Above Protection (Imperfect Heroes Book 1) (2 page)

What was I going to do? I couldn’t
testify against my bosses. I just couldn’t, but it seemed the
government was going to force me. My bosses had been good to me,
and I loved my job. The paper began to blur behind unshed tears. I
set it down and took a sip of my wine. I’d been a paralegal in the
Watson Law Firm for five years. They had been the first ones to
hire me after I had finished my paralegal schooling, and I truly
loved my job. I couldn’t believe the Watson brothers would even be
involved in something like this. I read over the subpoena
again.

“The United States of America vs.
George Edgar Watson and Elmo Gerald Watson.”

I shook my head.

“Two counts of Murder-For-Hire. One
count failure to pay corporate taxes in excess of one million
dollars.”

Murder-for-hire?

These were old, experienced guys.
Like, legit attorneys. Okay, they were in their fifties, but I
couldn’t believe George and Elmo would ever do anything like this.
Sure, they sometimes took on some shady clients, but I did not peg
them to be capable of anything even close to this.

And why was I being dragged into
this?

I took another sip of my Malbec. Damn,
this stuff was bitter and dry. I rarely drank wine, even though I
had a bunch of it in my condo. My sister worked at a winery and was
always bringing me bottles to try. I would sample it to appease
her, but mostly, wine gave me a headache, and really, who has time
for headaches? Tonight, though, I needed something numbing –
relaxing. Anything to help me to calm the hell down, and her wine
was all I had.

I sighed and set the legal documents
down on top of the envelope which had been delivered by some random
stranger. She’d rung my doorbell two hours ago to serve them to me
and made me sign for the certified documents. I couldn’t believe
this was happening.

Murder-for-hire…

Who did they murder? Not once, in five
years, had I seen anything like that. As far as I knew, neither of
them had even so much as a speeding ticket. And they certainly
weren’t violent. I recall once when one of their criminal gang
member clients had come in for a consult, George had secretly hired
security to stay in his office with him.

Freaking
weenie…

I got up from the plush living room
chair I’d just purchased last month, along with the rest of the new
living room furniture, and walked to the bathroom, where I splashed
cold water on my face. I breathed in through my nose, then I
exhaled through my mouth. Then I did it again.

Drying my face on one of my new
burgundy towels, I looked at myself in the mirror. Worry lined my
forehead and made me look ugly. Never had I loved the way I looked,
but this wasn’t helping.

Huffing, I left the bathroom with a
claw-clip in my hand as I twisted my short blonde hair up and off
my neck.

Murder-for-hire…

I spied my wine glass on the end-table
and made my way toward it, swallowing it back in one gulp, and then
stalking to the kitchen for more. Opening the fridge, I popped off
the temporary cork and poured more.

Red wine doesn’t belong in
the fridge. It’s to be served warm…
I
heard my sister’s voice ringing in my ear.

“I don’t give a shit,” I said into
thin air. I can’t drink anything warm, not even fancy
wine.

As it slid down my throat, I glanced
at the papers again. This was huge, big, heavy, and… what the hell
was I going to do?

Tell the truth…

The truth about what? I didn’t do
anything! I’m no accountant. I had no idea what went on in the
financial department. All I did was process the legal work and
subpoenas from their clients. There was that one time, about a year
ago, when Margie had quit and I had to try to sort out their
finances, but that was short-lived until Angela had
arrived…

Oh, my God!

I looked down at the date
of the charges. They were recent, but the tax evasion dated exactly
a year ago when I was trying to wade through their financials.
The
murder-for-hire
charge was more recent.

Holy crap! George… Elmo… what have you
done?

Chapter 3

Duke

My rumbling Harley wound its way
through suburban Tampa. Cookie-cutter houses and half-grown oak
trees lined the streets until I reached my home. I killed the
engine once I reached the garage of my mediocre house. I looked
around my neighborhood and shook my head. This was not how I
pictured my life going when I was a young 18-year-old recruit
getting ready to join the Marines.

As I slid the key into the
lock, I smiled to myself at the memory of my father yelling at my
brother Mason and me about our choices to join the service after
high school. The old man had been so pissed. A Navy vet, he
couldn’t believe his only two sons had decided to join the Army and
Marines.
I had big hopes and dreams for
you boys to join the U.S. Navy as proud seamen!
he’d touted.

Mason and I snickered at him, and were
rewarded with slaps upside our heads. But it never weakened our
resolve. We were not going to become squids. No way. I tried so
hard to get Mason to join the Corps with me when he had graduated
the year after me, but he wouldn’t budge. He said the United States
Army was calling to him, and that was the end of that. Mason had
done well in the Army, reaching almost as high as one could get
being enlisted, and discharging after two tours in Iraq with full
honors. He was now a detective here with the Tampa P.D., and I
couldn’t be prouder. I needed to go visit that asshole soon and see
what he was up to.

Throwing my keys onto the kitchen
counter, I rifled without much interest through the mail I’d
collected at the community mailbox. Junk, bills, and coupons. I
chucked what I didn’t need into the trash and went to my bedroom to
change into something more comfortable. My phone buzzed in my
pocket and I plucked it out with reluctance. I had no desire to go
back into work. I was beat.

The text on the screen
read:
I’m lonely, baby. Come over here and
rub that beard between my thighs.

Looking at the name on the
screen, I chuckled. Tisha.
Tish with the
nice tush,
that’s how I remembered her.
Long, wavy brown hair, full lips, and an ass I could spank for
days. But… damn… I’m so fuckin’ tired. Tish and her nice tush would
have to wait.

