Another idea came into his mind like the slide of a gun snapping a bullet into place. She’d said to figure it out. If there was one thing he was good at, it was figuring things out. But he had nowhere to start—other than with her. He’d noticed several things during the brief time he’d been able to observe her, some things that seemed to nudge him in her direction, no matter how much he felt the need to fight against it. He put in his earbuds, blasted “Iron Man” by Black Sabbath, typed the first search—her license plate number—into the computer, and began piecing together her mystery. Or rather, discovering exactly how deep her mystery went.
two
“MS. ROGERS WAS IT?” the leasing agent asked.
“That’s what it says on my license.” She purposefully made her grin a little off.
The leasing agent’s smile went tight, and she turned back to the apartment brochure. “You’re looking for a studio you said.”
“I don’t know if I actually said it.”
The agent looked up. “But that is what you’re looking for?”
“That’s the floor plan I saw in the apartment guide.”
Any tighter and the agent’s smile was going to snap. “Okay, well, would you like to see the unit we have available?”
“Can I bring my cat?”
“Your cat?”
“I need to make sure he likes it.”
“Uh . . .”
“I can have a cat here, right?”
“Yes, we’re pet friendly. I’ve just never had someone bring their cat on a tour.”
“How do the cats know if they’ll like the apartment?” She twisted her expression in confusion until her face felt like a washcloth being rung out.
“I suppose your cat will be fine to come along.” The leasing agent took a key from a drawer and led the way out of the rental office.
The building was one over from the rental office, close to the main exit and also a small wooded area. On the way toward the building, she opened the door of the Blazer and let Mac hop down. He followed her up the sidewalk.
The agent stopped and looked back. “You don’t need to carry it, or . . . have it on a leash or something?”
“He’s perfectly capable of walking.” She continued forward, and so did Mac.
The agent kept going.
The tour went the same as all the other apartment tours she’d been on—she spent maybe two minutes looking at the place, checking certain aspects of security, and made the agent as uncomfortable as possible.
Mac accompanied her as she signed the lease with the name Sarah Jeane Rogers. At least her middle name was real, if nothing else about her was. That was why she kept using it. Without that one link to her past and Mac to keep her company, she felt she might completely lose herself.
She took immediate possession of the apartment and lugged her duffle bag into the little place. Mac walked in behind her, and she closed and locked the door. The apartment had no furniture, so she sat on the floor, took a book out of her duffle, and allowed Mac time to investigate their new home. He was always more at ease if he had time to sniff every corner and crawl into every nook. Though she was starving, she waited patiently for him to be done.
A while later Mac sauntered out of the bathroom and sat down in front of her.
“Meet with your approval?” she asked.
His meow almost sounded like a bark.
“Good.” She got to her feet. “Because I’m starving.” She’d slept in her car the night before and hadn’t eaten, maybe too on edge after her reckless behavior yesterday. But she’d done the right thing by stopping that man from being killed, right? She sighed—she could never really know. What if he deserved to die? She knew nothing about him.
But he seemed kind. For some reason, the man kept popping into her head, and she continued to push him back out.
She headed for the door. “Come on, buddy.”
He meowed. Barked. Whatever.
A knock on the door made her stop. It was like all those times waiting for the target to appear, for the perfect shot, listening to every blade of grass, each snap of a flag in the wind, her own almost-silent breath. Mac stopped next to her and watched the door. His hearing was even better than hers—she watched him listen, waiting for his reaction.
He slowly crouched toward the door. He, apparently, didn’t think it was the leasing agent back to welcome them one more time. It was someone unknown. She assumed that as well—she’d done quite well at making the agent uncomfortable, assuring she’d never darken this door again if she could help it.
Silently, she walked up to the door and looked out the peephole.
There was a man standing at her door. He had blond hair pulled up into a man bun—she rolled her eyes—and he wore a big smile. “Hi,” he said through the door. “Just thought I’d stop by and meet my new neighbor.”
She walked silently away from the door.
Mac stayed by the door and looked at her expectantly.
She shook her head.
He sat down.
She plopped back down on the floor to wait for the man to leave. She’d learned not so long ago to stay hidden and anonymous as much as possible. No friendships, and certainly no romantic relationships. Memories of James still gnawed at her. She wasn’t sure if it was from anger at the betrayal, frustration with herself for not realizing he wasn’t who he said he was, or maybe it was still . . . pain.
She sighed.
Mac walked over and climbed into her lap; he always seemed to know exactly what she needed. She pulled him closer into a hug, and he rubbed the top of his head against her cheek. He was big enough that it almost felt like hugging a person. “Thanks, buddy,” she murmured against his fur.
A minute later, Mac’s ears perked. She looked up. “Is he gone?”
He hopped down and walked over to the door, fluffy tail up in the air.
“Good.” She pushed herself up to standing and forced the pain deep down inside. “I’m dying of hunger.” She headed out the door with Mac trotting along beside her. Like always, she pretended the pain wasn’t there, hadn’t ever been there. If she didn’t pretend, she’d never survive.
