by Jordan Dane
Zoey never felt so alone.
***
Downtown Denver
1:20 pm
Clive Barnwell sat behind the wheel of a windowless van, parked down a side street. When Zoey emerged from an alley and headed north, he pulled out his binoculars to confirm he’d found her. She’d been cagey.
“Hey, wake up. She’s on the move,” he said over his shoulder.
His partner groaned and farted.
“Oh, hell no, man. You’re making my eyes water.” He winced and rolled down the window. “Get up, Frank. It’s time to work.”
He’d learned his lesson not to take things for granted when it came to the girl. She was more street smart than she looked. She’d forced him to change vehicles and place a fake company name for a floral shop on the van’s side panel to throw her off.
Before he started his engine, he reached for his cell and made an important call. The minute his boss answered, he didn’t waste any time.
“You were right. He’s holed up in an old warehouse. I saw her with his dog, but she’s on foot now. You want us to follow her?”
Without hesitation, the stern voice of his powerful and connected employer gave him his orders.
“No. We can always take care of her later. He’s the one I want. Kill the dog and bring him to me.”
“We’re on it.”
He ended the call and reached into his glove compartment. The man kept his eyes on the street as he worked from muscle memory to fasten a suppressor onto his Glock and place the weapon on the seat next to him. After he turned the key in the ignition, he quietly drove the van down the alley. If he had to haul dead weight, he didn’t want to break a sweat.
The mutt would be the first to go. He hated dogs.
Chapter 7
Downtown Denver
Minutes later
Mercer Broderick had forgotten what it meant to be civil to another human being. It had been awhile since he’d ever had to be. He sat in bed and quieted his dog, Karl, after his four-legged partner had reacted to his show of agitation. Karl would never have acted on impulse to attack Zoey, not without a command from him, but she didn’t know that.
He hated seeing the hurt in her eyes. A woman’s tears were the most formidable weapon known to mankind.
Zoey hid her vulnerability behind a false bravado. He found her bravery admirable. To run into a burning building took guts and she’d wrestled him to the ground without pause to save the life of a friend—at great risk. But it was her willingness to bear her soul to a stranger that earned her his highest respect. Her honesty and her need to be loved broke his heart.
“We behaved poorly, but if it’s any consolation, we did it for her sake.” He stroked Karl’s head and stared out the empty window. “She left just in time. It’s not a very well-kept secret that we both could use a long bath.”
Karl’s ears perked at the word ‘bath’ and the dog cocked its head.
“Sorry, Karl. Nothing personal.”
Mercer couldn’t afford to feel badly for doing the right thing. In his world, playing by the rules or showing kindness could get him killed—or worse, someone else. Where he had to go, Zoey would want to come, but that would only get them both killed. He didn’t need more ghosts plaguing his nightmares. He had more than his share.
It took effort to stand. When he tried to take his first step, his head spun and his eyesight blurred. The gunshot wound in his arm ached. Naked, Mercer headed toward the utility sink and washed up. After he grabbed fresh jeans and a T-shirt, he struggled to dress with only one good arm and the exertion wore him out. He would try the cold soup she’d brought for him, but not before he found his SIG Sauer P226.
Zoey had told him she put his gun somewhere safe. For a woman who ran into a burning building, he had no idea what her definition of ‘safe’ might be. Mercer searched his belongings and walked the perimeter of the room, looking for a likely hiding spot, but he came up empty.
When he heard a soft creak on the metal fire escape, he froze. His first thoughts turned to Zoey—thinking she’d returned—but Mercer didn’t live a life where good things happened to him.
He gave Karl a silent hand command and crouched low with his eyes alert. Without his SIG, he’d have to improvise.
***
1:50 pm
Clive Barnwell eased up the metal stairs, keeping his back to the wall of the deserted warehouse. He had his partner, Frank Church, ahead of him. If anyone got shot, Frank made a bigger target. The way the guy farted, he wouldn’t be missed. As Clive neared the open window, he gave a series of hand signals to Frank. The big man peered into the shadowy building and nodded. He gave the ‘all clear’ for Clive to follow him in and he’d cover.
When Clive hit the top landing, he glared into the open window. No sign of the dog or the man they’d expected to find. Frank skulked into the warehouse and covered for him with his weapon drawn, holding his gun in a two-handed grip. Clive crawled through the opening and stood beside his partner. He aimed his Glock into the dark corners as he shuffled across the floor in search of his target.
After Frank shrugged and furrowed his brow, Clive knew what that meant. Had he gotten the wrong warehouse? He’d paid two idiots to steal the girl’s car and set off the alarm to draw her out. He’d watched from a distance and thought he’d gotten the right fire escape and window.
Clive gave another hand signal. He ordered Frank to split up to cover more ground. He headed for the mattress on the floor and what looked like personal belongings stuffed in a duffle bag. He sent Frank to check the trash and the utility sink. If this shit hole was occupied, he’d know soon.
“I got blood over here.” Clive dared to speak up. “On the bed sheets.”
“Bloody bandages in the trash and in the sink,” Frank said. “He’s lost a lot of blood. Maybe he went to a doc.”