I quickly shot off a text telling her
I was tied up at work and couldn’t get to her place. Yes, it was a
lie, but I wasn’t one to burn any bridges. Gotta keep them hanging
on in case the need arose anytime soon.

I’m such an
asshole…

I smiled, tossing my clothes into the
hamper in the bathroom. I started the shower and stepped into the
steam and water, tilting my head back and letting it wash over
me.

This day had been taxing… horrible…
and what I probably deserved. My mind was warring with my soul. I
couldn’t do this. Yes, I could do this.

Witness protection
detail…

I could babysit a couple of “victims”
for a few months. Watch their homes, help them get new social
security numbers and driver’s licenses and shit. But if I had to
play bodyguard while they shopped, got manicures, and took their
dogs to be groomed, I was gonna lose my fucking shit.

After drying off and throwing on some
basketball shorts, I went into the kitchen and fixed myself a BLT
on wheat. Grabbing a beer from the fridge, I popped off the top and
carried them both into the living room. I needed to chill out. My
leg was bothering me more than usual today and I’d had to grit my
teeth throughout most of the day to stay off the pain. I was done
with painkillers and all that shit. This pain was just something
I’d have to live with and try to get used to. Still, some days were
worse than others. Like today.

I flipped on the TV and smiled to see
the Florida State game was televised. The Gators were playing the
Seminoles and I would definitely have to give Mason some shit if
the Seminoles lost. After finishing my sandwich and beer, my body
was relaxed, the pain in my leg was lessening a bit, and my eyes
drifted closed.

“Get the fucking medics
now!” I hear Sgt. Ellis Anderson scream through the horrific
ringing in my right ear.

I want to tell him no, I’m
fine, I can just get up and walk it off. But then I couldn’t. My
words are slurred and I can’t think of anything other than the
searing hot pain in my right leg. Through my haze, I manage to look
down and see something shiny and sharp sticking out of it. God, it
hurts so damn bad I might pass out. And this ringing in my ear is
like a bell that won’t stop. It’s wailing and getting louder. I
feel dizzy. Is the ground still shaking? It feels like it’s still
shaking. Make it stop before I puss-out and throw up all over
myself. My leg, though, it’s burning and bleeding and I just want
it to stop. Lifting my head to look once more, it flops back to the
ground as I lack the strength to hold it upright any
longer.

“Stay with me, Hawthorne!”
Anderson yells, slapping my face.

I try to nod, but it’s of
no use. My world goes black.

Jerking awake on the sofa, I gasped in
a breath. I hated that damn dream. I hated it so much. But it never
stopped plaguing me.

I decided to get up from the couch,
put my bottle in the trash and my plate in the sink, and headed to
my bedroom. I crawled into bed alone and prayed I could fall back
to sleep without that fucking nightmare coming back.

“
St. Petersburg? Are you
serious?” I asked, looking down at the paper in my hand.

“Shut up, Hawthorne. St. Petersburg’s
still in our district. Just take the assignment. Single white
female set to testify against her employer in about two weeks’
time,” Jeff said to me, not even bothering to look at me, but
instead, his eyes glued to his laptop.

“And then what?” I asked, gripping my
new WPD assignment in my hand so hard, the paper began to
crumple.

My boss took off his glasses and
turned toward me. “The entire assignment is detailed out for you in
the folder.” He pointed to the manila folder still sitting on his
desk.

I plucked it up and opened it.
“Virginia! What the f–”

“I’m gonna need you to get out of my
office now, loose cannon,” Jeff said, his face back in front of his
laptop.

Huffing but saying nothing, I turned
and walked out of his office and back toward my desk. I sat in a
large room full of cubicles on a regular day, when I wasn’t out in
the field (which is what I preferred). Just not Witness Protection
Detail. I’d rather sit at a desk.

Maybe.

I plopped down, and as I leaned back
in my chair, it squeaked in protest. I slowly opened the
folder.

VICTIM: Rayanne Lynch, age
27, Caucasian female, single, no children, Paralegal, lifelong
resident of St. Petersburg, Florida.

A photo was attached. While pretty in
a Barbie sort of way, she didn’t seem the type to get tangled up in
a case. But then again, they never did. This was my first Witness
Protection case, but I’d heard my colleagues talk about them
plenty. Most victims – “vics” as we called them – were scared
shitless. I’m sure this chick was, too.

I flipped the page.

DEFENDANT: George Watson,
Caucasian male, age 52. Married, two children, ages 23 and 20.
Lifelong resident of St. Petersburg, Florida. Attorney. One count
Failure to Pay Corporate Taxes over one million dollars. One count
Murder-For-Hire.

DEFENDANT: Elmo Watson,
Caucasian male, age 55. Married, four children, ages, 27, 25, 22,
20. Lifelong resident of St. Petersburg, Florida. One count Failure
to Pay Corporate Taxes over one million dollars. One count
Murder-For-Hire.

SUSPECT: Shane Watson, age
27, Caucasian male, single, no children. Lifelong resident of St.
Petersburg, Florida. One count of Murder-For-Hire. Currently
missing. Considered armed and dangerous.

I stared for a long time at the
documents. Due to the defendants all having the same last name, I
assumed they were all related, and the last one was probably the
kid or nephew of one of the defendants. But who did they kill or
try to kill since they’ve already been charged? That particular
victim’s name was missing from the file. Probably already knee-deep
in the program was my guess. I seriously doubted it was the one I
was sent to protect. She’d already be dead if that was the case. I
was anxious to dig into the case some more and find out what the
hell these dirtbag lawyers were up to.