Guard of Honor by Tracie Delaney
Chapter Two
Aiden “Mack”McKenzie stabbed a finger at the intercom and stared into the camera. He waited the obligatory five seconds. The gates whirred, then opened inward. Knocking the SUV into gear, he steered up the winding driveway, ignoring the view of pristine gardens, rolling English countryside, and an eighteen-hole golf course on the horizon. Impressive to some, but not to him. He’d seen it all before.
Five minutes later, he drew to a halt outside a building large enough to house a small community. Montford Hall, the family estate of Loris Winslow, the 17th Earl of Montford, was a monolith. Mack often mused whether Loris had ever been in half the rooms. Before his father, the 16th Earl of Montford, died, the hall had been open to the public. After inheriting the place and turning it into the headquarters for Intrepid Security Services three years ago, the only way to see inside the impressive hall, with its priceless art and antiques around every corner, was by personal invite.
Mack jumped out and, leaving his vehicle unlocked, strode through the impressive entranceway. He found Loris in his study, head bent over his laptop, a deep frown scoring two lines between his heavy-set eyebrows. Loris Winslow might have aristocratic blood running through his veins, but a genteel Englishman he was not. Built like a tank with heavily muscled, tattooed arms, broad shoulders, and an enormous chest, he’d once led an intelligence, surveillance, and target acquisition unit in the Royal Marines, eventually rising to the rank of Major.
Mack owed his life to Loris, and he’d gladly give his in return. Anytime, anywhere. Loris Winslow had earned Mack’s lifelong loyalty. If it weren’t for Loris mounting a rescue attempt and putting his own life, and the lives of his unit, in danger, Mack’s mother would have had to bury a headless son. During his three months in captivity at the hands of ISIS, Mack’s captors had threatened on several occasions to publicly behead him and use his skull as a football, and he’d believed them, too. He’d never know why they hadn’t followed through with their threat, but the delay had allowed Loris and his team to infiltrate the compound where ISIS were holding him and mount a successful rescue attempt.
Unfortunately, his happy ending hadn’t stayed that way for long, but that wasn’t Loris’s fault. It wasn’t anyone’s fault other than his, and the bastards who’d snatched him at gunpoint and ruined his fucking life. One day, he’d track them down and kill every motherfucking one of them.
“You rang,” Mack said, flopping into the worn leather guest chair opposite Loris’s desk.
Loris kept his head bowed, his eyes shifting back and forth across the screen. And then he sat back and closed the laptop with a thunk.
“Have you ever heard of Honor Reid?”
Mack screwed up his nose. “Name rings a bell.”
“Alan Reid’s daughter.” When Mack’s frown remained in place, Loris added, “The New York business tycoon.”
“Ah. I remember now. His daughter was kidnapped, yeah? ’Bout a year ago. Released unharmed.”
“Depends on your version of unharmed.”
Mack snagged a piece of stray thread from his jeans, rolled it into a ball, and flicked it at Loris. “And your point in asking me to swing by is?”
“Alan called me yesterday asking for my help.”
Mack inwardly groaned. Fuck. He already knew where this was going without Loris spelling it out. Goddammit. He went along with it anyway. “Help with what?”
“He’s worried about his daughter. She’s getting worse, not better. She refuses to leave her house, won’t have any friends over. Is jumpy as hell, startled by her own shadow. Hasn’t slept properly in fuck only knows how long.”
Mack rubbed a calloused hand over his beard. “Tell him to hire a shrink.”
“She had therapy for six months, then decided it wasn’t helping and refused to continue with the treatment. Alan is looking at a package of measures to help her.”
Mack’s eyes bored into Loris’s, his expression flat. Didn’t fucking matter. A blank canvas stared back at him. Great. Mack’s fate was set.
“One of which involves you.”
He scuffed a hand over his head. “Fuck, Loris, I’m not a nursemaid.”
“You, more than anyone, can understand her suffering.”
“What I went through is completely different.”
“No, it’s not. At the base level, it’s exactly the same.”
Mack kneaded the knotted muscles at the back of his neck. He should have ignored the fucking call. Except he’d never ignore Loris, and the man knew it.
“I only just got back.”
Mack had spent the last eight months leading a team providing close personal protection to the rock star Drake Ezra on his latest world tour. He’d spent the latter part of the tour counting down to the luxury of sleeping in his own bed.
Loris nodded. “I know, and I get it. If I thought anyone else on the team could help as much as you, I wouldn’t ask. But Alan Reid is a good man. I’ve known him a long time. My old man had a lot of time for Alan, and so do I.”
“Fuck.” Mack shook his head. “She got any other security?”
“Yeah.” Loris pushed a beige folder across the desk. “Three guys. Each one takes an eight-hour shift.”
