Bodyguard. Shirlee McCoy

going to try to escape, now would be the time to do it. She could see the emergency vehicles, hear people moving through the mangroves. She scanned the clearing and spotted her backpack abandoned near the edge of the campsite.

      It would take seconds to grab it and just a little bit longer than that to disappear. She’d done it before. She could do it again.

      But she was exhausted from endless running, tired from months of being on guard. She didn’t trust the police or the FBI to keep her safe, but she wasn’t sure she had the stamina to keep trying to do the job herself. Not that she had any choice.

      The trial was just a month away. That seemed like forever, but it was nothing in comparison to the amount of time that had already passed. Once she testified, she’d disappear again. This time, she had no intention of being found. New name. New job. New beginning. Not the life she’d planned, but she knew she could make it a good one.

      All she had to do was survive long enough to get there.

      Just do it. Grab the bag and run! her mind shouted, and she was just tired enough and just scared enough to listen.

      She darted forward, snagging the straps and lifting the bag in one quick motion. The rest was easy. Or should have been. The mangroves provided perfect cover, and she ducked behind one of the scrub-like trees, water lapping at her ankles as she moved.

      She would have kept running, but something grabbed onto the bag, yanking her backward. She released the pack, but she was already falling, her ankle twisting as she tried to pivot and run.

      She went down hard, splashing into a puddle of muck, the dog suddenly in her face, teeth bared, dark eyes staring straight into hers.

      “I told you,” Ian said calmly, his voice carrying through the mangroves, “he was guarding you.”

      She couldn’t see him, and that made her almost as nervous as looking in the dog’s snarling face did.

      “He’d have been better off guarding the guy who tried to kill me,” she responded, not even trying to get to her feet. Not with the beast of a dog staring her down, his teeth still bared. In any other circumstance, she’d have admired him for what he was—a handsome, fit working dog. Right now, she just wanted him gone.

      “The perpetrator is in police custody. I guess you were too busy planning your escape to notice them moving in.”

      “I noticed.”

      “And did you think I wouldn’t notice you leaving?” Branches rustled, and he stepped into view, his head and shoulders bowed as he walked through the trees.

      “What I thought was that I wanted to live, and that being alone seemed like the safest way to make sure that happened.”

      “Esme, you really need to stop fighting me,” he said, crouching a few feet away and looking straight into her eyes. There was something about his face—the angle of his jaw, the sharp cut of his cheekbones—that made her think of the old Westerns she used to watch with her dad, the hero cowboy riding to the rescue on his trusty steed. Only, this hero didn’t have a horse; he had a dog.

      “I’m not. I’m making your job easier. Go back to your office and tell anyone who cares that I refused federal help. I want to do this alone.”

      “What? Get yourself killed?”

      “Call off your dog, okay? I want to get out of the mud.” And the Everglades and the mess her family had created.

      To her surprise, he complied.

      “Release!” he said, and the dog backed off, sitting on his haunches, still watching her. Only this time, she was sure he was grinning.

      * * *

      King had had a great night. He’d found his mark twice and brought in an armed man. He was obviously pleased with himself, his tail splashing in a puddle of water, his dark eyes turned up to Ian.

      “Good boy,” Ian said, scratching behind King’s ears and offering the praise he’d been waiting for.

      “That’s a matter of opinion,” Esme muttered.

      Ian flashed his light in her direction. She’d fallen hard but didn’t seem to be much worse for the wear. “He did what I asked him to. That’s always a win.”

      “That depends on what side of his teeth you’re sitting on.”

      “He wasn’t going to bite you.”

      “Right,” she scoffed, tucking a strand of auburn hair behind her ear. She hadn’t colored it. That had surprised him. It would have been the first thing he’d have done if he’d been in her position.

      “He bites when he has to, but it’s not in his nature to snap. Unless I give him the command.”

      “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said, a hint of weariness in her voice. She looked as exhausted as she sounded—her skin paper white in the twilight, dark circles beneath her eyes. He’d seen photos of her taken just a few months before she’d watched her brother execute a man. Her cheeks hadn’t been as hollow, her shoulders as narrow.

      He didn’t want to feel sorry for her. She was, after all, part of the family that had taken his. Years ago, Reginald Dupree had called the hit on Ian’s father. He’d been just starting out, sticking his toes in the water of his new family business. Ian’s father had been a Chicago police officer, determined to undermine Dupree’s efforts. He’d arrested two of Reginald’s lower-level operatives. In retaliation, Reginald had paid a couple of street thugs to shoot him when he left the house for work. They’d opened fire as he’d stepped outside. The first bullet had killed him instantly. The second had killed Ian’s mother, who’d been standing in the doorway saying goodbye.

      Yeah. He didn’t want to feel sorry for anyone in the family, but his father had raised him to be compassionate, to look out for those who couldn’t look out for themselves. More than that, he’d raised him to do what was right. Even when it was difficult. The right thing to do was to protect Esme. Despite her last name and her family, she’d committed no crime.

      “How about you keep something else in mind, too?” He offered a hand, and she allowed him to pull her to her feet.

      “What?”

      “Next time I tell you to stay somewhere, you should do it. It’s a waste of King’s energy to chase after you when he’s supposed to be keeping you safe.”

      “You told him to guard me,” she pointed out.

      “Because the closer you are, the easier it is for me to make sure your brother doesn’t get what he wants.”

      “Me dead, you mean?”

      “I wasn’t going to put it so bluntly, but yes.”

      “My uncle is the one who wants me dead, Ian. It’s his hands that were around my throat the other night.” Her tone was hard, her voice raspy, and the compassion he didn’t want to feel welled up again.

      “Does it make you feel better to keep telling yourself that?” he asked gently.

      “It will make me feel better to be done with this. It will make me feel better to do what I promised and to get on with my life. So how about you leave me alone and let me go back to the business of staying safe until the trial?”

      “Do you think this will all end if we have your uncle in custody?” he asked, calling King to heel and leading Esme back the way they’d come.

      “I hope it will,” she murmured, limping as she tried to keep pace with him. She must have hurt her leg or foot. He shouldn’t have cared. She was a means to an end. Despite the clean criminal record, the supposedly upright business, she was who she was—a Dupree.

      But he did care, because she was a person who’d found herself in an untenable position and had chosen to do the right thing. She’d witnessed a horrible crime, and despite the fact that her brother had committed it, she’d gone to the police