Armed 'N' Ready

by Tee O'Fallon

  “Fine,” she reluctantly agreed, knowing it was the right thing to do. “But you could have knocked before breaking in. I would have let you in.”

  “We did knock. You didn’t answer.”

  “Well, duh. I was in the shower washing the dog and didn’t hear you.”

  “Clearly, ma’am.”

  “Andi. Call me Andi. If you call me ma’am one more time, I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” he asked, throwing her own words back at her.

  Oh hell. He’s right. If he wanted to call her ma’am all day, there was nothing she could do to stop him. It was just so annoying.

  He snorted. “That’s what I thought. Look,” he began in a tone that was only slightly less patronizing. “You can’t touch anything until the room’s been searched. Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it for you.” He went to the suitcase, pausing to look at her before unzipping it. “Got any weapons in here, anything sharp?”

  “An eyebrow plucker? A curling iron?” She couldn’t help grinning when his brows lowered in obvious irritation. “Oh wait, be careful. I have a box of tampons in there somewhere. Those little things can do some damage if you handle them incorrectly. If I were you, I’d treat them like unexploded ordinance.” She smirked, but in reality, her snarky comebacks were a sad effort to mask her growing anxiety.

  He gave her a fake smile that crinkled the skin at the corners of his eyes. If the smile hadn’t been so facetious, and if he wasn’t about to search her personal belongings, she would have said he was somewhat handsome. In a kick-ass, take-no-shit, I-eat-nails-for-breakfast kinda way.

  “Cute.” He arched a brow as if to say: right back atcha, babe. Then he began digging through the suitcase. “After you’re dressed, I’ll take you downstairs, and we’ll explain more to you about what’s going on.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I might attack you from behind and club you over the head when you’re not looking?”

  “No.” He didn’t spare her so much as a glance.

  “Why not?” Testing her theory, she pushed from the mattress, watching as he rifled through her suitcase, searching it for weapons, she supposed, and whatever evidence they’d come to Joe’s place for. “See, I’m getting closer.” She continued edging toward his broad back. “I could easily incapacitate you with my hair dryer.”

  Again, he didn’t bother to look at her. “Turn around.”

  She did and froze. Her only movement was the instantaneous widening of her eyes.

  The black shepherd stood closer now, only a few feet away, with its demonic eyes burning into her. “Oh. Right.” This time it was her turn to sit obediently. And she did. Slowly. “If I attack you, your partner will tear me to shreds, won’t he?”

  He pulled a pair of khaki shorts and a light-blue tank from the suitcase and tossed them behind him onto the bed. “Pretty much, so I’d strongly advise against it.”

  “Ten-four, Sarge.” She wanted to smack her forehead. Joe’s house was being searched by an army of cops, she was being guarded by a cop-dog bigger than any wolf she’d seen in a zoo, and here she was cracking jokes. Not smart.

  She gave him a mock salute behind his back. Unfortunately, he turned just in time to catch it and pursed his lips. Her gaze was drawn to his duty belt, and her eyes again went wide, this time for a completely different reason. Her face heated as if someone was blasting a blowtorch at her head.

  Looped over the handle of his gun was one of her prettiest pair of undies—pale pink satin with lacy scalloped trim. She clamped a hand over her eyes.

  Could this get any more embarrassing?

  Don’t answer that.

  “Uh, Sergeant?” Might as well meet the situation head-on. “Can you grab me the matching bra, too?”

  Clearly not understanding to what she was referring, he frowned, and when she dipped her eyes in the direction of his gun, he figured it out. Again, that seriously chiseled jaw flexed as he reached for the lacy garment, hooking it with two fingers. With a flick of his hand, he tossed it on top of her shorts and shirt as if it was burning his flesh and he couldn’t wait to get rid of it.

  She wanted to laugh at the image of her panties dangling from a hand big enough to pound a six-inch spike through a board without a hammer. Maybe it was the stress, or the embarrassment, but she couldn’t hold back a tiny snicker. And was he—

  No way.

  Blushing?

  Beside her, the black shepherd huffed and took a step closer, cutting short the full-on laughter about to escape her throat. She scrambled to the center of the bed. Her heart began hammering, and she half expected the dog to leap onto the bed and clamp its jaws around her leg.

