Delta Force Rescue (Brotherhood Protectors Book 15) Read online

  Briana nodded, too tired to think beyond the bath and the wine. She took a sip. “I’ll be out shortly.”

  “Take your time. I’ll watch the news until you’re out.”

  Once in the bedroom, she dropped her purse on the nightstand, fished out her cellphone and checked for any missed calls. None. Hopefully, Alejandra and Bella were settling into the shelter.

  Briana knew she was too sleepy to take a long, hot bath. Instead, she opted for a quick, hot shower, more interested in the wine and propping her feet up than falling asleep in the tub. After her shower, she dried off, stepped into a pair of leggings and was pulling her T-shirt over her head when she heard a loud banging sound from the other room. She’d just stepped out of the bathroom into her bedroom when she heard Sheila scream.

  Her heart raced, and her breath hitched in her chest as she ran through her bedroom. She hadn’t closed the door all the way earlier. As she reached for the knob, her hand froze.

  Through the crack, she saw a man wearing a ski mask, standing over Sheila’s crumpled body. He had a gun in his hand with a silencer attached to the end.

  Sheila lay motionless on the floor, her eyes open, red liquid pooling beneath her arm.

  Please, let that be wine.

  Briana’s gaze went to the coffee table where Sheila’s full glass of wine remained unfinished. Her heart sank.

  The man nudged Sheila with his boot.

  She didn’t move, didn’t blink her wide-open eyes. Sheila lay still as death.

  Briana swallowed hard on a moan rising swiftly up her throat and backed away from the door. Looking toward the window, she shook her head. She’d never get through it without the man hearing her, and the two-story drop could lead to broken bones or death. The bathroom was out of the question. He'd look there next. With nowhere else to go, Briana grabbed her cellphone from the nightstand, dropped to the floor and slid beneath the bed. She dialed 911 and prayed for a quick response, pressing the phone to her ear.

  Footsteps sounded, heading into the other bedroom, fading as he moved away.

  “You’ve reached 911. State the nature of your emergency.”

  “My friend was shot,” she whispered.

  “Is the shooter still there?” the dispatcher asked.

  The footsteps grew louder as they moved toward her bedroom.

  “Yes,” Briana whispered and gave her address. “Hurry, please.” She ended the call, switched the phone to silent and lay still, her gaze on the door as it swung open.

  Black boots and black trousers were all Briana could see of the man as he entered the room, stalked to the en suite bathroom and flung open the door.

  Briana watched as he disappeared through the doorway. She heard the sound of the shower curtain rings scraping across the metal rod. The boots reappeared, coming to a stop beside her bed. The man’s legs bent, and his heels came up as if he was lowering himself into a squat.

  Her heart racing, Briana scooted silently across the floor toward the other side of the bed.

  The faint sound of a siren wailed in the distance.

  The legs straightened, and the boots carried him out of the room. A moment later, silence reigned in Briana’s small apartment. She lay for a long moment, counting the seconds since she last heard the sound of footsteps.

  The whole time, Briana worried about her friend Sheila. Was she still alive? Had that blood only been a superficial wound? Should she get out from under the bed and find out?

  Finally, Briana rolled out from under the bed on the side farthest from the door. She crawled across the carpet and peered through the open doorway into the living room. Sheila lay where Briana had last seen her. Her eyes still open, her face pale, the blood beneath her arm making a dark stain on the white shag area rug they’d purchased together last spring.

  Briana glanced toward the entry. The door to their apartment hung open, the doorframe split as if someone had kicked the door in.

  Nothing moved. No footsteps sounded on the tile entry.

  Still on her hands and knees, Briana crawled toward her friend, tears welling in her eyes, blurring her vision. She had to blink several times to clear them before she could reach for Sheila’s neck. Pressing two fingers to the base of her throat, she waited, praying for a miracle.

  No pulse. No steady rise and fall of her chest. Nothing.

  “Oh, Sheila,” Briana whispered, the tears falling in earnest now.

