A Bodyguard for Christmas. Donna Young
into the clay and punched the code into his cell phone.
Delta had assured Timothy that his identity would be protected. But Timothy understood that if Delta’s plans went awry, Timothy would be the fall guy.
A glance at his watch told him he had less than an hour before his meeting with Ambassador Beck.
Plenty of time. He set his phone down on the desk and pulled a small foil-wrapped package from his pocket, along with a razor and straw. He shook the packet out and used the razor to create a long, perfect white rail of powder.
Slowly, he guided one end of the straw to his nose and leaned toward the cocaine. “Here’s to a very promising future, Dad,” he murmured, his lips tightening with derision. He pressed his finger against his free nostril and inhaled.
Two weeks later
The storm struck downtown Baltimore with icy contempt. Slapping and spitting, the gusts of sleet battered the red brick buildings trimmed with Christmas cheer. White lights, wreaths and ruby-red bows were left tattered on the near deserted streets.
From a darkened doorway, the man called Beck watched a pseudo-Santa scurry from his coin bucket into a nearby diner.
Smart chap, he thought with derision. Smarter than me.
The frigid air burned like acid in Beck’s nostrils. Bits of ice pelted his face, each with the snap and sting of a whip. But the storm couldn’t match the rage inside the man. A rage that, if freed, would have set the snow and sky on fire.
But for now, it blazed inside until his eyes burned a blue inferno, and the heat hardened his heart into a heavy stone.
As if to taunt him, church bells tolled—their clang muffled, but their warning clear. Saturday evening services had ended.
Beck stepped back farther into the doorway, letting his black jeans and leather jacket blend with the inky shadows.
He was English aristocracy by birth. A fact that meant little in the modern world—much less in his world. Still, lineage reinforced the long, lean lines of his body, the hard set of his broad shoulders.
As an added precaution, he pulled a dark ski cap from his pocket and slipped it over his head. His light brown hair had enough blond threaded through to draw more than a casual glance.
But it was the nobility of his features that made most glances become outright stares. The pale, blue eyes set deep beneath a broad forehead. The high, prominent cheek bones cut lean into the square jaw that only hinted of a cleft chin. A hard mouth that over the years tended to smirk with the disdain of his ancestors, rather than soften in humor—or compassion.
Beck was born with the proverbial silver spoon. One that corroded long before he’d ever become a man.
Up the street the church bells ceased clanging, leaving in their wake the hum of conversation.
Most people, the smart ones in his opinion, stayed indoors. Others—the more devout, maybe—braved the elements in huddled groups of two and three, searching for their cars through knee-high drifts.
As people drew closer the hum morphed into a spattering of laughter and a few verses of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” from those caught up in the spirit of the season.
Cheery buggers.
Beck made note of some nearby pedestrians—a handful with their heads down, their arms hugging their coats close—making their way past the bookstore across the street.
The bookstore he’d been observing for the last hour.
Menlow Books.
Owner, Regina Menlow. Single. American. Age, twenty-eight. Graduated Princeton.
Not exactly a second-class education, he thought with derision. Although, from her file, Regina Menlow used a trust fund left by her deceased parents for most of the tuition and then worked her way through college for the balance.
She had lived off campus, kept to herself. No friends.
Only one estranged aunt for family. Aida Pullman.
An image flashed through Beck’s mind. The only photograph from Miss Menlow’s file—a driver’s license picture.
Her brown hair had been tied back into a long, glossy tail that lay over one shoulder. Shorter hair fringed her heart-shaped face, framed big green eyes that flashed impatience just as the camera clicked. The same impatience that showed in the generous slant of her mouth, the inevitable lift of one delicate brow.
It was safe to assume that Miss Menlow had a temper.
But was she capable of treason?
Beck caught a faint flicker of light in the bookstore’s display window. A silent warning pricked at the back of his neck. He straightened from the doorway, his stance turning predatory.
The sounds of the evening faded into a fuzzy void. His ears strained to hear a cry of fear or pain, while his eyes narrowed on the lighted glass and beyond.
The dim glow flashed, bursting into a frenzy of orange hues that spread from the front door to the front display window.
Fire.
Suddenly, a man—a silhouette really—slipped from the side alley by the store.
Rage worked its way up the back of Beck’s throat, forcing him to take short, frigid breaths through his mouth. He palmed his pistol, thought about shooting the man, only to disregard the idea because of the people still on the street.
The shadows shifted back and forth until the fire outlined the intruder’s features—caught the slide of the man’s hand, the bulge of the book shoved under his overcoat.
“Come on,” Beck urged, his words clipped. Shifting toward the doorway steps, he willed Regina Menlow to appear in her doorway. “Get the hell out of there, damn it.”
Inside the store, the flames shimmered, growing in height behind the door’s window. In his mind, Beck visualized the blaze greedily consuming the dry kindling of books and wooden shelves.
Seconds sped by. The intruder slipped around a nearby corner, kicking over Santa’s bucket in his haste. The coins scattered, making little sound on the snow-covered sidewalk.
Beck willed himself to follow the man, then cursed himself when his legs wouldn’t obey.
Swearing again, he hit the wall with the side of his fist. After taking one last glance at the corner, he pulled his cap from his head, ripped a hole in the top and created a tube.
He raced across the street, yanking the tube over his face while he ran, until the material covered his mouth and nose.
The heat blasted him before he hit the sidewalk. He didn’t waste time on Menlow’s door, the glass having already turned black with smoke. Instead, he heaved the coin bucket through the display window. Alarms punched the night, but he barely registered the noise. He jumped over the broken glass, shoved books and shelves to the side and slid to the floor.
Quickly, he pictured the blueprint of the store in his mind. If she was as smart as her file claimed, she’d be in the loft upstairs or the office in the back.
Beck glanced up. Flames licked the ceiling, then spread in a bloom of crimson and orange—the loft above already engulfed. If she was upstairs, she was already dead.
He started toward the office.
Smoke and heat choked the air. Fire fed off the books, turning the shelves into blazing walls of hell. Cinders stung his eyes, pierced the cloth until the heavy weight of ash coated his throat and lungs.
He coughed in convulsive fits, battling the heat for oxygen.
He heard it then. An echo of his cough. Haggard, rough. Muffled.