Running Scared Read online

  That was before he’d been shot in the hip and had his head mistaken for a baseball and bashed with a bat, resulting in a coma. Three weeks later, his headache was practically gone and though his hip was tender where the bullet passed through, he was raring to go. He’d always been a fast healer and he felt ready to tackle whatever obstacles were thrown in his path. He’d followed the doctor’s advice—mostly—and clocked his time with the physical therapist. He’d added his own bevy of rehabilitative exercises to return to fighting form and he hit the shooting range several times. At first, it’d been hard to focus on the paper targets with an annoying case of double vision, but the fuzziness had cleared, and he was back to clustering his hits in the head and heart.

  At one time, Declan thought he’d be a lifer in the military, leaving only when they forced him to retire. But that was before a mission that went sideways, killing two of his best friends. Though it hadn’t been his fault Jay and Manny died, he felt guilty that he was alive while they were transported back home in plastic body bags. They’d all known the score when they signed on. There were no guarantees in life or in war. But the thought of continuing on for several years without them was unappealing, as was the possibility that other teammates—or himself—might meet the same fate.

  A few short weeks ago, he’d been at loose ends after returning home to Chicago with no clear career objective. He thought about signing up for the police academy or maybe trying his luck with the Federal Bureau of Investigation, but fate had other ideas. He’d been out running while contemplating what path he wanted to take—figuratively, not literally—when out of the corner of his eye, he caught the reflection of the sun off the barrel of a rifle. He had a split second to locate the intended target and tackle him to the ground. The diving takedown set up a chain of events leading him to a new opportunity that seemed too good to believe.

  Before he packed for the trip, he’d talked to Noah Addison, the man whose life he’d saved that fateful afternoon, and he had a pretty good idea what to expect when he arrived. From the horror stories Noah and his younger brother Ethan told him, he was imagining the man who’d test his physical abilities to be a cross between Atilla the Hun and Morey Hicks, his boot camp instructor. Morey had been one sick, evil bastard. But despite what Noah and Ethan told him about Dante Costa, they clearly loved and respected the man. Declan had no doubt he could handle anything Costa dished out. He’d been a Marine. MARSOC. They didn’t let just anyone into the United States Marine Corps Forces Special Operations Command.

  He glanced over at his copilot; a stuffed brown bear named Yogi. The bear belonged to Jamal West, a young boy he’d met while working with Noah and Ethan on the assignment that brought them to Chicago. They’d been in town to guard Peyton Durant, an Olympic gold medalist many times over, from a twisted stalker. After Declan saved Noah’s life, Noah and his bosses offered him a temporary job assisting on the case. He’d barely gotten his feet wet when disaster struck.

  Peyton volunteered at a community center teaching swimming. Jamal was one of her students. His older brother was a hardcore gangbanger trying to force him into the life, but Peyton was determined to not let that happen. They decided to whisk him away and Declan accompanied Jamal to his rundown apartment to pack a bag when Jamarcus West showed up waving a gun. He’d already been shot in a gang turf war—mortally, it turned out—when he lifted the weapon and squeezed the trigger, nailing Declan in the hip—though the bullet had been intended for his brother. He’d covered the boy and taken the slug, and he’d do it again a hundred times over to prevent Jamal from being injured.

  Getting shot hurt like hell and he’d barely processed what happened when Jamal’s mother roused herself from a drug-induced stupor, picked up a baseball bat and swung like Joe DiMaggio aiming for the right field bleachers. Unfortunately for him, she used his head for the ball. Lights out. He was done.

  To be fair to the woman, she heard the gunshot and saw him pinning Jamal to the ground. She thought he was hurting her son and deep inside a brain ravaged with alcohol and illicit narcotics, her motherly instincts kicked in and she tried to protect him. Too bad she hadn’t tried to shield him from a brother pressuring him into a life of crime, her various addictions or the revolving door to her bedroom. Some of the men she brought home had even tried to molest Jamal. Thank God they hadn’t succeeded.