  The hole in Sheila’s chest told the story.

  Briana sat on the floor beside her friend, holding her hand, crying.

  Sirens she’d heard moments before now blared loudly outside of the apartment. Soon, several policemen entered, weapons drawn.

  Briana looked to them, her heart breaking. “You’re too late.”

  They helped her up and started the interrogation, asking questions she didn’t have answers to. Her thoughts went to Alejandra and her baby, but she couldn’t say a word about them without giving up their location.

  When they were finished, they told her she couldn’t remain there. Her apartment was now a crime scene. She would have to find another place to stay. They let her grab her purse and keys but nothing else.

  “Do you need someone to drive you to a hotel?” the officer in charge asked.

  She shook her head, amazed it didn’t fall off as fast as it was spinning. “No,” she said. “I can drive myself.”

  “We can provide an escort, if you’d like,” he offered.

  “No. I’ll be all right,” she said, though she knew she was lying.

  Walking out of her apartment, she didn’t look back. She couldn’t. What had happened was inconceivable. Her mind could not comprehend it.

  Briana climbed into her car and started the engine out of sheer muscle memory. When she reached for the shift, her cellphone rang.

  She dug in her purse for it and pulled it out, praying it was Sheila claiming it had all been a hoax. Come back up to the apartment. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.

  The phone didn’t feel right in her hand, but nothing felt right at that moment. When she swiped her finger across the screen to answer, a voice came across, speaking a language she didn’t understand. It took her a moment to realize it was Spanish. “You have the wrong number,” she said and started to end the call.

  The voice switched to English with a strong Spanish accent. “Who is this? Where is Alejandra?”

  Briana pulled the cellphone away from her ear and stared down at it. It had a black case like hers, but the phone wasn’t hers. “You will tell me where she is now,” the man’s voice said. “If you do not, I will find you, and I will make you tell me, if I have to beat the information out of you. Do you hear me?”

  “You did this?” Briana asked. “You had my roommate killed in your effort to find Alejandra?”

  “I will do whatever it takes to bring her back to El Salvador,” the man’s voice said.

  Anger and raw hatred burned hot inside Briana, bubbling up her throat. “You can rot in hell before I tell you anything.” She ended the call, lowered her window and flung the phone out onto the pavement. “Hell, you hear me?” she yelled. Then she shifted into reverse, backed up a few feet, shifted into drive and ran over the cellphone.

  The gesture wouldn’t bring back Sheila, but it cut off the man who’d sent his thug to find Alejandra and who had killed her roommate in the process.

  As she drove away from her apartment building, Briana knew the man wouldn’t stop until he found Alejandra and her child. Briana was the only one who knew who Alejandra was and where she was staying with her daughter, Bella.

  If El Chefe Diablo was as bad as Alejandra had indicated, he would send his killers after Briana.

  She needed help. The police didn’t have time to guard her, and they wouldn’t do it unless she told them why El Chefe was after her. Briana needed someone discreet, someone she could trust implicitly. She pulled out her cellphone and dialed her brother Ryan’s number. He was the only man she trusted.

  “He
y, Sis,” Ryan Hayes answered. “Can’t talk long, I’m boarding a plane as we speak and will be out of touch for the next seventeen hours.”

  A sob escaped her, and she swallowed hard, trying to get words to pass her vocal cords. “Ryan.”

  “What’s wrong,” he asked, his words instantly clipped.

  She couldn’t speak for a full minute.

  “Briana? Are you there?” he demanded. “Talk to me. Damned connection.”

  “I’m here,” she said. “I need help.”

  “Oh, Bree, I’m not even in the States. What’s the problem?”

  “Sheila’s dead,” she said, her voice catching. “And I think her killer is coming for me next.”

  “What the fuck?” Ryan cursed. “I can’t be there for another seventeen to twenty hours.”

  “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll figure out something.”

  “No, wait. I know who you can call until I get back.”

  “Who?”

  “Hank Patterson. Prior Navy SEAL. He has a security service.”

