Tempt the Night

by Dixie Lee Brown

  Too calm. Paddy’s eyes fell shut and his breathing reduced to a shallow inhale with no apparent exhale. Where was that damn ambulance? Didn’t they know her best friend’s life was leaking out through her fingers?

  “Stay with me, Paddy. You hear? You’re going to owe me big-time when you’re back on your feet. I’m going to take you up on that trip to Hawaii you’re always yammering about.” She was only talking to give him something to hold on to, but hope sparked within her when a tiny trace of a smile flitted across his face.

  Mac heard something downstairs and then voices. The backup Lucas had called for had finally arrived. She was about to scramble to her feet, go to the door, and holler for them when Paddy caught her wrist with more strength than he should have had. The gaze that met hers was clear and purposeful.

  “Help has arrived.” She tried to pull free, but he held her tightly and slowly wagged his head from side to side. Glancing toward the door again, she tensed. “Do you think the perps are coming back?”

  Paddy nodded. Then, with deliberate intent, he motioned toward the other side of the room with his eyes, once . . . twice . . . three times, and mouthed a word she couldn’t mistake.

  Hide.

  Her gaze turned in the direction he indicated. Like any other kids who’d grown up in Sitka and spent any time with old man Wagner in his fish packing plant, they were both intimately familiar with his office.

  She faced Paddy again. “You want me to hide in the dumbwaiter?”

  He nodded and swept his eyes that direction again, as though trying to hurry her.

  “You’re crazy if you think I’m going to leave you.” She turned away as tears filled her eyes.

  Still grasping her wrist, he pulled her down and toward his face until his lips hovered by her ear. “Do . . . it . . . for . . . me.”

  The words were nothing more than breaths exhaled one after another, but there was no mistaking his meaning. What shattered her into a million pieces, however, were the tears in his eyes when she raised her head and looked at him.

  It was an impossible situation. How could she leave him? She wasn’t strong enough to carry him, and she couldn’t ignore the request that obviously meant so much to him. “Okay. I’ll do what you say . . . but don’t get used to it.” With her heart ripping open inside her chest, she held his gaze until he released her, then she stumbled to her feet. With footsteps creaking on the stairs, Mac tried to give him his handgun, but he again shook his head and motioned toward the side wall. Finally she gave up, her vision blurring as she hurried toward the dumbwaiter.

  Mac threw open the miniature overhead door and curled herself into the small, dark space. Obviously, she’d been much younger the last time she’d played in here. She hadn’t remembered it being such a tight fit. Hoping the old contraption would hold her weight, she shoved the door closed, placed Paddy’s weapon and flashlight on her lap, and waited. One tiny Plexiglas window gave her a limited view of the room.

  She jumped when the door across the room flew inward and banged against the wall. Two figures walked in, but without the aid of her flashlight, she couldn’t tell who they were. One of them flipped on the overhead light, and a dim fluorescent glow pushed the shadows back. Gallagher and Simpson stood over Paddy, and Mac practically screamed her elation, until Gallagher’s words stopped her cold.

  “Where is she, Callahan? We know she called you an ambulance, so she must be here somewhere. Too bad you had to have her along tonight. It’s really your fault she has to die.” He turned toward his partner and smirked. “Callahan’s not very talkative tonight.”

  Simpson moved alongside him. “We won’t get anything from him. We’ll have to find her on our own.” He pulled his weapon and stood over Paddy. A second later, he fired one shot, point blank, into her best friend’s chest.

  Mac slammed both hands against the window, wanting to erase the image that was now seared on her retinas. “Noooo!” The wail escaped with the force of her sorrow behind it. When both troopers jerked their gazes toward her, she understood the magnitude of her foolish mistake.

  These men wanted to kill her.

  And although the reason behind that escaped her, Paddy had known and had sacrificed his life to give her a chance. If she didn’t get away, his death would be in vain.

  Frantically, she searched for the button old man Wagner had installed on the inside of the makeshift elevator. As Simpson and Gallagher started toward her, she jabbed the switch, and the old apparatus began its descent. Her last view from the window was Paddy’s still form and the flying feet of the two dirty cops as they scurried out the door, no doubt on their way to intercept her in the kitchen downstairs.

