his face set.

  Cain took the mausoleum stairs in four long, strides. Gunfire whizzed past him as he hit the cement roof, rolled and palmed the smoke bombs. He squeezed each as he came up and whipped them at the deputies. Smoke exploded on the roof. Cain fired Ian’s pistol taking down the remaining three men, but lost sight of Lassiter.

  His wound burned and the blood-soaked shirt stuck to his skin, but Cain ignored both. From the opposite wall, Gabriel stepped forward, gun raised. “Like I said, Prometheus.” He pointed his pistol toward Cain’s wound. “The Pavenic woman has made you careless.”

  When he tries to kill us, he’s going to do it in such a way that he’ll show off his cunning.

  Celeste’s words collided with the truth of Gabriel’s and fury darkened Cain’s peripheral vision to a tem pered black. In one fell swoop, all the emotion—anger, betrayal, guilt—he’d buried for the last three years poured out in a torrential storm and filled his head with a blinding red haze.

  “Make it count, you son of a bitch, because I will.” Cain threw his weapon away and advanced, his hands swinging loosely at his sides.

  Eyes narrowed, Gabriel tightened his finger on the trigger, his aim focused on Cain’s forehead.

  The pistol discharged as Cain threw himself sideways. He felt the burn of the bullet’s heat across his ear. Insane with rage, he lunged toward the killer, dodging the gun suddenly wedged between them. Its handle dug into his ribs, grinding cartilage. He hissed with pain, then smashed his forehead into Gabriel’s face. The other man absorbed the hit with a grunt, but the shock loosened his hold. The gun flew from his fingers, over the wall, and clattered on the pavement below.

  With his hands free, Cain tackled Gabriel but the other man was ready. He met Cain halfway. Their bodies slammed shoulder to shoulder. Cain’s back teeth knocked together and he tasted blood. He grabbed Gabriel by the neck and squeezed. “Tell me where she is or I’ll kill you now.”

  Gabriel’s hands locked on Cain’s wrists, but he didn’t make any attempt to free himself. “Kill me and you kill the woman. Let me go and she still has a chance.”

  “A chance in hell.” Cain hit Gabriel, enjoying the crunch of nose cartilage beneath his knuckles.

  Cain saw Gabriel’s gaze focus behind him. Cain swung him around, a split second before the blast of Sheriff Lassiter’s rifle. Gabriel stiffened, throwing both men off balance. Cain shifted, trying to break free but Gabriel hung on. Cain caught the surprise in Gabriel’s eyes, even as the other man struggled to regain his balance. Unable to, the killer stumbled into the ledge. His calves smacked the brick, tripping him backward over the edge. Taking Cain with him.

  “No!” Gabriel screamed as Cain made a frantic grab, his fingers catching only wisps of icy air. Doggedly, Cain struggled to keep his hold on the man as they both dropped.

  Their bodies hit hard against iron. Cain felt the sickening thud, heard the crack of bone before he slammed against Gabriel, then dropped to the ground—alone.

  Fire burned Cain’s chest and he struggled to suck air into his lungs. His eyes locked on to Gabriel. The other man lay face up, impaled on the wrought-iron fence surrounding the Cambridge graves. Several spikes, now crimson with blood, pierced him mid-abdomen. His body hung across the top rail about four feet above the ground—like a broken puppet.

  Cain scrambled to his feet, cursing his throbbing side, swiping at the blood running into his eyes.

  “Don’t you die yet, you bastard.”

  Gabriel gasped. Desperate, Cain grabbed the man’s head and shoulders, and lifted them, knowing he was only adding a few precious seconds to the man’s worthless life.

  Gabriel’s eyes fluttered open. “You think you’ve won, Prometheus?” A death rattle vibrated in his throat with each grinding syllable. “She’ll die before you can reach her.” His body spasmed. Blood and spittle frothed from his mouth and nose, forming crimson streaks down his chin and across his cheeks. He struggled for oxygen.

  “Tell me, damn you!” Cain shouted into his face, his chest heaving, the rage and helplessness consuming him.

  A sadistic smile played at the edges of Gabriel’s mouth. “Tick. Tock,” he whispered with his last breath.

  In seconds, Cain was surrounded. He immediately placed his hands on his head and dropped to his knees. Two agents shoved him to the ground, face-first in the snow-patched dirt.