  “I don’t know Hank.”

  “I have it on really good authority that he’s the real deal. He and any one of his guys would lay down their lives for whomever they’re protecting. I’ll text you the number. Call him. No, never mind. I’ll call him and have him contact you.”

  Briana drove down the street, away from her apartment building, not knowing where she was heading. Headlights in her rearview mirror blinded her until she shifted the mirror. “I don’t know where I’ll be.”

  “Don’t worry, Bree. Get to somewhere safe. He’ll figure it out,” her brother said. “And Bree?”

  “Yeah,” she answered, on the verge of more tears.

  “I love you,” he said. “Stay safe. You’re the only sister I have.”

  “I love you, too.” She ended the call, turned a corner and glanced into the rearview mirror. Were those headlights the same ones that had followed her after leaving her apartment?

  Increasing her speed, she rushed to the next corner and turned left, taking the turn as fast as she dared.

  Again, the vehicle behind her turned and sped up.

  Her heart leaped into her throat. Briana slammed her foot onto the accelerator, shooting her little car forward. She didn’t slow when she took the next right turn, the rear end of her car fishtailing around the corner. Punching the gas, she raced to the next intersection where the light had just turned red. Ignoring the light, she shot through right before another car had pulled out.

  The driver honked and kept moving forward, blocking the path of the vehicle following her, slowing him enough she was able to speed up and get through the next two lights and turn right then left, zigzagging through the streets until no headlights followed her.

  She couldn’t stay in Chicago. Briana didn’t know where she could stay that would be safe. Going to a friend’s house was out of the question. As Alejandra had predicted, being associated with her put others in danger. That was now true for Briana.

  Briana had to find a place she could hunker down until help arrived.

  Chapter 2

  Rafe Donovan was just climbing into his truck after getting fuel at a gas station, when his cellphone vibrated in the cupholder. He noted the name on the screen and answered, “Yo, Hayes, miss me already? I thought you guys were tapped for a mission?”

  “We’re on our way back. Otherwise, I’d handle this myself,” his friend, Ryan Hayes, said. “I just boarded a plane and won’t be in contact for at least another seventeen hours, so listen up.”

  Rafe tensed at the urgency in his friend’s voice. “Shoot.”

  “My sister is in trouble. I spoke with Hank Patterson out in Montana. He says you’re the closest asset he has to Chicago, where she lives. He’s going to send you to manage this case. You’ll get a call from him any minute. I just wanted to give you a heads-up before I go silent in transit.”

  “What’s happening?” Rafe asked.

  “I’m not sure, but she needs protection. Her roommate was murdered, and whoever did it is after her now. Where are you?”

  “I stopped in Kansas City to visit a buddy of mine on my way out to Montana. I was just about to look for a hotel for the night, but I can be in Chicago in seven hours.”

  “That’s a long time.”

  Rafe frowned. “It’s the best I can do without breaking speed limits.”

  “I get it,” Hayes said. “It would take that long for anyone to fly commercial. My sister’s smart enough to find a place to hide out, until then. I’ll send her number to you. Expect a call from your new boss as soon as I end this call.”

  Before Hayes finished talking, another call made Rafe’s cellphone vibrate. “I have an incoming call.”

  “That must be him now,” Hayes said. “I gotta go. Take care of my sister. She’s the only family I have left. I’m counting on you.”

  “Will do,” Rafe said. “Safe travels, my friend. You’re your sister’s only blood relative. But you have a shit-ton of brothers who give a damn, too. So, don’t fuck up.”

  Hayes chuckled. “Love you too, bro. Out here.”

  As soon as Hayes ended the call, Rafe answered the incoming one from Hank Patterson, the owner and founder of the Brotherhood Protectors security agency based out of Eagle Rock, Montana.

  “Donovan, here.” Rafe started the engine, and the call switched to his truck’s speaker.

  “You heard?” Hank asked.

  “Hayes’s sister. Chicago. Yes, sir,” he answered, keying Chicago into the map on his cellphone.