And if her training had taught her anything other than how to kill, it was how to survive.
LYNDON THANKED THE UBER DRIVER and then stepped out of the car. While he walked, he kept track of everything around him peripherally. The shooter yesterday had obviously been a sniper, and a very good one. Lyndon was typically an astute observer, but he hadn’t seen him. Or maybe it’d been a her. Not much would surprise him at this point.
He’d spent all night looking into every angle he could think of, all the time waiting for the police to come knock on his door and question him about the shooting. But no one came, which again told him how skilled the shooter had been to be that stealthy. Lyndon couldn’t even remember hearing the shot, only the sound of the bullet hitting the concrete wall behind him.
So, how had that woman figured out what was about to happen?
He walked down the row of storage units. It could prove to be unwise of him to come back here, but he needed to get his car. And hopefully no one would expect him to come back, at least not so quickly after the incident.
He heard a sound and stopped, until he realized it was the breeze rattling the roll-up doors.
He continued forward.
At the corner, his truck came into sight, the old familiar 1964 Chevy K10. The dark blueish-green paint was worn from years of serving his grandfather well. It had more miles than Lyndon liked to admit, but it was the only thing he had left from his grandfather, the last of his family.
He took a good look to make sure no one had tampered with anything. Then he put the key in the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life. He put it in gear and drove out of the storage facility.
Now he had to decide what to do next. He had an idea of how to find the woman from yesterday, but he wasn’t sure that was the wisest course. He’d found enough about her to know he should be ca
utious, or rather it was all the things he couldn’t uncover about her that warned him to be cautious. Or maybe it was that ridiculous instinct he’d felt to stay with her. No, it isn’t anything more than a bit of physical attraction. That’s all. And he certainly wouldn’t let himself act on that.
He resigned himself to what he should do. Focusing on the elements of the equation that were the most unique was typically the best way to start, and she was certainly the most unique thing he’d found in a long time.
SHE WALKED IN WITH HER REMINGTON 798 rifle in its soft case slung over her shoulder. She kept this quality but common hunting rifle because her McMillan TAC-50 wasn’t legal in California, nor did she want to draw attention by walking in with a tactical weapon. She handed the man at the counter the ID she was currently using and opened the rifle case to allow him to inspect the weapon. Then she paid for range time, bullets, and some of her favorite HALO Thompson targets and headed for the door to the range.
“Hey,” the man at the counter said. “You can’t have pets in here.”
Apparently, he had just noticed Mac at her feet. “He’s my support animal.”
He hesitated. “I’m sorry, I need to see—”
“According to California law, you cannot require proof of service animal registration.” Though they also weren’t required to allow emotional support animals, only service animals, nor were cats considered any kind of support or service animal, only dogs, none of which she was going to mention. She held eye contact and waited for a response.
He glanced from her to Mac several times and finally said, “All right, I guess.”
She continued walking, and Mac followed. From what she read online about this place, they were a bit relaxed about things, so she figured she’d get away with bringing Mac. He didn’t like to be left alone wherever they were staying at the moment, and it was too hot to leave him in the car.
Out at the range, she walked down to the last spot, which was thankfully not already taken. Mac curled up under the counter along the wall behind her. If the loud sounds bothered him, he always found a way to cover his ears, either with his paws or by crawling into her gun case. She took her Remington 798 out of its case, set the case on the ground so Mac could climb in if he wanted, and loaded the gun. Now to find her first target . . .
She looked around at the other people, all men. She’d met her fair share of talented female marksmen, but the craft was still dominated by men for some reason. Well, at least that made her goals a bit easier to reach. She adopted her patented innocent expression, the same one that had served her well for many years—basically just slightly raised brows, softness to her eyes, and maybe a bit of tilt to her head.
A middle-aged man with receding gray hair approached with a smile. “Need some help with that?”
“How do I set up a target?”
He took her target out of her hand and operated the panel at the side of her station to recall the arm holding a piece of cardboard. He stapled the target to the cardboard, and then he asked, “How far? Ten yards to start?”
“All right.”
He pressed a button, and the target zoomed out ten yards.
“Thanks.” She pressed her lips together and picked up her rifle.
“Ever shot that before?” he asked.
“My dad showed me one time.” Which was actually true. A very, very long time ago. She made a show of figuring out how to brace it against her shoulder. Thankfully, this guy was a gentleman and didn’t try getting handsy under the guise of showing her how to hold it.
“Just take your time and squeeze the trigger when you’re ready,” he said.
She nodded and aimed the weapon, purposefully too low, and pulled the trigger.
“Not bad,” the man said. “You took the recoil real well.” He gave her some basic instruction, and she pretended to listen.
“Thanks,” she said. “I think I just need to practice now.”
He smiled. “You’ll do fine.” He walked back over to his station a few down from hers.
