Page 96 of Single Mom's Bodyguards
“Sean,” I say, throat tight. “He wants us on his location.”
I route into our device management, yank up the beacon on his phone. A map blooms, the dot pulsing near the coast. My eyes run the numbers, the road options, the traffic data bleeding red where the highway chokes. I do the math without thinking.
“Hour out,” I tell Huck, already tossing him the keys to the Tahoe. “If we hit green lights and you don’t bleed on my upholstery.”
“On it.” He stands. The chair legs scrape back with a bark that makes the house sound awake again.
I thumb a reply as we move:En route. Confirm why.
We round the corner into the hall and pass two of our guards—eyes alert, rifles slung low. I jerk my chin toward the den. “Youtwo stay in the house. Tell Chief. Emergency situation. Do not leave the property.”
We hit the mudroom. I grab my go-bag from the hook, check the weight by feel. Huck shrugs into a jacket he shouldn’t be wearing with that arm and ignores my look the way he always does. He racks a round into the shorty we keep by the door like he’s checking his watch.
My phone buzzes again. Sean:Bailey walked into an ambush.
I stop so fast Huck bumps my shoulder. I read Sean’s message aloud.
Huck’s voice goes flat. “Say that again.”
“Ambush,” I repeat, already moving again because stopping helps no one. “She’s not alone.”
“Where the hell is she?” Huck asks as we push through the garage door.
“Working on it,” I say, though the map is already telling me what I don’t want it to. I drop Chief a live share of Sean’s dot and ours just in case, as Huck slams the Tahoe into reverse and backs out fast enough the tires chirp.
The phone buzzes once more. A call from Sean. His voice is compressed but steady, the way it gets when his adrenaline runs clean. “Track my signal and get here yesterday.”
“We’re an hour out,” I say, Huck pressing the Tahoe harder than he should through a yellow that’s almost red. “What are we walking into?”
There’s a beat. Gravel under tires wherever he is. Wind.
Sean’s voice is eerily calm. “David has joined the party.”
32
HUCK
The Tahoe eats miles.My hands are tight on the wheel, the highway sliding under us in long gray ribbons. The sun is lowering fast, bleeding out into the Pacific, the light turning copper and red like the whole sky’s been cut open.
Wesley’s next to me, phone taking up his sight, his eyes sharp behind the reflection of code and numbers. He hasn’t looked up in twenty minutes. He’s muttering now, curses clipped and low, his fingers stabbing the keyboard like each strike is a punishment. “Son of a bitch.”
I glance at him. “What?”
“I should’ve seen this sooner.”
“Seenwhat?”
He finally looks up, eyes burning, face lit by the glow of his screen. “David’s funding Friedburg’s new film.”
I grip the wheel tighter. “The one Bailey just got the lead in?”
“Yeah. It’s his money. All of it funneled through shell corporations. Friedburg’s just the face. David’s been pulling strings since day one.”
My gut goes cold. Bailey, smiling when she got the role. Bailey, glowing when she talked about the script. Bailey, walking straight into a trap.
“This was never about the film,” I mutter.
“No.” Wesley snaps the laptop half-shut, his jaw tight. “This was about her. About pulling her into his net. I should’ve caught it. I should’ve?—”