“Guys like him don’t do doctors. No, she helped him.” Clive lowered his weapon. “Who knows what he told her. I guarantee the boss won’t like it. He’ll want her dead. I’m making the call.”
Clive reached into his jacket and retrieved his cell, but before he hit speed dial, he heard a bouncing thud and a low rumble of something rolling across the floor. He looked down at his feet and his brain had only one second to register what he saw.
A grenade.
“Holy Sh—”
***
After he deployed the flashbang stun grenade, Mercer turned his head and covered Karl’s eyes and ears with his body. In protecting his dog, he would suffer some of the effects of the detonation. His hearing wouldn’t be worth a damn, but he had to shield the only partner he had.
The blast was deafening. Everything in Mercer’s world muffled and his ears rang. The concussion from the explosion damaged his inner ear and destroyed his body’s sense of balance. He faltered like a drunk, but he had to move fast. He had precious seconds before his advantage would be gone.
The intense flash blinded the two men. The brilliant light in a dark room inflicted ghost images on their eyes. Disoriented, they lost their balance with the powerful blast, as he had, and fell to the floor. Dust and debris rained down on them as they gagged for air.
The only one not affected by the grenade had four legs.
Mercer gave a hand signal to Karl and the dog raced for the men on the ground, with him stumbling close behind. He would only have six seconds before the men regained their senses. Coughing, he grabbed their weapons, hoisted his duffle bag over his shoulder with a painful wince, and headed for the fire escape.
When he looked over his shoulder, Karl had done his job.
The dog gave his indication alert sign by zeroing on a cell phone that had dropped to the floor. Mercer gave another hand signal and the dog retrieved the phone with his mouth and brought it to him.
Let’s go, boy. He only heard the muffled sound of his voice as he followed Karl out the window and down the fire escape. His injured arm grew numb and he ached with every step down the metal stairs as he lugged
his duffle. Mercer had to put distance between him and the men who’d come to kill him.
After he hit asphalt, a florist truck sped down the alley, heading straight for him until it screeched to a stop. He pulled a gun from the waistband of his jeans—the suppressed Glock—and aimed it at the driver.
Zoey Meager sat behind the wheel with a stern look in her eyes and yelled out the open driver’s window.
“Don’t argue. Get in.”
Chapter 8
Downtown Denver
2:15 pm
“You look rough.” Zoey gripped the wheel and made a turn as her gaze drifted over his body. “How are you feeling? Did you eat before your world blew up?”
“Oddly, eating wasn’t a priority. I’m afraid your soup didn’t survive. Sorry.” He truly was sorry and his stomach rumbled in a show of solidarity.
“We’ll have to rectify that,” she said.
Mercer noticed Zoey didn’t have a key in the ignition and electrical wires hung below the dashboard, with mismatched colors entwined together.
“At the risk of sounding ungrateful, how did you start the engine? You don’t have a key.” He glanced at her face as she drove and noticed that she blushed.
“This isn’t your car, is it?” he asked. “You’re a car thief.”
He had no doubt she’d hotwired the vehicle.
“I’m afraid that comes from my misspent youth in foster care. A kid can learn all sorts of interesting things under the watchful eye of the government.” She kept her gaze focused on the road. “Where are you taking me?”
“Oh, no. You’re dropping me off. The next corner will do.”
“You look dead on your feet. Don’t be silly.”
“I don’t do silly. I wouldn’t know how.”
“Oh, I bet if you put your mind to it, you could master the concept. Who were those men?”
Mercer didn’t answer at first. He had too much on his mind with a clock ticking, but a woman like Zoey wouldn’t settle for silence.
“I’ve never seen them before.” He lied. “They weren’t the welcome wagon.”
“Who brought the explosive to the party? Was that you?”
“I wanted to make an impression.”
She shot him a sideways glance with an expression he found hard to read.
“At the risk of giving you an opening,” she said. “You need to tell me where to go.”
“My pleasure.”
Mercer had another stash of clothes, food, water, false IDs and weapons at another safe house, but with her to protect, perhaps he needed a veritable fortress. Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t let her near his secret locations, but nothing about Zoey was normal.
The men who’d come to kill him, one of them threatened Zoey’s life—and that changed everything.
‘She helped him. I guarantee the boss won’t like it. He’ll want her dead.’
She had no idea that she had a target on her back because of him. Her relentless meddling, stubborn determination and her unflinching love for a friend had put the crosshairs on both of them. He gritted his teeth and stared out the window. His mind raced with what he should do. If he parted ways with her, she’d be a sitting duck without a clue her life was in danger. But if he told her that brutal men were coming for her, who knows what she’d do?
He needed more than business as usual.
The tick of a persistent time piece pounded in his head to the pulse of a fierce migraine. If Kaity wasn’t already dead, Zoey’s friend would not have a long shelf life. Her days and hours would be numbered, given what he knew of the crew behind the abductions. Zoey had been right to worry and take matters in her own hands.
He would’ve done the same if he had ever been given the chance. Her torment flooded him with painful memories he didn’t want to exhume, but he had no choice.
“Change in plans. Take a right.” He pointed. “At that next light.”
Zoey smiled as if she’d won the lottery. The woman had no idea—he was no one’s hero.
