Prologue
Sky Young AKA Ophelia Lipanski
At the sound of rapid fire weapons, I drop my silver fork, belly slide over the antique oak table, and head butt my teenage client to the Italian marble floor. As the brunette’s bowl rolls across the yellow tiles, I grab her shoulders, unholster my weapon, and slap away her deer-in-the-headlights look.
“Stay down.” Crawling to the imported teak wainscotting, I put my chin to the windowsill, and gasp.
Outside, over a dozen militia wearing top-notch bulletproof vests and special-forces munition belts, race through my boss’s pristine suburban front yard.Fuck.I should’ve known better than to accept this job. In my experience, a man of Tommy O’Malley’s reputation would never hire a woman bodyguard.
While I take a second to contemplate the best exit strategy, my employer bursts into the room. “Safehouse. I’ll lower Charlie to you.”
The heavy-set, fifty-something arms dealer raises his rifle barrel and smashes the twelve-foot, arched window. With pelts of safety glass raining down, he grabs my wrist and lowers me until my toes touch the ground. Turning, I reach both hands up and bring his seventeen-year-old to my side.
One eye on the skirmish, I lead my responsibility to the estate’s multi-car garage and slide aside a steel drain cover. After the top of Charlie’s head disappears, I descend halfway, clunk the metal in place, and mute the battle.
“Go.” My heart drums as I climb down the rest of the rungs, point at the tunnel, and push her in front of me.
Motion sensors detect our presence and bright lights in the six-foot pipe blind me, but I don’t dare stop. A couple of football fields later, we reach the end, I punch in a key code, and ascend a flight of stairs. In a modest, two car garage, we hop into the leather seats of a bullet-proof Mercedes SUV and gasp for air.
Once the sirens pass, I start the engine and, somewhat astonished by the teen’s calm demeanor, I pause. “You alright?”
“I’m fine. We should go.” Reaching to the car’s sun visor, she presses the automatic door opener, and I back out onto the street.
When we’ve passed a dozen or so multimillion-dollar estates, I hand her my cellphone. “Take my chip out and do the same to yours.”
“Right.” Finished, she unbuckles her belt, swivels on her knees, and gazes over her headrest. “You sure no one’s following?”
“No.” With all the hi-tech tracking technology out there, I can’t be sure, and don’t want to lie.
“Well, Dad must’ve pissed off someone royally. Who the hell would dare storm his castle in broad daylight?” Back in her seat, she glances over the cupholder for answers, but I got nothing.
In my humble opinion, the man should’ve been locked up years ago. “Your father mentioned a safehouse. Do you know where it is?”
My teenage doppelganger, nods. “We have a few. The closest is in Rehoboth Beach.”
While she programs the dash’s GPS, we fall into our own thoughts and about an hour later, she sighs. “I knew his last deal would come to a bad end.”
My brows raise. The day Tommy hired me, he insisted, under threat of death, his vocation be kept from his daughter.
She giggles at my unasked question. “Oh, don’t worry. I won’t tell Daddy. I’m not stupid. I know all about his dealings. I also know you’re working as an informant for the FBI.”
Well, shit.
Chapter 1
Dean Brennan
My octogenarian landlady has been pulling weeds from the same spot for over an hour. A cat in human form, she lies in wait, ready to pounce. With no easy escape route in sight, I pause on the second floor landing, breathe in the salt air, and wonder if death by boredom is a real thing.
“Hello, deary. Feeling better, are we?” The heavy-set woman eases herself to standing and steps between the railings.
“Indeed I am.” Groaning silently, I give her a bright smile. The last time she blockaded me, it took thirty minutes to wriggle free.
“Helen, you’re looking especially lovely this morning.” Camera around my neck,I zip up my nylon jacket, trot to her level and make a beeline for the small opening near the goal posts.
In the brief time it takes me to descend, her huge, flowered, Hawaiian moomoo sways and blocks my way. To make matters worse, she forces an unwanted piece of paper into my hands.
“I’ve been anticipating this for weeks but can’t go because of my arthritis. If you take pictures, I won’t feel so badly about missing it.”