  Declan didn’t remember anything after the incident until waking up days later with a massive headache, his brother Eric by his bed and Yogi tucked against his side. He’d missed all the action. Thankfully, Noah, Ethan and their coworkers were able to keep Peyton safe and neutralize the stalker. Along the way, Peyton and Noah fell in love.

  Though Jamal’s home life was horrendous, he was incredibly sweet and kind and Declan bonded with him instantly, probably because of his own horrendous upbringing. Having been shipped from one foster home to another, he’d seen it all by the time he was Jamal’s age. He’d never known his parents, who’d apparently ran away when they were teens and had him. They’d been killed in a car crash soon after he was born and with no family to take him in, he’d been sucked into the system. It wasn’t until a sickly, shy, bookish boy showed up at one of his foster homes that Declan learned what it meant to have family. Eric Bishop’s abusive father killed his mother during an argument and had been sent to prison. Eric had no other family to take him in either, so he landed in the same home. Declan noticed the telltale signs of bullying instantly. Eric wouldn’t make eye contact with anyone and he shrunk away when someone raised a hand or their voice. The man of the house smelled fresh meat and when he started in on Eric, Declan became his fierce protector.

  It didn’t matter that they didn’t share the same parents or even the same race. Eric was his brother in every way that mattered. They’d gone through hell together and stuck by each other’s side through thick and thin. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for Eric and knew his brother felt the same way. Being away from him while in the military had been hard, but Eric had thrived in college and was now an accountant and part-time financial analyst making big bucks. Declan couldn’t be prouder of him.

  If he was offered the job at COBRA Securities—and he fully expected to be—he planned on persuading Eric into moving with him. Though Eric’s office was in a high-rise in downtown Chicago, he could work anywhere. He’d always talked about starting his own company so Declan thought this would be the optimal opportunity to set the wheels in motion. He bet some of his coworkers might be in the market for some financial advice.

  As a sign for Bloomington loomed in the distance, excitement raced through his veins. His life was about to change, and he couldn’t wait to see what the future held.

  Chapter Two

  Mackenzie “Kenzie” Bryant rolled the tape gun along the top of the box to seal it shut and then plopped to the floor in exhaustion. The last of her beloved aunt Franny’s belongings were being picked up by a local women’s shelter. She’d kept the items that held sentimental value and donated the rest. It’d taken longer than she expected but the finish line was in sight.

  She glanced around the room Franny called home the last few months. She’d purchased it new and had barely moved in before a ruptured aneurysm took her life much too soon. Kenzie hadn’t found the time to visit her in her new condo yet. She’d been so busy in New York City and figured there was always time to stop by later. Only there wasn’t.

  She fought back the tears that threatened. She’d cried buckets already. It was hard to accept that Franny was gone. She’d been so full of life. Knowing she’d never get to see her again, spend time with her, was a pain she’d live with the rest of her life. It’d been Franny who raised Kenzie after both of her globetrotting parents were killed by a suicide bomber while touring some exotic location in the Middle East. Kenzie had been bunking with Franny when it happened and suddenly her temporary stay became permanent.

  She loved her aunt and wished she’d been able to spend more time with her before her unexpected dea
th. It’d been her neighbor LaTonya Stanton who called Kenzie to deliver the news. Franny suffered with a nagging headache and LaTonya was finally able to convince her to go to the doctor. She was dead a day later.

  Pushing to her feet, she grabbed the lukewarm bottle of water from the kitchen counter and took a drink. Most of the furniture had already been wheeled out for donations. She’d left the brand-new sofa and the king-sized mattress in the bedroom upstairs. She was in no hurry to leave and wanted a place to sit and sleep.

  Truth be told, she had nowhere to go. She could head back to her tiny one room walk up in Tribeca on the lower west side of Manhattan. Her lease wasn’t up for another three months. But she’d be going back without a job.

  Mackenzie Francis Bryant was officially a casualty of the #MeToo movement.