  Luckily, Simpson wasn’t from around here, and Gallagher hadn’t chosen to hang out with her group of friends when they were kids, so neither of them knew Mr. Wagner’s secret. They’d find the dumbwaiter in the kitchen all right, but she’d be long gone.

  Cecil Wagner was a womanizing old fool, married to the toughest female logger Sitka ever knew—tough but apparently not that smart. Cecil came and went on his trysts via the dumbwaiter and a special stairwell he’d had built just for that purpose. Sadly, Mrs. Wagner had been the only one who didn’t know. Cecil had made a game of his frequent disappearances—one that included the neighborhood kids who were used as lookouts and bribed well for their silence. In hindsight, Mac wasn’t proud of helping lie to Mrs. Wagner, but at the moment, she was exceedingly glad to have the information that would get her safely away.

  She pushed the button to stop the machine, shoved the door open, and stepped down into a small enclosure no bigger than a coat closet. Making sure she had Paddy’s gun, his badge, and the business card he’d given her safely stuffed in her pockets, she closed the door and started the conveyance downward again. She’d love to see the looks on their faces when they opened her hiding place and found her gone, but she had to take advantage of the contraption’s slow descent to make her escape.

  Moving toward the opposite side of the small box she could just barely stand up in, she used the flashlight to find the lever. Mac pulled it, and a hidden door to the outside silently popped open. She peered out cautiously, pleased to see that the tall timber still circled the ladder built in the shape of a trellis that descended into the darkness. Carefully, she closed and secured the secret entrance before slipping quietly to the ground and moving deeper into the stand of trees.

  She couldn’t even think about Paddy. His death was a sorrow that would incapacitate her, and she couldn’t give in to it now. Where could she go and be safe? It would be too dangerous to return home. Simpson and Gallagher would surely search for her there. Were there other dirty cops in on whatever had gone down tonight? How could she trust any of them after what she’d seen? The backup they’d requested had never arrived . . . or the ambulance. Did that make her friend and coworker, Lucas, suspect too? No . . . she’d never believe that, but whomever she went to for help she’d likely be putting in danger, as well.

  On impulse, she pulled out the card Paddy had forced into her hand and shone her flashlight on the lettering. It was one of his business cards, but when she flipped it over, she saw neat handwriting that she didn’t recognize was centered on the back.

  Meeting Brady Friday, midnight, 110 Gardner Street.

  Thanks for watching my back! M.

  No clue what that meant, but if Paddy thought it important enough to hand her moments before he died, you’d better believe she was going to be at that meeting and find out why.

  That didn’t help her now, though. She shivered in her light fleece jacket. The dim glow of her watch revealed the time—three forty-five a.m. First light wasn’t far off, but she had eighteen hours to kill before the midnight meeting. Considering the fact that she was covered with blood, people would be suspicious of her at best. At the worst, they’d call the cops, and with her luck, Gallagher and Simpson would respond. She had to get out of sight before someone spotted her.

  Uncle Benji’s fishing
boat. It was docked at the marina, and he was in Anchorage for the month. No one would think to look for her there, but she needed to go back to Paddy’s car for her purse. She’d eventually need money and her ID.

  Mac made her way back to the shadow of the packing plant. Then she took a wide detour and approached Paddy’s car from the opposite side. She searched both sides of the street and the parking area for Gallagher and Simpson’s cruiser, but it was nowhere to be seen. They might double back to try and spot her, and she wasn’t taking any chances. Quickly, she grabbed her purse and left the car behind.

  The first gray hues of dawn were spreading on the eastern horizon as she hoofed it to the marina, staying in the shadows as much as possible. She found Uncle Benji’s boat and climbed below deck. Then she slid to the floor, hugged her knees to her chest, and finally gave in to the waves of grief that rolled over her.