Mack flipped open the folder. A photograph of a stunning redhead looked back at him, her hair curled over her shoulders, a smattering of freckles dusting her nose, and a pair of widely spaced, emerald eyes that held an almost carefree innocence. Mack whistled. In a past life, he’d have happily nailed her.
“They don’t get a day off?”
Loris chuckled. “Are you worried for them, or for you?”
“Me? What the fuck am I going to do with a day off?”
“Get laid, maybe.”
Mack snorted to hide the sharp pain that lanced through him. “Who says I don’t?”
“Me.”
Mack turned the photograph over and scanned the first page of notes. “Not all of us need to be balls-deep in a woman to make us feel like a man.”
He expected Loris to laugh. He didn’t. Instead, he pushed back his chair and crossed an ankle over his other knee. The movement caught Mack’s eye, and he kicked up his chin, analyzing his friend with a sharp, practiced gaze.
“It’s been years, Mack. Clara has moved on.”
“I’m aware,” he muttered, shifting his eyes to the window.
“You’re only twenty-nine. You want to live the rest of your life alone?”
“You’re one to talk,” Mack asserted.
“But we’re not talking about me. We’re talking about you.”
Mack slammed the folder closed and tossed it onto the desk. “No. You’re talking about me. I have zero fucking intention of engaging in this conversation.”
Loris fell silent. Mack picked up the dossier once more and flicked through the rest of the pages, giving a cursory glance to each one. He’d have plenty of time to study it in detail on the flight over the pond.
“Fine, I’ll do it.” He jabbed a finger at Loris. “But you tell him that I’m in charge. The security he has in place will report to me, although what the fuck there is to do babysitting a woman who refuses to leave the house is beyond me.”
“Alan said the staffing is up to you. If you decide they’re surplus to requirements, then he’ll redeploy them. He only cares that his daughter is kept safe, and we both know she’s safer with you than with just about anybody.”
Mack snorted. “Stop blowing smoke up my arse. I’ve said I’ll fucking do it.”
Loris let out a low chuckle. “Good man. I’ll have the plane readied for the morning.”
Mack arched an eyebrow in surprise. “Jesus, you must feel grateful if you’re flying me over on your jet.”
“You find a way to fix Honor Reid, and you’ll earn a very powerful ally in Alan.”
“And if I don’t, I’ll make an enemy?”
“No. Alan isn’t like that. You’ll see when you meet him.”
Loris walked him out, and as Mack drove away, he checked the rearview mirror and held up a hand in acknowledgment. His friend did the same, his reflection looming large until the driveway bent to the left and cut him off from view.
Mack drove the hour home to his house in Brighton, on the south coast of England. During the last eight months, he’d slept a total of two nights in his bed, and tonight would make three. He didn’t mind being away from home all that much. When he’d first started working for Loris, he’d volunteered for the long stretches, a chance to get away from it all, as far away from this house, this town, the memories that haunted his every waking moment, as he could. Eventually, though, he’d recognized he couldn’t escape his memories—because he couldn’t escape himself. Once he’d come to terms with that, he’d taken the first tentative step into a future without Clara.
As his mind turned to his ex-wife, he wandered over to the fireplace and picked up the photograph from the mantel. It had been taken on their wedding day, four and a half years ago, a year before ISIS had captured him and held him hostage. Fuck, they looked so young, so happy. It felt more like forty years, given all they’d been through since then. Clara had been right to bail on him, although he’d despised her for it at the time. She’d tried everything to help him, but he’d been a fucking mess, and she’d copped the fallout—and far worse besides. If it hadn’t been for Loris using his connections to arrange a place at a top-class rehab facility, Mack would probably be dead now.
Or in prison.
He’d spent six months in rehab. Six painful months where he’d had to face up to his inner demons and confront the truth of why his marriage had broken down. He missed Clara like hell—always would—but she’d moved on, and like Loris said, she wasn’t ever coming back.
After leaving rehab, clean and sober, Loris had offered him a job with Intrepid, and Mack had sworn his allegiance to the man for a second time, and he hadn’t regretted it.
Until now.
A fucking babysitting gig. Just his luck. What the hell would he do with himself all day watching out for a woman who never left her house? It hadn’t escaped Mack’s notice that Loris hadn’t put a timescale on this job. Clever bastard. Regardless, Mack decided to give it three months. If Honor Reid still chose to hide in her house after that, then it was time for someone else to try to help her. He wasn’t qualified, other than by his experiences.
And if the woman thought he’d go gentle, she’d better strap in for a rough ride. He didn’t tread on eggshells. He smashed the fuckers to smithereens.
* * *
The plane taxied to a stop at a private airfield just outside New York City. The humid air hit him the second the doors opened. New York in summertime wasn’t his idea of fun. He didn’t mind the heat, but humidity sucked. The damp air clogged his throat, and his shirt soaked with sweat before his boots hit the ground.