  “Anything you need, you let me know. If you need a safe house to bring her to, I can’t recommend any in Illinois, but I have a couple places here in Montana, if you can get her here.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll let you know what I find when I get to Chicago.” Rafe buckled his seatbelt and pulled out onto the road.

  “Anything you require in the way of support, you let me know,” Hank said. “Are you armed?”

  “Yes, sir.” He had a 9mm Glock in the console and an AR15 behind the back seat.

  “Good. Let me know when you reach Miss Hayes.”

  “Yes, sir,” Rafe responded. “Out here.”

  Rafe pulled out of the gas station and onto the interstate highway heading northeast toward Chicago. He could be there by early the next morning, if he didn’t run into any construction delays.

  A text came through from Hayes with his sister’s cellphone number.

  Rafe immediately called.

  It rang several times before voicemail picked up.

  “You’ve reached the voicemail of Briana Hayes. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” Her voice was soft, a little gravely and sexy as hell.

  “This is Rafe Donovan, your brother Hayes—” he paused and added, “Ryan, and my boss Hank Patterson said you could use some help. Call me.” He ended the call and waited impatiently to hear back from her.

  Fifteen minutes passed. Rafe caught himself pushing faster and faster on the interstate and had to slow down to within five miles an hour of the limit. Getting a ticket would be a stupid waste of time, when he needed to get to Chicago as soon as possible. Seven hours stretched in front of him like an interminable amount of time.

  Why hadn’t she called back? Was she in that much trouble that she couldn’t pick up her cellphone and call? Was he too late? Questions rattled around in his mind, and his foot rested heavily on the accelerator. Once again, he had to back off and slow to the limit.

  Damn. Why hadn’t she called? Twenty minutes passed.

  His cellphone chirped through the truck’s sound system. Her number appeared on the screen.

  Rafe hit the talk button. “Donovan, here.”

  For a long moment, silence met his greeting. Then that slightly raspy voice sounded through the speakers. “This is Briana.”

  Rafe let go of the breath he’d been holding. “I’ve been assigned to protect you, but it’ll take me six and a half hours to get to
Chicago from Kansas City. Can you wait that long?”

  “Guess I’ll have to,” she said softly. “I’m not in Chicago anymore.”

  “No? Then, where are you?”

  She laughed softly, the sound almost like a sob. “I don’t know. Give me a minute. I’ll look for a sign.”

  “You’re driving?” he asked.

  Again, another sobbing laugh. “I have nowhere else to go. The police kicked me out of my apartment.” Her voice hitched. “It’s cordoned off as a crime scene.” She paused. “Joliet. I’m passing through Joliet.”

  His chest tightened. The pain in her voice was evident. Apparently, whatever had happened had affected her so much she didn’t know where she was going. “What highway?”

  “Interstate 80,” she said. “I’m coming up to Interstate 55.”

  “I’m on my way. If you stop, let me know where, and I’ll meet you there.”

  “I’m not stopping. I can’t.” Another soft sob sounded. “I’m scared.”

  “Okay. Are you on a handsfree device?”

  “If you mean, is my phone connected to my car…it is.”

  “Good. If you’re going to keep driving, take 55 south,” he said. “I’m coming across on 72 and will hit 55 in Springfield, Missouri.”

  When she didn’t respond, he prompted, “Can you do that?”

  “Yes.” Silence stretched between them for several heartbeats. Then she whispered, “Will you stay with me? On the phone?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, glad she would be in communication all the way. She sounded distraught. If he could keep her talking, he might get her to pull into a hotel and wait for him.

  “Just got onto 55,” her words came across his speaker.

  “Good, just keep going. When you get close to Springfield, Illinois, we’ll see how far out I am. We can meet up there or somewhere close to that.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?”

  “Rafe Donovan.”

  “Rafe,” she said, as if rolling his name across her tongue. He liked the way she said it.

  “So, Miss Hayes…do you mind if I call you Briana?” he asked.