  “Platz,” Sgt. Houston ordered the dog, who lay down next to the bed, still eyeing her with an intensity that was unnerving.

  “Easy, Saxon.” He knelt by the dog, laying one of those massive hands on its neck. Almost instantly, the tension in the animal’s body seemed to ease. “He won’t hurt y—”

  She followed Sgt. Houston’s gaze and looked down to see that in her mad dash to the center of the bed, her towel had slipped again. Her nipples jutted against the thin blue bikini fabric, reminding her of two blueberries. She gasped and clutched the towel to her chest.

  “Malloy,” he shouted into his mic. “Where the hell are you?”

  “Right here, Sarge.” A female officer in uniform stood at the bedroom doorway. “Sorry, I got tied up with—”

  “There’s another dog in the bathroom, and she”—he nodded to Andi—“needs to get dressed,” he growled. “Bring her downstairs ASAP. Aside from the suitcase, this room hasn’t been searched.” Without waiting for a response, he yanked a leash from his belt and clipped it to the dog’s harness. “Fuss.”

  The dog—Saxon—trotted to his side, and both of them went out the door.

  She stared at the open doorway, then looked at Officer Malloy, who was also staring after him, a curious expression on her face.

  “What’s his problem?” Andi grabbed her clothes from the bed and began to dress. “I’m the one whose privacy just got trashed.” She yanked on her panties and shorts, then tossed the towel on the bed and began putting on her bra.

  “I understand completely, ma’am.” Malloy nodded.

  She tugged the blue tank over her head. “Please don’t you start in with the ma’am thing, too.”

  “No, ma’am.” She grinned. “I’d better get you downstairs before Nick—Sgt. Houston—pops a blood vessel.”

  Andi fished a brush from her suitcase, then paused before running it through her damp hair. Nick. Sgt. Nicholas Houston. She didn’t know why, but the name suited him. A manly name that implied he could conquer an entire city. Single-handed, since he was obviously accustomed to people jumping at his command. Then again, she supposed he was only doing his job.

  The army of cops she could now hear rummaging around downstairs had complete control of the house, which just punched all her control-freak buttons—a throwback to her days as a financial planner. And after what had happened in her old job, calling the shots on everything in her life was more important now than ever.

  She sat heavily on the bed, staring at the brush in her hand. Whatever was happening was serious but had nothing to do with her. This wasn’t even her house. She happened to be in the wrong place at a really, really bad time.

  The worry that had been brewing inside her now stung her gut like a swarm of bees. Clearly Joe—one of her best friends—was in deep, deep trouble. The only question was how deep.

  …

  While Nick waited for Ms. Andi Hardt and her dog to make guest appearances, he removed Saxon’s body armor and stowed it by the front door. His dog’s coat was matted down with sweat, and as he ruffled the damp fur, Saxon uttered an appreciative groan.

  They went into the kitchen, the only room downstairs yet to be searched. He gave his dog ample leash to search the cupboards and storage bins for drugs, firearms, ammo, and any other black powder items.

  Saxon’s
tail waved back and forth as he sniffed and processed scents on the floor, in the air, and near the cupboards, then circled twice to be sure he didn’t miss anything. The place was as neat as a pin. Aside from a sparkling clean coffee maker, the gleaming black granite counters and island were bare.

  When Saxon had completed his search, Nick began opening upper cabinet doors. Next to an expensive-looking cream-colored china bowl, he discovered a box of frosted strawberry Pop-Tarts. Sure enough, when he looked down, Saxon was eyeing the box intently. Nick gave a low chuckle. Two years ago, he’d caught his ten-year-old twin nephews feeding Saxon an entire box of that same flavor of Pop-Tart. Since then, his dog craved them.

  The refrigerator contained only milk, condiments, and salad fixings. The last, he’d guess, had been put there by the woman upstairs. With such an athletic body, he figured her for one of those strict fruit, nut, and salad-eating women who stayed as far away from meat as she could possibly get. Yeah, he’d tried not to look, but when he’d whipped open the shower door, it had been impossible not to notice.

