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His pulse raced, and his stomach roiled at the thought of what would have happened if he’d backed down when Londyn had said she didn’t need a bodyguard. She’d have walked right up into that trailer that now lay in twisted pieces. She would have been like the trailer...scattered across the ground.
The recurring flashback of his last mission in Afghanistan blasted through his mind. Of the grenade that had landed less than twenty feet in front of him. Of, Waterson, his battle buddy, throwing himself over the grenade to save the rest of his squad.
Though the temperature had dropped below fifty with the sun's setting, Nash broke out in a sweat, his heart pounding, his breathing labored as if he’d run a mile uphill at full speed.
Every time the flashbacks happened, he was thrown back into that moment, and his body reacted the same fucking way, leaving a burning, ragged mess in the aftermath.
This time, he couldn’t afford to succumb to PTSD, the panic attack, or whatever the therapists wanted to call it. He had to remain focused on his charge, or she’d end up like Waterson...her body scattered in pieces across the ground.
Nash clenched his fists and forced himself to concentrate on the present, pushing the memories to the back of his mind. He squared his shoulders. “Sheriff, if you’re finished with the questions, I still have a job to do.”
“Of course,” the older man handed him a business card. “If you think of anything else, call, day or night. I’ll answer. This is serious. We can’t have someone going around the county planting explosives. We might have more questions.” The sheriff closed his notebook and tucked his pen into his pocket. “How long are you in this area?”
Nash’s jaw tightened, his gaze pinning Londyn’s. “As long as it takes.”
The woman might not have wanted a bodyguard, but after what had happened, she was stuck with him until they figured out who was behind the attacks, and he neutralized the bastard.
In a warzone, that meant taking the guy completely out of the gene pool by shooting the coward.
Nash had to remind himself he wasn’t in a warzone, though it sure as hell felt like one. After a quick glance around, he shook his head. And it looked like one.
As part of his Brotherhood Protectors onboarding meeting with Stone Jacobs and Hank Patterson, they’d reminded him he wasn’t in a warzone. The enemies weren’t Taliban or ISIS rebels. They were civilians like he now was. As such, they were all governed by civil law. A man was innocent until proven guilty. He couldn’t shoot first and ask questions later—not that he’d done that on active duty.
The briefing had left him feeling a little hand-tied. What did he have to do? Let the enemy throw the first punch, fire the first bullet or blow up his client before he could fight back?
Fuck that. He’d figure out the rules of engagement, but not at the risk of losing his client. If she was in trouble, he’d do everything in his power to protect her, preferably before she was shot, blown up or anything else.
“We have to cordon off the area around the explosion until the state crime lab can get someone in to inspect the damage,” the sheriff said. “We have a bomb-sniffing dog checking the other structures before we can let anyone back in.”
Nash left the sheriff and crossed to where Londyn was surrounded by the press and other members of the film crew. He didn’t like how close they were to her. If one of them was responsible for the explosion, what was to keep him from trying another means of attack? As close as they were, any one of the men surrounding her could easily stab her with a knife.
Nash shoved his way through the ring and emerged next to Londyn.
“We can’t shut down production for even a day,” the director was saying. “Every day of this effort costs thousands of dollars.”
“Some of our equipment was damaged,” one man said.
The director waved a hand. “Then get replacements.”
“That takes time,” the man said.
“Overnight it, kluge together parts from other equipment, hell, do whatever it takes.” The director paced back and forth, his head down, his brow furrowed. When the others didn’t move, he glared at them. “Between this delay and the protestors, we’re bleeding money like a sieve. Do I have to do your jobs for you?”
“No, sir,” several men said.
“We have a scene to shoot in fifteen minutes.” The director flung his hands toward them. “Go!”
People scattered, leaving Londyn standing next to the director. “My costume for the next scene was in my trailer.”
The director shoved a hand through his hair. “What do you want me to do about it? See the costume designer.”
“She was injured in the explosion,” Londyn said. “She left with the ambulance.”
“Fuck!” the director exclaimed. He ran his hand through his hair. “It’s the scene where Layla’s getting ready for bed. What was the costume?”
“A silk camisole and matching bottoms,” Londyn said.
“Surely, one of the females in the crew has something close to that?”
