Hidden in the Everglades. Margaret Daley

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      ONE

      A wave broke and rolled across the white sandy beach, the warm water bubbling around Kyra Morgan’s feet before receding back into the Gulf of Mexico. The sun peeked over the tops of the palm trees behind her, flooding the day with light. Her favorite time, at dawn when all was still right with the world. Before her day began.

      The screech of a seagull pierced the tranquillity. A momentary disturbance until everything went back to a calmness that she’d needed after spending six straight years establishing Guardians, Inc. into a premier international company of female bodyguards. Drawing in a soothing breath, she relished the scent of the sea mingling with the sweet fragrance of the flowers her dad had planted right before his death a few years ago.

      This was her time to rest and relax. One week in Flamingo Cay, Florida, where she’d grown up. One week of no work. No emergencies. No—

      A click and muffled pop invaded her tranquillity.

      Sounds she’d heard as a police officer.

      She pivoted, her survival instinct kicking into play as she raced to her beach bag a few yards away. When she reached it, she plunged her hand inside and grasped the handle of her Glock while panning the house next door where the sound of a gun with a silencer going off had come from.

      Another pop invaded the early-morning quiet. She started moving toward the noise. Every sense locked on finding the source of the danger.

      Suddenly a young man burst out of the hibiscus hedge edging the neighbor’s property, staggering toward her, his face clenched in pain. He clutched his stomach, blood pouring out between his fingers. Stopping, he fell to his knees, a plea in his eyes as they homed in on Kyra.

      “Help us.”

      Us? Kyra glanced around as she covered the short distance to the young man. He collapsed to the sand, his eyes wide-open, giving her the dead man’s stare she’d seen countless times as a homicide detective. She felt for his pulse and found none.

      She pulled her cell from her shorts pocket and dialed 911. “Shots have been fired at 523 Pelican Lane. One man down—dead.”

      Another shot, coming from inside the house, sent a spurt of adrenaline through her veins. “Hurry.” She disconnected, stuffed her phone into her pocket and ran toward the neighbor’s back deck—the sliding glass door was partially open. The house was up for sale. She’d noticed the sign out front when she’d arrived yesterday evening. She hadn’t thought anyone was living there.

      Every nerve tingled with the threat of danger, but she couldn’t get the young man’s plea out of her mind. Help us. Who else was in trouble?

      As she neared the back that faced the water, she slowed, scanning the overgrown yard. The place had a vacant look to it, with no furniture on the deck. She ascended the stairs and crept toward the sliding glass door. Through it she looked inside. Totally empty.

      When she stepped over the threshold into the living room, a large expanse of taupe-colored tiles, her heartbeat accelerated. She paused and listened for any noise that indicated where the killer was.

      Silence.

      Another pop echoed through the vacant house, coming from the hallway that led to the bedrooms. A scream cleaved the air. The sound of pounding footsteps racing down the corridor toward Kyra propelled her into action. She flattened herself against the wall, her gun up, her total concentration on the opening. Heart hammering against her rib cage, she waited.

      A teenage girl burst out of the hall and darted across the room, blood on her hands and shirt, her features chiseled in fear. She glimpsed Kyra out of the corner of her eye and gasped, momentarily slowing. Their gazes connected for a few seconds. Kyra put her forefinger to her lips to indicate she keep quiet.

      The intrusion of a deep gravelly voice saying, “You can’t get away from me,” leached the rest of the color from the teen’s face. Her eyes grew huge. She sped toward the exit.

      Kyra focused on the entrance into the living room while the racing footsteps of the girl resonated through the air. From the hallway a shot sounded, shattering the glass in the door. She glanced toward the girl to see her disappear down the stairs and into the backyard.

      Any second she expected to see the killer burst into the living room to hunt down the teen and finish her off. Kyra stiffened, every muscle primed for action.

      Five heartbeats later she knew something was wrong. She inched closer to the edge of the wall to peer into the corridor. The thundering in her head pulsated through her mind, sending out an alarm. One, two deep breaths and she swiveled out into the entrance, her Glock pointing toward the bedrooms. Emptiness taunted her.