  She had long, supple runner’s legs up to her neck, and every inch of damp, toned skin he could see was sun-kissed in a light golden hue. But the most striking thing about her was her eyes—the prettiest cornflower-blue ones he’d ever seen. Looks aside, there was more to the woman than what that little bikini covered.

  Despite being scared by what was happening, she’d exhibited spunk in spades, doing her best to hide her fear behind the verbal lashing she’d given him. Most women would have experienced a total meltdown at finding a cop and his K-9 in her bathroom. Her reaction had taken a one-eighty from that. After belting out a skull-splitting scream, she’d actually thrown stuff at him.

  The memory had him chuckling, and it took a few seconds for him to realize Saxon was waiting for his next command, canting his head as if thinking: get yours out of your ass and back in the game.

  “Sorry, buddy.” He’d seen plenty of bikini-clad women before, and it pissed him off that this one was messing with his professionalism and his concentration.

  Leaning over, he gave Saxon a few hearty pats on the back. “Good boy.” Even though Saxon had come up empty, he’d done his job. Myer definitely wasn’t housing any firearms and ammo in the house.

  “Got anything?” Eric Miller, an ATF agent—and one of Nick’s best friends—had stuck his head through the kitchen door leading to the backyard.

  A brown snout appeared as Eric’s Dutch shepherd, Tiger, pushed his muzzle through the partially open door. The dog’s black nostrils flared as he scented Saxon close by. In response, Saxon gave a snort of acknowledgment.

  “Negative.” Nick shook his head. “Tiger find anything outside?”

  “Nada. Place is as clean as a newly smelted baby Glock. I’ve gotta put Tiger up in the cruiser before he melts into a puddle of hair.” He shut the door and led Tiger into the yard.

  Nick and Saxon headed into the dining room that now served as a makeshift command center for the search warrant team. Along the way, he caught sight of two officers already searching a roll-top desk in the office, while the locksmith was busy cracking into a wall safe. Troopers and agents were searching the hallway closet and the many other pieces of furniture on the main floor. From what he could see in the practically empty cardboard evidence boxes, they weren’t finding much to seize, except for the pink cell phone he’d taken from the master bedroom.

  Normally he’d have left it for the evidence team to photograph in place, but cell phones were too important for establishing critical links between people, and he hadn’t wanted to take a chance that the woman would squirrel it away before it could be seized and searched for recent phone calls, contacts, and text messages.

  Sitting around the dining room table were FBI Special Agent Randy Cox and several other feds clicking away at laptops.

  “Stick around, would ya, Nick?” Cox paused in the middle of placing a call on his cell phone.

  Cox placed the call on speakerphone and Nick immediately recognized the voice of AUSA Ted Bennett, lead federal prosecutor for the Western Massachusetts Federal Gang Task Force. Bennett wasn’t happy about Myer being MIA and that the most critical piece of evidence was missing.

  “No computers at all?” Bennett asked.

  “Nothing.” Cox shook his head. “Not even a single storage device. No CDs, DVDs, thumb drives, or external drives.”

  “What about Myer’s office in town?” he asked, referring to the other search team.

  “Two desktop computers and a few thumb drives.” Cox was frowning. “Our guys took a quick look at the hard copy docs, and so far, they’re all associated with what look like legitimate accounts. We found some old bills indicating there was a six-month stretch during which Myer couldn’t make payments on his mortgage, his Mercedes, and two credit cards. Then he suddenly paid off all his outstanding debts. And before you ask, we called in Myer’s secretary, who confirmed that he does have a laptop but takes it home every day.”

  Bennett swore. “Myer’s smart enough to keep the tainted account files on his laptop so he can take them with him wherever he goes. Was anyone else at the house when you got there?”

  “Andi Hardt,” Cox said. “We’re about to interview her.”

  “What’s she doing there?” Bennett asked. “You guys said she and Myer didn’t have a relationship.”

  Cox caught Nick’s eye, indicating he should respond.

  “None that we knew of.” He moved closer to the cell phone in Cox’s hand. “Sitz. Blieb,” he said to Saxon. After Saxon sat, Nick dropped the leash on the carpet. “Apparently we were wrong. There’s a framed photo of the two of them in Myer’s bedroom.” One in which they looked mighty cozy. He’d instantly recognized Andi Hardt from her driver license photo and from surveillance he’d done outside the Dog Park Café.

