Guarded from Sabotage (Blade and Arrow Security Bravo Team #2)

Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

DANTE

The anger keeps hitting me in waves.

Every time I look at Sarah’s tear-streaked face or her haphazardly bandaged wounds, the anger crashes into me again. When I think about those asshole cops leaving Sarah sitting on that chair, not even offering to help with her obviously painful injuries, treating her like she was guilty and not a scared and hurting victim…

Talking to their boss doesn’t feel close to enough. I will, of course—that’ll be one of my first calls once I get Sarah settled—but what I really want is to punch both of them in the face.

And I’m not a violent guy, despite the profession I chose. Any actions we took on our missions were necessary to get the job done. We never indiscriminately hurt people just because we could. There was always a purpose. To protect innocents. To protect our country. To protect our teammates.

If anything, I want to help people. That’s why I almost went to med school. It’s why I trained to be the team medic. But those two cops I wouldn’t feel the least bit guilty about hitting.

Not that I will, of course. My priority is taking care of Sarah, and being thrown in jail for assault definitely isn’t the way to do it. So I’m shoving down my anger and focusing on trying to soothe the shaken and hurting woman sitting in the passenger seat beside me.

She’s been quiet, answering my questions in a small, strained voice, but not volunteering anything on her own. Is she in much pain? No . Does she want to see a doctor? No. Does she want me to stop and get her something to eat or drink? No, thank you . Does she want to call her parents? Hanna? No, she doesn’t want to worry them.

I’m not sure I agree with the last answer, but I’m not going to push. It’s not my place, really, but I just hate the idea of Sarah trying to struggle through this latest trauma on her own.

Although she’s not really on her own, is she? And I won’t leave her alone unless she asks me to. Whatever she needs—support, a shoulder to cry on, comfort food, just someone to talk to—I’ll give it to her.

This protectiveness I’m feeling towards Sarah is different from anything I’ve felt before. Even though logic tells me she’s a client, keep things professional , my heart doesn’t seem to agree.

Every time I sneak a glance in her direction, my chest squeezes. She’s huddled in the seat, hugging herself, still trembling. Her hair falls in loose tendrils around her downcast face; pain and anxiety etched into her delicate features.

My heart wants me to stop the car, pull Sarah into my arms, and hold her like I did back at the office building. I want to rub her back and murmur soft reassurances until she stops shaking and the sad look in her eyes disappears.

I want to see Sarah smile again.

Shit. I remember Cole telling me about meeting his now-wife, Maya. He wanted to keep things professional, didn’t want to risk compromising her safety by getting distracted by emotion.

He found a way to make it work, but he’d been running Blade and Arrow for years by then, and he founded the company. My team is new, not even a year old, and I’ve been entrusted with leading it. I can’t afford to make mistakes.

Still. I can comfort Sarah without crossing the line. And a quick hug doesn’t have to mean anything more than an offer of friendship and compassion.

As I make a right turn onto the long road that leads to the Blade and Arrow property, I pitch my voice low as I say, “We’re almost there. Just another mile or so.”

Sarah jolts at the sudden sound of my voice, but before I can apologize for startling her, she takes a deep breath and turns to me. “Thanks. I should have realized, since I was here before. But I was just…”

“Thinking?”

“Yeah.” Her lips twist in a tiny, wry smile. “Although it’s probably better that I don’t. At least not now.”

“Well, you don’t have to. Once we get there, I’ll show off my amazing medical skills”—I flash her a quick grin—“and I can make you something to eat, and even go on a quick tour of HQ if you want.”

“I don’t need to talk to your team about what happened?”

As we reach the perimeter gate, I lower the car window and enter the complicated code to open it, then answer, “I don’t think it’s necessary. I think we have all the information we need for now. There might be some details that we need to ask about, but that can wait.”

“Ok.” Her shoulders relax a little. “That sounds good.”

“Does that sound alright? If I clean and re-bandage your wounds? Or would you prefer to have Rhiannon do it? She was the medic for her team, so if you’d feel more comfortable having a woman?—”

“No.” Her response is immediate. “I want you to do it.” There’s a pause, and then, “If you don’t mind, that is.”

