Suzanne was trembling, trying hard not to cry. Shaking, breathing raggedly. Soft and warm and—thank you, God—alive.
John covered the back of her head with his right hand and wrapped his other arm around her waist, holding her tight, trying to give her the animal comfort of his body. Pressing her close to still those awful tremors.
She was frightened to death. So was he. He couldn’t remember being this scared, ever. Not in the fiercest firefight.
He hadn’t been frightened for himself. The takedown had been smooth, a textbook SEAL operation. The bad guy hadn’t even known John was there until he was uselessly tugging at the knife cutting through his throat. But until this moment, until he had his arms tight around Suzanne’s slender body, John hadn’t been sure he’d got here in time. Hadn’t been sure he wouldn’t find Suzanne lying in a pool of her own blood…
He’d been driving home, content with the day’s work advising a bank in Eugene on security, with a five-year consultancy contract in his pocket. If business continued like this, he’d have to expand again. For the third time in six months. Maybe call in a few other guys from his team who were up for retirement.
He’d had to retire early because of the damned knee injury, but he probably hadn’t had more than another seven, eight years of active duty left in him anyway. In his line of work, you either died on the job or retired early. It’s wasn’t a job you aged in.
The Teams took everything a man had—and then sucked up some more.
If he expanded again, he knew exactly who to call. Senior Chief Kowalski was up for retirement and would make a perfect employee, maybe some day a partner. Super-smart, skilled, honest—and looking like something out of a horror movie. John smiled at the thought of introducing Suzanne to Kowalski, though she hadn’t turned a hair on her lovely head at meeting Jacko.
Despite her fragile appearance, Ms. Suzanne Barron seemed pretty sturdy. And smart and beautiful and with it. Oh yeah, she’d do just fine. All in all, John had been well pleased with himself while driving home.
Home.
When was the last time he’d ever felt a place was home? As opposed to a bed to bunk in? Yet 437 Rose Street had instantly become home. And that was before the delectable Ms. Barron decorated his working and living quarters.
He couldn’t wait for that, odd in a man who never cared what anything in his surroundings looked like. His major color scheme all his life had been olive drab. But now he found himself really looking forward to living in what he’d seen in those drawings. Those rich muted colors, those sleek elegant lines—hell yes, he could get used really fast to working out of an office like that. It would be a pleasure. He couldn’t wait for her to start.
Yes, he’d been definitely revved as he drove back through the rain. He was living in the same building as the most beautiful and desirable woman he’d ever seen. They’d already had explosive sex and getting back into her bed—back into her, it didn’t have to be in a bed—was just a matter of time. And to top it all off, he was well on his way to becoming rich and successful. Life just didn’t get any better than that.
And then Suzanne had called and he’d instantly gone to Defcon 1—the highest state of alert.
He’d known the instant he’d seen the number on the screen that something was badly wrong. Suzanne wouldn’t call him at midnight unless she was in trouble—and she was.
A man in her apartment. An armed man. It didn’t take SEAL training to know what that meant. Burglars don’t carry weapons. Burglars are nice gentlemanly criminals. All they want is to infiltrate your house, politely relieve you of your expensive worldly possessions and get quietly back out. No guns. No violence. The alternative was a hophead, crashing into Suzanne’s house hoping to boost her hi fi or TV for resale to the local fences to make enough for the next fix. But druggies weren’t organized. A hophead wouldn’t be slinking, trying not to make noise.
No, the scumbag in Suzanne’s house was there for one purpose only. To take her out. Any intruder who was bypassing the silver, artwork and fancy electronics in her study was out for much bigger game—blood. Suzanne’s blood.
Not while John could draw a breath.
His hands had clenched hard around the steering wheel as he braked to a stop a block from the house, around the corner and out of sight. The son of a bitch was armed. Well, so was he. Sig Sauer and knife and determination. Those three weapons had prevailed against some of the most dangerous men on the planet.
In the office, Suzanne had said. Only that had been minutes ago.
The level of alarm ratcheted up a notch at the front door. The intruder hadn’t just broken through the security system—he’d wrecked it. And taken out the telephone system, too, while he was at it. Thank God Suzanne had had the presence of mind to use her cell phone instead of the landline to contact him.
The guy hadn’t exactly been an amateur. Disabling an XOL system and the phone lines took a little bit of knowledge. But he hadn’t been expecting much resistance. John had heard him almost immediately, in what Suzanne used as a living room. He could hear him two rooms down, crashing around like a bear in the woods.
Using the Sig was out. John didn’t know if the guy had body armor, which meant the usual double tap to the head wasn’t an option—his weapon would wipe the guy’s face off entirely and John wanted an ID. He wanted to see the face of the son of a bitch who was threatening his woman.
That left the K-Bar.
John had excellent night vision. He moved swiftly and silently through the room into the next one. A kitchen. Empty. Oh Jesus, Jesus. Suzanne’s living quarters were a replica of his. Four rooms. Her bedroom was the last room down, she’d said. One more room to go.
Except the son of a bitch might not be here. He might have already wasted Suzanne and left. John moved more quickly, silently entering the next room and…there he was! Gun up, at the bedroom door, hand out for the doorknob.
He still didn’t have a clue anyone else was in the house. He died not having a clue, face down to the floor, John’s K-Bar through his throat.
John turned on the lights, crossing the room quickly as the man flopped for two, three seconds, feet drumming, on the floor. Blood spurted, sprayed. John watched, cold-eyed, as the man bled out fast all over the hardwood floor, then stilled in the unmistakable sprawl of death. John looked down at him for a long moment, thinking.
Next to the couch was the Portland phone book. There were two pages of Morrisons but only one Tyler Morrison. He dialed the number with his cell phone.
“Morrison.” Though it was very late, Bud sounded alert. John knew he would sound that way even if he’d been roused from a deep sleep.
“Bud, John here. Huntington.” John kept his voice low.
Bud didn’t waste time on small talk. “What’s up, John? You in trouble?”
“Might say that. I just killed a man.” John heard sheets rustle and a soft woman’s voice murmuring in the background. He remembered Suzanne saying Bud was dating a friend of hers. “Sorry to wake you up at this hour, Bud, but I need to call this in. I’m in Suzanne Barron’s building on Rose Street. She had an intruder tonight. Armed. I took him down. You’d better get over here with your team. It’s not pretty.”
Bud put his hand over the receiver and John could hear muffled soothing noises. He came back on line. “I’ll be right over.” Bedsprings squeaked. “I’ll call it in and go directly to Suzanne’s house. The rest of the squad will be there in about a quarter of an hour.”
“Door’s open,” John said. “Wide open. He trashed the security system. And you can use the sirens. He’s not going anywhere. Hang on a second, Bud.”
John hunkered down to study the dead man.