Ben reached her side. He stood between Shelly and the road, blocking her, ready to throw her to the ground if the son of a bitch decided to shoot. He felt the weight of his gun in his cargos’ pocket, hoping it wouldn’t come to that.
At least not here.
“Is that him?”
“I don’t know,” Shelly answered in a high-pitched whisper.
“If I tell you to get down, get down.”
Shelly nodded.
The cruiser slowed further, rolling past at five miles an hour. Two cops stared blank-faced at them. Ben stared back. The cop nearest to him flinched and looked away.
That’s right, you sons of bitches. Keep going.
Oblivious to the danger, the tow truck driver waved out his window as the Civic climbed the tilted deck. Once the cruiser passed the tow truck, it sped up. They watched it grow smaller, Shelly trembling at Ben’s side.
“Was it him?” Ben asked again.
“N-no.” She swallowed. “A couple of his buddies though.”
Ben nodded once. “We’ll take a different route. Just in case.” He looked down at Shelly. “Hey.”
She didn’t move, just kept staring at the disappearing cruiser.
“I need you to look at me, Shelly.”
She looked up at him.
“You’re safe with me. I swear it to you upon my honor.” The words from his favorite book,Sword of Embers, flowed off his tongue. Words spoken by the hero, a knight trying to claim his rightful throne. He thought it must have been the influence of the Ren Faire. Ben felt every inch the nerd he was.
The words did the trick though. Shelly gave him a wistful smile and nodded.
“I believe you,” she said.
The hydraulics stopped humming as the Civic was loaded into place. The driver got out to secure the wheels and told Shelly she was free to go. Ben walked her back to the truck and held the door open for her, then got in.
As they pulled onto the highway, Ben caught a glimpse of Shelly in his peripheral vision. She’d stopped crying. Her hands were still shaking, but her jaw was set with something that looked like determination.
She was going to be okay. They’d make sure of it.
And Dexter Morrison? He was about to learn that not everyone was afraid of badges.
On the drive to Watchdog, Ben kept the conversation light even as he kept an eye out for any rollers in his rearview. He asked about Denver, about Shelly’s friend, about anything except the man who’d hurt her. Shelly relaxed incrementally, her voice evening out as they got closer to Lyons.
The Watchdog gates opened before Ben reached them and he pulled through without slowing as the truck made its way up the winding road to the main office. Kyle was already waiting in the parking lot. The former SEAL looked every inch the professional—tactical pants, dark polo with the Watchdog logo, and an expression that said he’d seen this before and knew exactly what to do.
Beside him sat a gold-and-black mottled Lab who looked like he was about to vibrate out of his skin, wanting to greet the visitors but too well-behaved to leave Kyle’s side. Camo was Kyle’s former military working dog, and now his and his wife Arden’s constant companion.
“You must be Shelly,” Kyle said as she climbed out of the truck. His voice was gentle but confident as he fixed his ice-blueeyes on her. “I’m Kyle McGuire.” He gestured at his dog. “And this is my boss, Camo. Welcome to Watchdog.”
Shelly grinned and knelt to pet Camo, who melted under the attention. “Aren’t you a good, good boy,” Shelly told him, looking more relieved than she had since Ben met her.
Good move, Kyle.
Shelly gave Camo one last ear scratch and stood. She glanced at Ben, then back at Kyle. “Ben said you could help me.”
“We absolutely can.” Kyle gestured toward the building. “Let’s get you inside and we’ll talk through everything. The safehouse is all ready for you.”
