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We’ll never be safe as long as we live. Wasn’t that what Keira had told him her husband had said when she asked him to be Alyssa’s godfather? Wasn’t that one of the reasons they’d picked him as a godfather, because they knew he understood the danger they all lived under, because he’d watch over Alyssa with the same fierce protectiveness they felt toward their daughter should anything happen to them?
For a few precious months he’d let himself forget about the price on his head. He’d let himself forget he was a target, and always would be. He should have remembered they were still out there...watching...and waiting for their chance to exact revenge. Anyone close to him shared that danger.
He had no proof the New World Militia or the Russian Brotherhood was tailing him—not yet, anyway. But he had a license plate number now, and that was a start.
* * *
Trace stood in Cody Walker’s office the next day. He’d compared notes with the Jones brothers the night before, making damned sure it wasn’t the princess who was being followed. Both men had been emphatic there was no tail on the princess when they were guarding her—and they assured him he’d have been the first to know if they’d had even a whiff of a suspicion. That confirmed his assumption he was the one who was being followed, not her.
So he’d immediately requested the interview with Walker, knowing it shouldn’t be put off. He was frustrated because he hadn’t been able to trace the license plate on the car he’d spotted following him the day before to Michael Vishenko, the New World Militia, or the Russian mob, but it was the only thing that made sense.
He was still being tailed. He hadn’t seen them, but he knew they were there. And now it was time to let his boss know what he knew, because he wasn’t the only one involved. If he was under surveillance, then it seemed likely Callahan and the Walkers were, too.
But when he entered Walker’s office he found it difficult to begin because he had no proof, just instincts, and he paced back and forth in front of the big desk, struggling for the right words. Then he realized the right words weren’t necessary, not with Walker, and he said abruptly, “I’m being followed.”
Walker glanced at him sharply, but Trace didn’t see it. He’d come to a halt in front of one of the pictures on Walker’s wall—a large, blown up reproduction of Walker’s cabin in the woods of the Big Horn Mountains of Wyoming. Remembering. Fairly certain what had happened in Wyoming more than two years ago was the reason he was being followed now. It was the only working theory he could come up with.
“You’re sure.”
From the tone of Walker’s voice Trace knew it wasn’t really a question, but he answered it anyway. “I’m damn sure they’re back there, if that’s what you mean. It could be someone scoping out the princess, but I doubt it—Keira’s brothers are adamant the princess isn’t being followed when they’re on duty, and the tail is there on me even when I’m not with her.”
Walker cursed under his breath. “That’s a complication I hadn’t counted on.”
“Yeah.” Trace turned from the picture to stare at his boss. “Anyone following you? Keira?”
“Not that either of us have noticed, but...” Trace nodded. But. That was the operative word. “How long has it been going on?” Walker asked him.
Trace thought about it for a minute. “A week, maybe?” he said finally. “Two weeks? Hell, who knows?” he added, making a gesture of frustration with one hand. He hated admitting it to Walker, because it meant he hadn’t really been doing his job protecting the princess. Had he let his emotions distract him, throw him off guard? How had he missed them? Those thoughts galled him, but he wasn’t about to make excuses for himself, except to say, “Whoever they are, they’re damn good at keeping to the shadows, better than anyone I’ve ever seen. Better even than Callahan.”
Walker’s eyes widened, and Trace laughed without humor. “Yeah. Go figure. It’s not a constant thing, that much I can tell you. Sometimes they’re there, but not always. I got the first twitch yesterday, but once that sank in I realized I’d seen the same car last week.” He paused, then added honestly, “For all I know it could have started before then. Maybe even months ago. You know how it is. Nothing you can put your finger on, just a gut reaction, like when you found out you were being tailed. Like when you knew your truck had been tampered with.”
Agents of Michael Vishenko within the New World Militia had rigged Walker’s truck with gelignite—turn the key, step on the gas, and boom!—was how Walker had referred to it, trying to make light of the situation. The bomb in his truck hadn’t exploded because Walker’s sixth sense had warned him something was wrong even before he knew exactly what. That’s when he’d noticed the thin film of dust missing from the hood of the truck, dust that should have been there. He’d been quick to warn Ryan Callahan, too. Callahan was the sheriff of Black Rock, Wyoming, and Trace had been guarding him at the time. It was very possible Walker had saved both their lives because Callahan’s official sheriff’s SUV in Black Rock had also been rigged that night with the same type of explosives as Walker’s truck in Denver.
