by Norah Wilson
~*~
Beads of sweat sprung up on Quigg’s brow as he squeezed the transmitter button on his radio. “He’s inside the house with her. I repeat, inside the house. A single shot has been fired, but she’s not hurt. He just led her to the kitchen in the south-east quadrant of the house and cuffed her to a chair.” Quigg’s words emerged calmly, dispassionately, even as his emotions threatened to slip the tight leash he’d imposed on them. Habit, he supposed. Training. Discipline. He called on all of those things now. “I’m going in. I have a key, so I should be able to slip in unnoticed. Tell backup to come in quiet. Repeat, no siren or lights. Front door will be open.”
“Negative on entering the premises,” came the dispatcher’s voice. “Wait for backup.”
“Sorry, no can do,” he muttered, but he’d already replaced the radio. He climbed out of his car and eased the door shut. Drawing his 9mm from its holster, he sprinted across Suzannah’s lawn and vaulted over a hedge of lilies, not slowing up until he’d gained the south-west corner of the house. The motion detector lights he’d insisted she install winked on, and he offered a silent thank you that it wasn’t yet dark enough yet for them to attract attention from within.
He wanted like hell to barge right in her front door, but he had to survey the situation first, make sure they were still in the kitchen. He’d almost blundered into disaster once. Had Suzannah been able to get the door open far enough to escape, she’d have bowled him over on the doorstep. They’d probably both be dead. As it was, he’d nearly died when he heard the gun discharge. Then—oh, praise God—he’d heard Suzannah’s voice again, reasoning with her intruder this time, and he’d known she hadn’t been hit.
He’d wanted to storm the place then and there, more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life, but he’d restrained the impulse. Any rash action on his part could get her killed. So he’d crept to a window instead, in time to see a tall, slim figure half dragging, half marching Suzannah toward the kitchen. He’d slipped to another window with a view of the south end of her kitchen and dared another quick look. That’s when he’d seen the intruder shackle her to the chair.
And that’s when it occurred to him he’d better alert backup to roll in quiet. If they came in with lights and sirens, the only way Suzannah was getting out was through heaven’s gates. He knew it in his soul. A man didn’t stalk a woman so assiduously only to let her escape him at the eleventh hour. No, what they needed was stealth, not might.
Now, heart pounding like it might come right out of his chest, pistol at the ready, he inserted his key in her lock and turned the deadbolt as softly as he could. He held his breath for a few heartbeats, listening for any sound from within. Nothing. Muttering a Hail Mary, he opened the door. It swung inward silently, and he gave thanks for Suzannah’s anal retentive streak. She would never suffer a chair spring to chirp, a floorboard to groan or a door hinge to squeak.
Then he saw Bandicoot’s body lying in the vestibule amid a puddle of congealing blood.
The bastard shot Bandy!
For a few seconds, he literally saw red. Then he reined himself in. He’ll do a lot worse if you don’t get a grip on yourself. Suck it up, Quigley. Do this right.
Stepping over the threshold, he scanned the room, pistol leveled, but the room was empty. Leaving the door ajar, he skirted Bandy and headed straight for the kitchen. Just in time to hear Suzannah scream. By the time Quigg made the kitchen, the sonofabitch was standing behind her, the knife in his hand a glowing brand. For the second time tonight, his vision took on a distinct red tinge.
“Stop! Police!”