She spent some time “practicing,” all the while gauging the men around her. About ten minutes later, the nice middle-aged man left.
She noticed the man at the next station glance at her with a slight smirk. She wouldn’t have caught it if that hadn’t been exactly what she’d been looking for.
She smiled over at him. “I think I’m getting better.”
“Sure you are.” He struggled against another smirk.
“I think I might even be better than you.”
He looked at her with raised eyebrows.
“What do you think?” she said. “Want to place a little wager?”
He snorted and turned back to his Winchester Model 70.
“Afraid of a girl beating you?”
He looked at her with his brows raised and pulled together in kind of an Are you stupid? expression.
“Well . . . ,” she baited.
“All right. Ten bucks.”
“Ten bucks? If we’re going to do it, let’s make it worth it. Hundred bucks.”
He hesitated and glanced down at her slender figure. She purposefully wore loose shirts, both to hide the strength of her frame and to conceal the Glock tucked in her waistband. “All right,” he said. “Let’s do it. I hope you know what you’re getting into.”
He took several twenties out of his wallet and set them on the counter. She set down a hundred-dollar bill.
She smiled. “You first. Fifteen yards.”
He smirked and then turned back to his rifle. He set the target at fifteen yards, aimed, and fired. He pulled the target in to show he’d struck the second circle around the bull’s-eye.
“Pretty good.” She moved her target to fifteen yards, aimed, controlled her breath, and squeezed the trigger. Then she pulled in the target.
He gaped at the hole perfectly through the bull’s-eye. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Double or nothing?”
“You’re on.”
They both laid down more money. A minute later, he again gaped at her target, and she picked up the money.
“Again?” she asked.
“I’m out.” He packed up his stuff and left.
She glanced around in search of her next target. Eventually, a man in sleek black slacks and hair so perfectly shiny and styled it almost didn’t look real took an interest in her. He had a fat wallet and a lot of attitude—her favorite kind of opponent. They spent some time playing her game.
After taking her next shot—another perfect bull’s-eye—she set the butt of her rifle down on the low counter in front of her and looked over at the man with perfect hair.
He picked up his rifle and took aim, pausing several seconds, as if his aim would get better if he just waited long enough.
And as she scanned the rest of the people around her, as she did routinely, she noticed the bay on the other side of Perfect Hair had a different occupant. He stood with good form, strong shoulders and back and rippled forearms, and aimed his Glock 17 at the target twenty yards away. She started planning a covert exit even as she watched him fire several shots—a tight cluster on his target. She stood shocked for about half a second before forcing her mind back on track. Sneak past him? But she had to put her weapon away properly before she could leave her bay. One of the range masters would stop her if she didn’t.
She turned to pick up her case off the floor. Luckily, Mac wasn’t lying in it. He just sat there, with his fluffy tail curled around himself, looking at her. Thanks for the warning, she mentally muttered.
“What a lovely coincidence,” said a flat voice.
She stopped, halfway bent over toward her case. Before looking, she knew who it was. She’d already memorized his voice, apparently.
She turned to see the man from yesterday.
He straightened his glasses and smiled at her, though it didn’t reach his eyes.
three
SHE TOOK THE LARGE STACK OF CASH on the counter and stuffed it into her jeans pocke
t. “Thanks,” she said to the man with perfect hair.
“You all right?” Perfect Hair asked her.
She bent down toward her case again, and the man from yesterday leaned closer to her and spoke under his breath. “Really want to make a scene?”
She stood straight and stared at him for about two seconds, just long enough to wonder how much he knew, how he could possibly know anything, if he was a plant like James.
Then she turned to Perfect Hair and smiled. “An old friend taking me by surprise is all. Sorry I have to cut our fun short.”
Perfect Hair laughed. “Boyfriend didn’t know you hustle guys at the range.” He laughed again. “I had better stop while I’m way behind, anyway. Maybe I’ll see you around again, when I’m not under the weather and my aim is where it usually is.”
She wanted to roll her eyes. Why did men so often find the need to make excuses for why a chick beat them? But that arrogance worked to her advantage.
Perfect Hair slipped his rifle into its case and walked away.
She glared at the man from yesterday. “Back. Off.”
“What’s your name?” he asked.
She crossed her arms.
“I couldn’t find your name,” he said. “I even hacked the storage facility’s security feed from yesterday and completed an image search online, and nothing came up.”
“Of course not.” No one had her real picture—all her licenses were fake, a picture of someone who looked a lot like her, close enough to fool most people, but not close enough to flag facial recognition software.
“Interesting,” he said.
“I’m not something to be studied by some college geek. You can run along now, Skippy.”
He leaned closer and spoke more quietly. “Everyone’s picture is online somewhere. Everyone.”
“Apparently, you’re not as smart as you think you are.”
“I know you’re not nearly as aggressive as you try to seem. Let me just clarify now that aggressiveness won’t make me back off.”
Never Miss Page 2