  Replacing the cap on the empty bottle, she tossed it in the recycle bin. Oh, the human resources personnel had been specific, stating—in writing—that it wasn’t her complaint that led to her being given the boot. The official explanation was that her job as senior editor with Pickens Publishing had been “phased out.” They were downsizing, she was told. Cuts had to be made and as difficult as the decision had been, her neck was the one on the chopping block.

  They could spin it however they wanted, but the real reason she was terminated was because she’d finally had enough of the constant groping, salacious innuendos and unabashed sexual harassment from her boss Jared and she filed a formal complaint. That Jared was the son of J. Randolph Pickens, the founder of the company, was a humongous strike against her, but she didn’t care. She’d become adept at fending off his advances and drunken gropes. But the last straw had been when they met with a potential client at a restaurant. The man was a former high-ranking staff member of a prominent senator and promised to deliver bombshell revelations from a first-hand account. Her specialty was the mystery/suspense genre, not autobiographies, but Jared had insisted she attend the meeting to woo the prospective author who’d personally requested her services. She’d been stuck sitting beside Jared in a booth. He made his boldest advance yet by sliding his hand up her skirt and grabbing her crotch. Startled by the move, she froze. Then rage bubbled up and she channeled her inner Shiloh Storm, slamming her elbow into his solar plexus. The action upended a table full of drinks—right into the prospective client’s lap.

  Shiloh or Storm as she was known, was Kenzie’s alter ego. Storm was a kickass private investigator created by one of her authors, Stuart Ellis. She’d always suspected Stuart had a crush on her. He was a nice guy and incredibly talented, but she wasn’t the least bit attracted to him. Thankfully, her agency enforced a strict policy against fraternizing with the clients. When he came to her with his idea for a new series starring a female PI who was tough and fearless, she’d thought it sounded like a great idea. When he forwarded the first few chapters, she recognized the parallels in his fictional character and her own attributes. Storm was five foot five, one hundred fifteen pounds with long black hair and icy blueish gray eyes. That’s where the similarities ended. Storm was unabashedly arrogant, extremely competent and afraid of nothing or no one. Though she was uncomfortable with Stuart basing Storm’s looks on her, the more she read, the more she realized it would be a huge hit. Despite Storm’s take charge personality, she was exceedingly likable and people would root for her and—more importantly in the book-selling business—would pick up the next novel to see what kind of trouble she could find and how she would undoubtedly get out of the situation.

  When Stuart asked her to pose for the cover, she’d gently refused, using the “against company policy” argument. Somehow Jared found out about the request and insisted she accept. “It’s for the good of the company, Kenzie,” he claimed. He scheduled a photo shoot with one of the top photographers in New York, and on a sunny Tuesday afternoon on the rooftop of Pickens Publishing, Kenzie Bryant transformed into Shiloh Storm.

  Buzz for the book had been electric so the agency created a massive public relations blitz to promote the upcoming release. That meant posters plastered all over the city and even a billboard in Times Square, all featuring Storm, aka Kenzie.

  Now on the third book, the series was a gigantic success and she was recognized from time to time as Storm. She posed for pictures and signed autographs, all the while feeling like a giant fraud. She was no more Storm than her next-door neighbor’s yapping Chihuahua was Underdog. She’d been part of the team that sold the rights to a Hollywood studio where they were now in the process of bringing Storm to the big screen. Soon an A-list actress would take her place as the face of Storm and she’d be forgotten.

  After Jared’s clandestine groping beneath the table, she stalked out of the restaurant and headed directly to the human resources department. Fern, the friendly HR manager, acted offended on Kenzie’s behalf, promising to file the complaint immediately. Kenzie signed the papers and walked out of the office, feeling a sense of power for standing up to her tormentor. She’d wanted to go out and celebrate but she had few friends in the city other than coworkers, and Fern asked her to keep the complaint confidential until action was taken. That meant no pictures of her middle finger on her Instagram page with the MeToo hashtag.

  She’d gone to bed feeling empowered. When she woke up and checked her phone, she had a text to meet in Fern’s office as soon as she arrived. She was almost giddy with excitement knowing Jared was finally getting his comeuppance. After dressing in her favorite Dolce and Gabbana power suit with a pinstripe blazer and matching pants that she picked up for a steal at a second-hand shop, she fastened her long hair into a classic updo and finished the look with her mother’s diamond earrings.