  Something stung his eyes, dirt, blood—tears. He blinked them away. Other agents and troopers staggered around, still under the influence of the pellets’ sedative—while many more still were out cold on the ground.

  A foot pressed into the base of his neck, jarring his injury. Cain gritted his teeth. “Damn it, save the president,” he yelled.

  Ian and Lara hit the ground beside him, each eating dirt. In three quick snaps, Lara, Ian and Cain were handcuffed.

  “Bring Cambridge over here.” Cain tried to rise and took an elbow in the kidney for the effort.

  “That’d be funny if he wasn’t dead, you son of a bitch,” Lassiter retorted, blood dripping from his forehead. The sheriff gripped his hair, yanking his head back, then cold steel dug into Cain’s cheek. “Give me one goddamn reason you shouldn’t join him,” Lassiter asked, pressing the gun barrel hard enough for Cain to taste blood.

  Ian swore. “Was she worth it, Cain? Enough to kill the president?” The betrayal was there, cemented in his brother’s face. “Protect Cambridge and not harm any one. That was the plan. That’s why we used the smoking walls, the knock-out pellets.” Ian jerked his head toward the dead man hanging on the fence. “Even Gabriel wasn’t to die. Was this your backup plan?” Leveraging his chest off the ground, he twisted around to face Cain fully. “If Lara is brought down in this—”

  “Shut up,” the first Secret Service agent yelled and slammed the butt of a rifle across the back of Ian’s head, knocking him back to the ground. “Or so help me, I’ll—”

  Lara hissed. Cain caught the flicker of concern in her green eyes before they flared. She struck out with her heel and nailed the agent in the kneecap. The man collapsed, howling.

  The other raised his weapon, his intent clear. Ian rolled, caught the agent’s leg with his ankles and yanked. The man hit the ground, his gun discharging into the air.

  “Release them. Now!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I said release them!” President Cambridge stepped from the crowd of drugged troopers and agents. He grabbed Lassiter’s arm, forcing the sheriff to let go of Cain. “Let them up! We don’t have time for this!”

  Blood dripped from the president’s lip. His normally well-groomed hair stood in unnatural disarray. Instantly surrounded by protective bodies, the president shoved. “Get out of my way, you bloody idiots.” Robert Cambridge grabbed his forehead and pulled. Prosthetic skin broke away from his face, revealing the stern expression of a younger man beneath.

  The baritone voice was replaced by a clipped British accent. “You’re one lucky bugger, Cain. If it had been Her Majesty’s guards, your head would be lying next to your bloody ass by now.”

  “Damn it, Jordan, you took long enough.” Cain raised his wrists behind his back. “Get these off,” he ordered, urgency stressed every syllable.

  “You heard the man. Unlock him,” Jordan Beck demanded, w
iping his bloody lip with the back of his hand. His eyes narrowed, looking for the calm, calculating Prometheus who once had existed in his friend. “Your president is at the White House.” He tossed a phone to one of the agents but didn’t wait for the real president to verify. “Now! Take off all their handcuffs,” Jordan snapped, while Cain, finally free, grabbed his confiscated gun from one of the troopers.

  “I couldn’t get out of the hole,” Jordan complained. “You nearly broke my bloody back, Yank, when you tackled me.” He undid his damaged shirt and threw the concealed pad, filled with a thick red dye, to the ground. “We got Bowden though. Nailed the bastard. When he saw me move, he decided to try to stab me himself while everyone was distracted. The ass didn’t realize it was a trick knife until it was too late. He won’t be contracting any more hits.”

  Ian stepped toward one of the Secret Service men—the one who had pistol-whipped him. He helped the agent up before glancing at Lara. “Didn’t think you cared, Red.”

  “I don’t,” Lara snapped, shrugging off Ian’s helping hand. “I’m getting tired of being left in the dark, MacAlister,” she continued, rounding on Cain, then shot a look at Jordan. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Jordan Beck,” the Brit replied easily, picking off bits of plastic and adhesive from his face.

  “You’re Jordan Beck?” Lara crossed her arms, taking in the lanky body, the sharp British features.

  “You’ve heard of me.” Jordan grinned, then dropped his voice. “Who else would MacAlister contact for this? Roman convinced the president that he needed a decoy. That’s why the burial happened fast, and was kept so secretive. Even your father didn’t know Cain had authorized the switch.”

  “Well, I’ll be a—” Ian bit off his expletive.

  Lassiter stepped forward and grabbed Cain’s shirt. “You bastard!”