“Mr. McKenzie.” A guy dressed all in black stepped forward and held out a hand, which Mack shook. “I’m Brad Danvers, one of Miss Reid’s bodyguards. Mr. Reid has asked me to come pick you up and take you to his offices before we introduce you to his daughter.”
Mack scanned Danvers’s expression for any signs that his arrival had pissed off the incumbent bodyguard, but his face remained stoic. Either he didn’t give two shits, or he was a fucking good actor.
Danvers led the way to a waiting black SUV. Mack climbed in the passenger side and fastened his seat belt.
“You worked for the Reids long?” Mack asked.
Danvers steered the car toward the highway. “I’ve worked for Mr. Reid for about four and a half years, accompanying him on foreign trips mainly, but after Miss Reid’s kidnapping, he seconded me to provide security for her.”
“And what’s your assessment of Miss Reid’s recovery?”
Danvers shifted uncomfortably, flashing a side-eye in Mack’s direction. “I’m a security professional, not a therapist,” he responded woodenly.
“Okay,” Mack said, wondering just how far up the guy’s arse the pole went. “But you have eyes, yes? And the ability to form an opinion? Is she getting better or worse?”
Mack had read the file on the flight over, twice, but words on a page were no substitute for the real thing, and if Danvers had been around this girl for a year, then he should at least have a view on her mental state. Mack wanted to know what he was walking into from someone who’d spent time with the woman since her release.
Danvers considered Mack’s question, taking his time to answer. “In my opinion, she’s worse. She’s skinny as fuck, jumpy, on hyper-alert, and given the bags under her eyes, I’d say it’s been a hot minute since she’s enjoyed a solid eight hours of sleep.”
Mack tugged on his bottom lip and let Danvers’s remarks sink in. Bollocks. Given her current bodyguard’s assessment, Honor Reid would probably crumble if Mack treated her with anything other than a light rein. Not exactly his forte. Bootnecks—the name Royal Marines called themselves—weren’t known for their softly-softly approach to solving problems. He began to wonder if Loris had called this all wrong and Mack’s presence would make matters worse, not better.
“Thanks. I appreciate the insight.”
The two men fell silent for the remainder of the journey. Traffic built up as they approached downtown Manhattan until they were barely moving at a crawl, and the sound of constant horns blaring shredded Mack’s nerves. Wasn’t as if honking the damn things made a difference to the speed of traffic.
An hour after touchdown, the car stopped in front of a tall building. An impressive sign over the top of the entranceway announced Reid Enterprises, and the reception area was kitted out in chrome and glass, the epitome of American affluence.
Already he regretted accepting this gig.
Three months and that’s it. You’re out of here.
Alan Reid met them outside his office on the fifty-third floor and immediately dismissed Danvers, who nodded deferentially and strode back the way they’d come. Alan closed the door and motioned for Mack to take a seat at the gigantic, polished cherry conference table.
“I appreciate you coming all this way, Mr. McKenzie. Loris assures me you’re the man for the job.”
“Mack, please. And I don’t know about that, sir. But if my experiences can help your daughter come to terms with what happened to her, then I’m willing to give it a try.”
Alan nodded, his gaze moving to the window, where the privacy glass kept out the majority of the glare from the sun. “I miss my daughter, Mack. Her mother died when Honor was five, and since then, we’ve been an inseparable team. But now, she’s a shadow of her former self, and I don’t know how to reach her. She won’t leave the house for any reason. She attended therapy when she got out of the hospital but now refuses to entertain any further sessions. I feel powerless. The only thing I can do is provide security to help her feel safe, but even that isn’t working.”
Pretty much a summary of what was in the file Loris had given him.
“Have you thought about a residential program?”
“Yes. Many times. I mentioned it to her a couple months ago, and she freaked out. Accused me of wanting to lock her away.” His eyes glistened, and he blinked a few times, gathered himself, and then returned his attention to Mack. “I asked Brad to bring you here first to give me a chance to meet you without Honor and to tell you that you have my full support with whatever you need. I want my daughter back, and if you succeed where I have failed, I will be indebted to you for the rest of my life. But I’d rather Honor didn’t know that’s why I’ve brought you here. As far as she’s concerned, I’d like her to think that you’re just another member of her security team. If she realizes you’re here to try to ‘fix’ her in some way, I worry that she’ll close herself off even more and refuse to engage.”
The man’s pain would’ve been evident to the least observant person on the planet. A heavy trepidation settled in Mack’s gut. He wasn’t a miracle worker. He was just a man who’d been through a similar—of a sort—experience, and that might give him and Honor a platform on which to meet. Maybe. There weren’t any guarantees. And he wasn’t comfortable lying to an already vulnerable woman either.
“Shall we go?” Alan asked when Mack didn’t offer a response to his heartfelt—and premature—gratitude.
“I guess.” Mack got to his feet.
It’s showtime.