  “Assuming they’re involved,” Bennett continued, “she’ll be less likely to cooperate than we originally thought. Find out exactly what her personal connection is to Myer.”

  “Will do.” Nick shot a look at the stairs. Ms. Hardt should have had more than enough time to dress and get downstairs by now.

  Saxon leaned over to sniff the table, leaving a condensation mark on the edge of the gleaming surface. Mahogany? No, something even more exotic, he guessed. He’d once seen an imported rosewood table at some snooty-falooty furniture store, and the price tag had been in the thousands.

  Looks like it cost more than two of my paychecks. As did everything else in the house. Money laundering for a gun dealer evidently paid well.

  Saxon cracked his jaws, panting as his long pink tongue fell from the side of his mouth. He’d have to get his dog water soon. Even with the AC cranked on high and blasting through the two vents in the dining room, the house was getting stuffy.

  Cox ended the call. “I rechecked, and the lady has no criminal history, not even a parking ticket. Been a long time since I ran someone with such a squeaky-clean record.”

  Nick nodded. Seemed like everyone had a history of doing something wrong. Even me. But that hadn’t been illegal. Just something he wished for a do-over on every freaking day of his life.

  “Where’s her file?” he asked Cox, wanting to review her background and the bank documents before they interviewed her.

  “O’Reilly? Get Sgt. Houston the file.” Cox tipped his head to a young FBI agent.

  The baby-faced Feeb quickly produced a manila folder. “Yes, sir. Here you go, Sergeant. Let me know if you need anything else.”

  “Thanks, kid.” He sat and flipped open the folder. “First task-force assignment?”

  “Yes, sir.” The kid nodded overemphatically.

  He’d been a newbie once, too. Twice, actually. First in the Marines with Force Recon, later with the Mass State Police.

  A soft huff had him glancing at Saxon, who still sat obediently a few feet away. The dog’s haunches bunched as he resisted the urge to come closer to Nick.

  Before he could finish saying, “Hier,
” Saxon bolted closer to the table and lay down at Nick’s feet.

  “Good boy.” He gave the dog a quick pat on the head and began reading.

  The first document was a DMV printout and photo. A smiling Andi Hardt stared back at him. Thick blond hair framed her face, but again it was her eyes that drew his attention. Not even a lousy DMV photo could hide her spirit that practically jumped off the page.

  The next document was a Springfield Ledger article. The Ledger had interviewed Ms. Hardt over a year ago when she’d first opened the Dog Park Café in Wilbraham. The article had said it was risky opening up a restaurant so far from any big city.

  Other documents filled the folder, but the most important ones were her bank records. Those, he couldn’t wait to grill her about.

  His cell vibrated, and he pulled it from his shirt pocket. It was an incoming text message from Kade Sampson, a Department of Homeland Security K-9 officer stationed at JFK Airport in New York, and another of his best friends. They’d gone through K-9 training school together in Texas, along with Eric and a few other stand-up guys. Since then, their small group had been as tight as blood brothers.

  Nick read Kade’s text and frowned.

  “Bad news?” Cox asked.

  “Myer hasn’t crossed any borders. Wherever he is, he hasn’t left the country. Legally that is.” They all knew it was entirely possible that he’d escaped through an unmonitored section of the border.

  “Speaking of missing persons”—Cox canted his head toward the staircase—“where is she?”

  “Still getting dressed, I assume.” And taking her sweet time doing it.

  “We made entry nearly an hour ago.” Cox tapped a pen on the table. “How long does it take to get dressed?”

  “Good question.” By his count, she should have been down already. Then again, he hadn’t lived with a woman in years. Five to be exact. Since his wife put a bullet in her brain. A painful, brutal reminder of his biggest failure—letting down the person he’d loved most.

  He swallowed and stared at the phone in his hand, no longer seeing what was on the screen. It had taken years for him to stop grieving every single damned day of the week. He’d finally managed, but no way could he go through that again. Giving his heart away only to have it shatter into a million fucking pieces… Not gonna happen.