“Of course not.” Reaching over, I pat the back of her hand gently. “I’d be happy to.”

But I’m feeling significantly less happy as I assess her wounds, inwardly wincing at the layers of torn flesh and bits of gravel embedded in her hands. She’s sitting on my couch—I offered the choice of going to our medical clinic or coming back to my apartment, and to my surprise, Sarah chose the latter. “Is that okay?” she asked. “I just… I think I’d feel more comfortable there.”

Of course it’s okay. And I’m glad she trusts me enough to come to my apartment and let me treat her here. Plus, there are more distractions at my place—all the decorations my mom sent, photos of my family and all my buddies from the Army, historical artifacts my dad and I used to scour upstate New York collecting—so hopefully it’ll take Sarah’s mind off the pain as I treat her wounds.

As I carefully remove the bits of stone from her palms, Sarah looks around the living room, her jaw set tight and her expression carefully neutral. But I can see the tiny flinches she’s trying to hide, so I tell her, “I’m sorry. I know it hurts. It’ll be over before you know it.”

“I know.” Her gaze meets mine. “It’s not your fault. And it could have been a lot worse.”

True. It could have been. I could have received a call from Sarah at the hospital. She could have been badly beaten. Violated. Shot. Left bleeding in the parking lot for who knows how long before someone finally found her. She could have been?—

Shit. Don’t think about that. Not now.

I apply some antibiotic lotion and start wrapping gauze around her hand. “Still, I don’t like hurting you more than you’ve already been.”

Sarah offers me a small smile. “You’re not. And you’re very good at this. You said you were the medic for your team?”

Moving on to her other hand, I reply, “Yes. I was.”

“What made you decide to be a medic? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“No, of course not. When I was in college, I was ROTC at Stony Brook, and I thought I’d go to medical school. Work as a military doctor. But then I met a couple of guys from a Green Beret team, and I was really intrigued by what they did. Special reconnaissance, peace-keeping missions, training foreign allies—and they worked in these close-knit teams that I really admired.”

“So you decided to train to be a Green Beret?”

Chuckling, I reply, “Well, it wasn’t that simple. First, I talked to one of the Green Berets I’d met—his name’s TJ, and he actually lives in San Antonio now, working for the highway patrol—about what the job really entailed. How much I’d be traveling overseas. What kinds of missions I’d go on. And I could be a medic and still help people that way…” I shrug. “It seemed like a good fit.”

As I move on to Sarah’s knees, she stays focused on my face. “It’s a lot of training, isn’t it? Hanna told me a little about what Finn went through. It sounds really difficult.”

My fingers graze across her leg, and my concentration wavers for a second. Sitting the way she is, her skirt hits at mid-thigh, revealing an expanse of golden skin.

No. Do not look at Sarah’s legs. Pay attention to the scrapes on her knees and that’s it.

“Yeah, it was hard. It took over a year from start to finish. There was a preparation course, assessment and selection, the Special Forces qualification course, and advanced training, like I had to do to become a medic.”

“That’s really incredible,” Sarah says; admiration tinging her voice. “I thought getting my masters was hard, but considering what you went through, it was nothing. And then all the years you spent serving our country, putting yourself in danger…”

My ears warm. “I was just doing my job.”

“No.” She touches my arm, setting off tiny zips of electricity. “What you did, Dante? It was more than a job. You risked your life for people you didn’t even know. You risked your life for our country. I’m in awe of what you did.” A beat passes. “What you’re still doing. Dedicating your life to helping others.”

An unexpected pressure swells in my chest. It’s not that I haven’t gotten compliments before—my parents and sisters always would say how proud they were—but coming from Sarah, it feels different.

Her admiration strikes a chord in me. I want to make her proud.

As I smooth a bandage onto her knee, I say, “You spend your life helping people, too. What you do is really important.”

“It’s important,” she agrees, “but I’m not sure it compares to dangerous missions overseas. Most of the time I’m just sitting in my office, meeting with clients or going over paperwork.”

