Coverup: Phalanx Blood, #3

By Bruce E. Arrington

Practice makes perfect when learning how to fight off the bad guys. And bodyguards are worth their weight in gold when it all goes down. But their value is put to the test when Bernard's safety is compromised.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Pipe Dream Books
• Release date: Aug 3, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386902447

Bruce E. Arrington

Bruce Arrington is the author of more than fifteen books, including fantasy children's stories, sci fi/fantasy teen and young adult, and even a new adult romance novel. He likes to take average, everyday characters, and upend their lives through unusual and powerful circumstances. His latest thrill includes ziplining in the tropics of Costa Rica. Catch up with his latest writings here: https://www.facebook.com/PipeDreamBooks/ https://www.amazon.com/Bruce-Arrington/e/B0064TKY1G

Book preview

My blood kills cancer.

Yep, you read that right. The big bad C word that scares just about everyone these days. My blood kills it. Dead. Dead Kennedys’ invitation to the White House dead. Doesn’t matter what type of cancer. It quickly finds itself outmaneuvered, surrounded, and mercilessly crushed by an iron-red phalanx. Just a few drops of my blood—drops mind you, and miracles start happening.

Capture the Flag is the game today, and the flag’s in my hand, on its way to my side of the brown, sandy beach. It’s Me and Betsie (one of my five German shepherd guard dogs) versus Michael and Charlie. Alexis (my personal, awesome bodyguard) watches with folded arms as I book it to our side, Olympic speed I’m sure, the goal only a couple hundred yards away. Foamy white waves wash up to my left, my feet crunching just shy of the surf’s reach, the beach rising to a crest of soft windswept dunes some fifty yards to my right.

Michael flies at me from the water, but Betsie intercepts, hitting him mid-stride; he splashes down rolling to bleed off some of the impact. Michael laughs and sputters while he and Betsie wrestle.

That leaves me in the clear—that is, no one from the front or sides. Only problem is that Charlie is right behind me, like .007 seconds behind. His speed is a mystery. He was never this quick before.

My lungs are burning, my quads are on fire, but my only focus is the line in the sand, marking our side (that’s when I can tag Charlie but he can’t touch me). I speed up, with an insane laugh, knowing it’s in the bag. No problem. These guys are l o s e r s.

Now I’m 30 yards from the line. Then 20...10. Charlie’s breathing almost in my ear. Only five yards to go.

And that’s where Charlie lunges, lands on my back and tackles me to the sand. I go down two yards from our side.

Game over. We lose.

"You used to be faster! Charlie says as he rolls off me. His bony elbows dig into my side. He’s mostly freckled skin, long bones and red hair, and he definitely needs more muscle. You got soft."

I’m breathing hard. My gut hurts.

Out of...practice, I say, pushing him down into the sand. You’re on my side...next time.

Don’t think so, Charlie retorts, shoving me back into the wet muck. Not until you learn to run.

A soaking wet Michael, rendered some beast from the chilly deep half-caked in sand and dog hair, jogs up, points his finger at me. Betsie follows behind, tail wagging with intense satisfaction.

Loooserrrr! he shouts, smoothing his black hair away from his face. He’s got the muscles and height that Charlie needs. Not to mention a good dose of maturity most of the time. "Can’t believe he brought you down!"

"Hey, I am getting faster, Charlie retorts. Must be all these ninja workouts you’re making us do every day. He leaps up and kicks a thin spray of seawater at my face. Not that I’m complaining."

My scalp prickles with heat, not yet a fire but definitely a few embers lighting up. I’m not letting go of this. Best two out of three, I insist, jumping to my feet; my quads are still screaming, but there are times when you can’t let them see weakness, no matter how stupid. And sixteen-year-olds know more than most about stupid. Just warming up.

But before either Michael or Charlie can protest, two gun shots go off behind my house, a few hundred yards away from where the dunes crest. I look that way to see smoke rising up into the summer, late morning sky. Then I look to Alexis, who is off her comfy spot at the base of the dunes before we saw her move.

Alexis lets out a low whistle, and we round pronto. She talks into her headset, voice low, barely above a whisper. She shakes her head, her dark brown bangs bobbing just above her eyebrows. It’s short up front so it won’t interfere with her field of view if she needs to shoot, and a tight ponytail tucked into the back of her blouse keeps it clear from grabbing hands.

Can’t reach anyone, she says, referring to my two other bodyguards. To the safe room. Now.

Charlie’s eyes widen. Huh? What? he mumbles. Why?

Uh, gunshots...smoke? Michael says. What do you think, genius?

Just a drill, right? he asks as we snake our way through the oaks and pines along the sand path. We stay low and try to remain