She blinked, too. Was that the remnant of a nightmare?
No, someone was out there. Lost? Alone? Looking for the body they had lost? She flipped off the night-light and moved through utter darkness toward the window.
The light outside came on again and swung in a circle on the ground, then up in the air.
Kellen stepped back to avoid being spotted.
Ridiculous, but automatic.
She glanced at the time. Two forty-five a.m. Whoever it was either wasn’t afraid of being seen or wanted to be seen. Or their meeting hadn’t occurred as they expected and they were desperate. Or…or she didn’t know.
She did know the night was pitch-dark, rain rattled against the window like sleet and today they’d found a decomposing body out on the flats. Had someone found another one?
The light flashed around again.
Damn it. Annie left and less than twenty-four hours later, Kellen was up to her ass in alligators and it was hard to remember that her directive was to drain the swamp. She watched that light, willing it to go out permanently, and when that didn’t happen, she cursed as only an Army officer could curse, got her Glock and strapped it into her shoulder holster, pulled her rain gear on over her clothes and headed out.
As soon as she stepped foot on the porch, the wind caught her breath and whipped it away. Sleet blew beneath the overhang and stung her face. This was going to be one fast trip out to check on…whatever. Maybe she should pretend she hadn’t seen anything… But no. She owed it to Annie to find out if they’d been dealt another tragedy. Holding the handrail, she groped her way down the stairs. She took small steps toward her ATV.
A man’s voice behind her said, “Don’t do this.”
Not a moment of hesitation. She whipped around in the turning kick Mara had been teaching her. She should have struck his throat. But she slipped and landed a strike on his hip. She kicked again, aiming high.
He blocked.
She landed a solid strike against his arm.
She attacked.
He parried.
She landed good hits, but somehow she never did enough damage to hurt him. She felt as if she was being toyed with by an expert. Or led through a training session.
No. No one was going to lead her anywhere she didn’t want to go. She leaped back, out of his reach. She hoped. She pulled her Glock, released the safety, pointed and asked, “Who are you?”
“Nils Brooks.” His calm voice continued, “Your drill instructor said your hand-to-hand attacks were organized, focused and deadly in a way he had seldom seen in a woman.”
That knocked the breath out of her like nothing else had in this battle. This guy, whoever he was, had tapped into her military records as far back as Army basic training. He had investigated her. Not a cheap, simple, superficial investigation; one thorough and seemingly impossible. “It’s late. It’s been a long day. I don’t have time for games. Who are you?”
16
“I’m Nils Brooks of the MFAA.” He waited a beat, then asked, “Ever heard of the MFAA?”
Kellen searched her memory, came up with the correct title. “Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives?”
“That’s it. How did you know?”
“I saw the movie. I read the book. I…found some treasure. The MFAA is the Monuments Men.” He wasn’t going to fool her. “But don’t tell me you’re from the MFAA. The group was disbanded after World War II.”
“Can you say secret government agency?” His voice held a trace of humor.
“No, I can’t.” She didn’t believe it. She didn’t believe him.
“Don’t blame you. I came here from Washington, DC. The whole place is rife with liars, thieves and politicians. But I’m none of those things.”
“You’re saying you’re part of a secret government agency?”
“Who else would care about a smuggling ring using Yearning Sands Resort as a delivery depot?”
“Smuggling?” She didn’t stutter and she didn’t shriek. Points to her.
“Those lights you saw aren’t UFOs.” He was nothing more than a voice in the darkness, but he wasn’t trying to circle her or play her. “You’ve got your sidearm. Come on and we’ll talk.” He turned his back and headed for his cottage.
She sorted through his options, and hers.
He had been waiting in the dark. When she stepped out of her cottage, he could have attacked her, raped her, killed her. He hadn’t. Obviously, that made him a gem of a man.
Her own cynicism let her know she hadn’t lost herself to all sense. So she would listen, pistol in hand, and wait to see what Nils Brooks said about mysterious lights on an empty plain where today a body had been found.
She followed him to his cottage. His porch light was on; he ran up the steps, unlocked the door—no fumbling this time—opened it and walked in.
The light streamed out, an inviting square of brightness on the porch boards.
She glanced toward the dock.
That light had blinked out.
She slowly followed, keeping the Glock pointed at him.
He shed his raincoat, hung it on the rack, moved into the kitchen, filled the kettle with water and put it on the stove. He faced her, leaned against the counter and crossed his arms and his ankles.
She stood in the open doorway and studied him.
His act of aimless buffoonery had vanished. Nils Brooks actually was smart enough to wear rain gear and keep track of his pass card. His brown eyes were sharp, yet his glasses were nowhere in sight. The well-toned body she noted earlier now seemed less of a surprise and more of a weapon. “You’ve committed yourself. You might as well come in,” he said.
She stepped across the threshold but hesitated about shutting the door. When he sighed, she snapped, “Pardon me if I don’t want to be one of those women in the movies who hear a noise downstairs, light a candle because the power is mysteriously out and go to investigate.”
He laughed.
Whoa. Those dimples.
“All right,” he said. “I’ll give you that.”
Kellen didn’t smile back. “I had never considered the possibility of smuggling here. Washington is so…”
“Wild? Free? Pure? Organic?” He did sarcasm well.
Which made her feel enough at ease to gently push the door almost shut. “Off the beaten track.”
“It’s Washington. Crazy weather, close to Canada, isolated and insular. There’s a Coast Guard station south of here and one north, good guys, but they’re spread thin and they’ve got a lot of jobs—water rescues, port security, defense readiness and that concern of ours, catching smugglers.”
“Smuggling…what? Drugs?” Kellen’s new security job got more and more onerous by the second.
“That. Immigrants. Anything the bad guys can carry, really. That’s what interests the Coast Guard.” His dimples disappeared. “But not the MFAA. Not me.”
“No, I suppose not. Monuments, Fine Arts and Archives… We’re talking about antiques, cultural treasures.”
“Exactly. There’s a lot of money involved in moving stolen art and looted treasure. Enough to kill for.”
“Kill who?”
“That girl you found today. And Jessica Diaz. The MFAA director.” The kettle started whistling. He lifted two mugs off their hooks. “What do you want? Coffee? Tea? Hot chocolate? Don’t even bother with herbal. You’ll need some kind of caffeine. You’re not going to get any more sleep tonight.”
“What’s going to happen tonight?”
“We’re going to talk. I’m going to fill you in on the situation.”
She latched the door with her heel. Maybe she was that woman in the movie, but she didn’t think so. She might not trust him, not yet, but for some reason she didn’t yet know, he needed her. She placed her Glock on the end table, peeled off her rain gear and hung them beside his and seated herself in a chair facing him. She picked up her pistol and let it rest on the seat beside her hip, pointed it toward the floor.
He watched from the kitchen. “Your trust in me is touching.”