I grit my teeth against the growl that wants to come out as I remove a piece of gravel embedded deep in her left knee. No, it’s not a serious injury, and it’ll heal up in a week or two, but seeing Sarah hurt…

Swallowing back the anger, I say, “But you’ve saved lives. You told me about helping domestic violence victims, people dealing with drug addiction… That’s so important, Sarah.”

“Yeah.” Her lips curve slightly. “It is. And in my current job; I work with kids. So I’m helping to make sure they’re in safe living environments, that they’re getting the services they need, that they have positive role models in their lives…”

“It's amazing. And just as meaningful as what I did.”

Sarah’s smile gets bigger. Softly, she says, “Thank you, Dante.”

Once the last bandage is applied, I sit back and give my attempt at first aid a critical look. It looks much better than before, but I still hate what the crisp white bandages are covering.

It never should have happened. Sarah should have been able to walk safely to her car. She should be home, snuggled on her couch reading or watching a movie.

Did I make a huge mistake by assuming she wasn’t in danger? We discussed it as a team, and nothing indicated a physical risk. Not like this.

It could be random. A terrible coincidence. A would-be criminal passes by, sees a woman alone, seemingly distracted, and he decides she’s an easy target. Sarah would have been flustered by the disappearance of her car and not fully aware of her surroundings.

But what if it wasn’t random?

I have to talk to the team about it. We need to decide what other precautions to take. Extra security at her apartment, an escort to work and back, possibly a pair of earrings with trackers in them…

“Dante?”

“Yeah?” Tucking those thoughts away for a later time, I meet Sarah’s questioning gaze. “What is it?”

“Well.” A touch of color pinks her cheeks. “You mentioned something about food? And I didn’t think I could eat before, but maybe… if you wouldn’t mind…”

“Absolutely.” Smiling at her, I rise to my feet. “I can absolutely make something to eat. What would you like?”

“Anything would be good. Just something simple. Or if you don’t want to cook, I could…” Sarah trails off and glances down at her bandaged hands. “I could heat up soup,” she offers. “Or make sandwiches.”

“Soup? Sandwiches?” I shake my head at her in mock-admonition. “As if I’d let you cook when you’re hurt. And the least I can do is make you something good. I can whip up a quick Bolognese, or stuffed manicotti, or if you really want soup, I can throw together a pasta fagioli. Does any of that sound good to you?”

“Dante!” A smile brightens her face, chasing away some of the lingering shadows of pain and fear. “Those sound amazing. But you don’t have to make some big thing…”

“It’s not. I promise. Remember, I like cooking. And nothing would make me happier than making you something you’ll enjoy.” Gesturing across the open living room towards the kitchen with my chin, I add, “I can cook while you relax on the couch with some ice packs. And you can tell me about those sappy books and movies you mentioned at the wedding. I still don’t quite understand why people want to read something that makes them cry. But maybe if you explain it to me… How does that sound?”

Her eyes fill with emotion, but it’s not sadness this time. The look she gives me is soft and full of affection. “I’d love that, Dante. It sounds perfect.”

And it does feel pretty damn perfect.

Well, aside from having to swallow my anger again when I saw the large boot print on the back of her shirt. But once I gave her one of my old Army T-shirts to wear, she looked so cute in it, it was impossible to stay mad. She came out of the bathroom laughing, saying it looked more like a dress than a shirt, but honestly, I think she looks great in it.

Then, while I chopped the vegetables and Sarah iced her knees, we talked about those sappy books and movies she likes so much. I remember her telling me about them at the wedding, and how Hanna thought she was crazy for wanting to cry.

“It’s not like that,” Sarah explained earnestly, her eyes following my movements as she watched me from the couch. “It’s more like… if I cry at a book or movie, it really meant something to me. And it doesn’t have to be sad. A lot of times, I cry at the end of a book because I’m happy.”

I’m still not sure I understand, but if Sarah likes it, who am I to argue?