  The subway ride that she usually dreaded passed quickly and she arrived at the office ten minutes early. The first warning sign she had was when the corporate attorney entered the lobby behind her and beelined for Fern’s office. She assumed he was here to make sure everything was handled professionally. She was right.

  The second warning sign—the one that caused alarms to jangle in her brain—was seeing J. Randolph Pickens in Fern’s office as well. He stood with his back against a bookcase, his arms crossed over his chest. At sixty-five with a full head of silver hair and piercing brown eyes, he was still a formidable man. Kenzie’s knees started to shake.

  Bernadette Weldon was also in attendance. She was the second in command beneath Mr. Pickens. Kenzie wasn’t sure she’d ever cracked a smile in her life. She was almost as intimidating as the head honcho. There would be no girl power fist bumps from her today. Or ever.

  “Have a seat, Ms. Bryant.” Fern indicated a leather chair in front of her desk. As she perched on the edge, she felt distinctly disadvantaged and ganged up on with Bernadette, the lawyer and Mr. Pickens all standing and staring at her from the other side of the desk. Fern sat in her chair and seemed inordinately occupied with something in front of her.

  “Alfred Holt signed with Page-Turning Books,” Mr. Pickens drawled, his southern accent thick as molasses this morning.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she murmured, though she wasn’t surprised. Dumping several glasses of prime scotch into his lap wasn’t the best impression she could make. Still, she didn’t regret what she’d done. Jared probably thought she wouldn’t make a scene, so he was free to fondle and grope her at will. He’d been wrong.

  “As you know, traditional book publishers are experiencing a major downturn in business with the self-publishing boom,” Fern stated matter-of-factly, reading from a paper on the desk. She’d yet to make eye contact with Kenzie. “Pickens Publishing is no different. We’ve felt the tremendous effects and have taken a major hit to the budget. Along those lines, we’ve had to make some tough decisions on downsizing.”

  A bolt of dread zinged down her spine and she glanced at the others clustered behind Fern. They looked impassive—bored, even. Surely, they weren’t going to fire her.

  “I’m afraid we’re phasing out your position as senior editor, effective immediately.”
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  Apparently, they were. She jumped to her feet. “You can’t do this,” she protested.

  “I’m afraid we can, Ms. Bryant,” the lawyer informed her, sliding his glasses up his blade of a nose.

  Channeling Storm, she stared directly at Mr. Pickens. “I filed a complaint against my boss yesterday. This is blatant retaliation.”

  He didn’t so much as flinch. “You’ve been downsized, Ms. Bryant. You’d be smart to sign the papers and quietly exit the building.”

  Fury had her shaking. They couldn’t do this to her. She’d sue.

  “We’re prepared to offer you a lucrative compensation package,” Fern told her gently and met her gaze for the first time. Her eyes were filled with compassion and sympathy.

  “What’s the catch?” There was always a catch.

  “You sign away any rights to sue the company for any reason,” Bernadette stated. “It would be in your best interest,” she added meaningfully.

  She was sure the fact that they wanted her to sign meant she had a case against them, but they boasted deep pockets and she would never win a court fight against a publishing giant. They had resources she couldn’t even fathom. It didn’t matter that the #MeToo movement was headline news. They would destroy her in court. They’d probably paint her as a slut and the aggressor and dumbass Jared as the poor, helpless victim with twenty witnesses to back them up.

  She didn’t stand a chance.

  So, she’d taken her only course of action: she signed on the dotted line.

  As if the meeting wasn’t humiliating enough, she’d been subjected to armed guards following her to her desk to clear out her personal possessions while her two assistants looked on in stunned disbelief. She’d no sooner tossed her address book inside the box when she’d been escorted out of the building like a criminal. She rode the subway home and had just collapsed on her futon slash bed when she’d gotten the call that her Aunt Franny had died.