***
An hour later
“Pull into the parking lot of that restaurant, The Bent Fork Grill, and drive to the rear.” Mr. January leaned forward in his seat and peered through the windshield, directing Zoey where to go. “Park next to that black Lincoln Navigator and don’t kill the engine. We aren’t staying.”
She’d been to the Loveland restaurant before, which meant they were north of Denver, just off interstate 25. She’d been following the road signs as she drove, but he hadn’t told her where they were going. She only knew they were heading north.
After she parked, a beefy guy dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a blue chambray shirt emerged from the Navigator and tossed Mr. January the keys to his vehicle and a piece of dark fabric. What the hell? She hadn’t noticed him communicating to anyone, yet both men acted as if they’d done this exchange many times before.
“Wipe it down and torch it.” Mr. January opened the rear door to the big SUV and let his dog jump inside.
Even the dog knew what to do.
“Will do, sir.” Beefcake cowboy hopped into the stolen florist van and drove away without another word.
Sir? Zoey had no idea who or what Mr. January was. Not even the Denver police could locate a proper name. His record had been sealed and Detective Estefan Cruz had tried to warn her that he was dangerous.
When Mr. January approached her, carrying a piece of black fabric, the hairs on her neck stood on end. What the hell had she gotten herself into?
“What’s that?” She pointed to what he held.
“Mandatory head gear from here. I apologize for the inconvenience, but I prefer you not see where we’re going.”
He handed her a black velvet hood to put over her head. When she hesitated, he explained.
“Look, I would’ve preferred that we part company here, but I overheard one of those men threaten your life. Because you helped me, they think you know too much.”
“But I don’t. I don’t know anything. Should I know something?”
He rolled his eyes.
“Maybe you should tell me something,” she said. “That way I can die for a legit reason.”
Mr. January heaved a sigh.
“Do you trust me?” he asked.
She glared at him and wavered before she said, “Yes.”
For the first time she’d known him, he smiled and almost took her breath away.
“Yes? You say I tried to kill you. I live like a homeless man. I’m armed and I blew up the third floor of a warehouse with two men inside and now I’m taking you to a secret location I don’t want you to see.” He shrugged. “You trust me? Me?”
“Well, actually it’s your dog. I trust him.”
He shrugged.
“Now you’re making sense. Get in.”
***
Laramie Mountains
North of Cheyenne, Wyoming
Two hours later
Zoey nodded off twice as she sat in the backseat, wearing the black hood. She’d given up trying to memorize road noise and sounds, like they did on TV cop shows. She had no idea how much time had passed, but her mind had grown numb with boredom.
Mr. January relished the silence.
He hadn’t bound her hands behind her back. She could’ve lifted the hood at any time and cheated, but she chose not to. Instinct told her that he had more to lose than she did in abiding by the arrangement for the hoodie.
“You asked if I trusted you, but I have a feeling you’re the one who has more at risk. Am I right?” Her attempt to engage him in conversation didn’t score a grunt.
“That guy called you ‘sir.’ Why? Does he work for you?”
Still no answer.
“If you’re not going to talk to me, can you turn on some music?” She didn’t wait for his reply. “How much longer will it be? My bladder is asking.”
As if in answer, the radio erupted with classical music. The volume was turned up loud enough to drown out her version of twenty questi
ons. Under her velvet hoodie, Zoey winced and raised her voice.
“Ever hear of Kenny Chesney, Luke Bryan or Blake Shelton?” she asked. “Or that classic song, ‘Mama get a hammer, there’s a fly on daddy’s head.’ Or ‘If the phone don’t ring, you’ll know it’s me.”
“Doesn’t…ring.” His deep masculine voice sounded good to her ears, like a scented and warm blanket fresh from a dryer.
“No, I’m sure it’s ‘don’t.’ Country music gets special dispensation for bad grammar. It’s a thing, like on Twitter.”
Who knew? It took poor grammar to get Mr. January to open his mouth. When Zoey sensed the Navigator slowing down, she raised her head.
“We there?”
“Close enough. You can take the hood off now. It’ll be dark soon.”
Zoey pulled the hood off her head and waited for her bleary eyesight to clear. When she could finally see straight, her jaw dropped and she gasped.
A fiery sunset speared its flickering rays through a dense stand of trees. Mammoth Ponderosa pines and birch trees, Aspens, and Cottonwoods dappled the hills. The forest surrounded the biggest house she had ever seen in real life—a sprawling architectural wonder, the estate fit into the hillside as if it were part of the lush landscape.
The modulated buildings with their flat, terraced rooflines had countless vistas to view the grounds—or provide higher elevations for a well-placed sniper to defend the property. Sections of the complex were dug into a mountain. The design reminded her of ancient Native American cliff dwellings.
“You better turn around and leave before we get arrested. How do you know these people? You don’t expect me to pick the lock, do you?”
Mr. January raised an eyebrow and unleashed a double-shot of his annoyance as he drove through a stone archway with an impressive iron gate. He didn’t stop at the manned guard station. A man dressed in black BDUs—looking like a SWAT team member—waved him through with a nod. The sentry held an assault rifle in his hands.