Once I moved on to browning the beef, she started asking me about all the decorations she could see—the throw pillows and hand-poured candles and the framed photos of my family and friends. I told Sarah how my mom sent me something new every month, insisting that even if I was single, my apartment needed a woman’s touch.

“It looks nice,” Sarah said thoughtfully. “Really cozy. I like it a lot.”

I hadn’t really thought about the decor much before, but now? I think I owe my mom a big thanks.

Over dinner, we talked about some of the artifacts I have displayed around the living room—small cannonballs and bullet molds and even a bayonet—all from famous battle locations like Saratoga and Fort William Henry.

“It was something I got into with my dad,” I explained. “We’d drive upstate and meet with sellers who had found items on their private property. If it was an actual battle site, the items were protected. But a lot of stuff was found in the surrounding areas, and that’s what we’d collect.”

“Do you still?” Sarah asked, leaning forward across the dining room table, her hazel eyes wide with interest. “Growing up in Lake George, I always heard about the battles, but I have to admit I never visited Fort William Henry. I should go, though. Next time I’m in New York.”

I almost said we should go together, but that would be crazy.

Still, I like the idea of it. Visiting Lake George with Sarah, seeing all the places she used to spend time growing up, and touring the fort together.

I’ve never felt this drawn to someone before. It’s like there was a tiny flame of interest when I met her, but I had to stifle it. No matter how much I liked Sarah, she was taken.

Now that she’s single; not just single, but trusting me to take care of her, eating dinner with me in my apartment, wearing my shirt, gifting me with genuine smiles after such a terrible experience…

The flame is kindling into something bigger. Brighter. Hotter. Even though I keep telling myself it’s still not the right time.

“This was so good,” Sarah enthuses, setting her fork down on her nearly empty plate. “I didn’t think I’d be able to eat much, but here I am. Totally stuffed.”

“Good.” Warmth fills my chest. “I’m glad you liked it. This is one of the first recipes my mom taught me to make.”

“Did you always like cooking?” Eyeing me with an introspective gaze, she adds, “I’m having a hard time imagining you cooking in high school. I bet you were a football player, popular, going on lots of dates…” Her cheeks go pink. “I mean?—”

“Not that popular,” I reply with a smile. “And I played lacrosse. Plus, I volunteered at the fire station with their high school program, and I had a part-time job. So not too much time for parties and dates.” My lips quirk. “Do you think I was a player back then?”

“No. It’s just… Well, you know what you look like. I bet the girls thought you were cute.”

I raise my eyebrows at her. “Oh?” In a teasing tone, I ask, “What do you think I look like?”

The flush on her cheeks goes from pink to scarlet. “Well…”

Just as I’m debating whether to let Sarah off the hook—she’s had a long day, but I really do want to hear her answer—my phone buzzes with our signature Blade and Arrow tone.

Sarah stiffens, flashing me an alarmed look. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. It’s just one of my teammates. We all use the same ringtone and vibration pattern so we always know if it’s company business.”

Sarah pales. “Business like information about what happened to me?”

Glancing at my phone, I read Matt’s text.

I have info about Sarah’s car. And the theft in Austin. We need to meet. Do you want to include Sarah in on it?

Not really. I want to ignore this until tomorrow and keep enjoying the evening with Sarah. I want to keep her smiling as long as possible.

Unfortunately, I know that’s not an option. As much as I want to protect her from this, it’s Sarah’s life, and she has a right to know.

So I look at Sarah, wishing like anything I didn’t have to say it, and answer, “Yes. Matt wants to meet to discuss it. Do you want to be there?”

She sucks in a breath. Her jaw sets. The hand she has resting on the table trembles. “Yes. I want to know.”

“Okay.” I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine. “I’ll ask Matt to come over. And remember. We’ll handle this. Information is good, even when it doesn’t seem like it. The more we know, the faster we can get this worked out.”

Sarah stares at me for a second before giving a quick nod. “I know.” She turns her hand over and gives mine a light squeeze. “Thank you, Dante. I don’t know how I’d get through this without you.”

Oh.

She’s a client. A friend. It can’t be more.

Even if I want it to be.