  Chapter Two

  THE WHITE LACE curtain at the upstairs window flicked open a fraction of an inch and, a heartbeat later, dropped back in place, confirming his suspicions. Jim Brady lowered his night-vision binoculars. His heart rate kicked up a notch as anticipation slowly woke those parts of his body that had gone to sleep in the last two hours. Finally—something out of the ordinary. But the ache in the pit of his stomach insistently warned that this new player was not the woman he’d chased halfway across the friggin’ state—the one who was supposed to meet him here tonight.

  For what had to be the hundredth time, he scanned the deserted street in front of him, searching the dark shadows and natural hiding places, and then inspected the field of vision in the rearview mirror of his rented car. He scraped his fingers through his close-cropped hair, and a frustrated sigh echoed loudly in the silence.

  Brady fingered his cell phone, undecided. He should call his boss and check in, but what new information could he give Joe Reynolds at this point in the game? Brady had a front row seat, and he still didn’t have a fucking clue. Besides, the minute he touched a button on his iPhone, it would light up like a friggin’ Christmas tree. Whoever was keeping watch from that window would spot him for sure, and Brady didn’t need to be noticed until he determined who was skulking in the shadows.

  Maria Alverez was the reason he’d been sitting in a cold car, watching a dark house while he slowly lost all the feeling in his ass. Her five-year-old son, Marco, rescued less than two weeks ago from a Mexican drug cartel by Joe’s band of mercenaries, including Brady, was eager to go home to his mother. It was a desire Brady understood only too well. Having returned from Iraq with PTSD of a violent and unpredictable nature, he’d made the decision to protect his own family by staying away from them. Lucky for Marco, his wish would come true. Brady would make sure of it.

  The simple-sounding mission had proved more difficult than he could have imagined, however. Brady had been looking for Marco’s mother for the better part of a week but had yet to catch sight of the woman. Finally, a midnight call to Joe from a woman claiming to be Maria Alverez led Brady to the small town of Sitka. He’d arrived two nights ago and checked into a motel. The next morning, a note shoved under his door listed the address of a cottage on the Gulf, a time—midnight Friday—and the initial M.

  He was there—where the hell was she?

  The hard truth was it could have been anyone who called Joe, and there was no guarantee the note was legitimate either. Even so, it was the only lead Brady had at the moment and was not one he was willing to pass up. Rescuing Marco from the Mexican cartel should have been the hard part of this operation, but it was starting to look easy compared to finding Maria. Of course, it didn’t help that Brady had promised the kid he’d find his mother. He’d always been a damn sucker for the lost and defenseless.

  The possibility that it was Maria lurking behind those curtains warred with Brady’s instincts. Whatever her reasons, it appeared she was on the run. Everything about her disappearance had been cautious and careful. It was doubtful she would knowingly back herself into a corner where she’d have to fight her way out. He didn’t know Maria well—had only met her once, but a woman as small as she was, with no obvious defensive skills, wouldn’t stand a chance against . . . say . . . a man like himself who stood between her and the exit. His gut told him it wasn’t her who waited covertly in that darkened room on the second floor, which could mean only one thing: someone else was waiting for her too—someone who no doubt believed he had all his bases covered, that he could handle himself well enough to come out on top in any confrontation.

  He wouldn’t be the first man Brady had met who thought that. Only time would tell if he was right.

  It was ten after midnight. If Maria had set this meeting up, it looked like she wasn’t planning to show. Maybe she’d already been here and knew there were too many people waiting for her. In any case, Brady had to clear that upstairs room and find out what the hell was going on.

  He fished out his pocket knife and inserted the tip of the blade beneath one corner of the plastic dome light cover on the car’s roof, wiggling it around the edge until the cover dropped into his lap. A quick wrench on the tiny bulb ensured the car would remain dark when he opened the door.

  The curtain lay lifeless and undisturbed in the window directly above the front door. He did his visual check of the street one more time before easing his tall frame into the passenger seat, opening the door, and rolling onto the ground beside the car. He’d parked two blocks away on the opposite side of the street, but judging by the lack of activity he’d witnessed since he’d been there, any movement would likely be noticed, especially by the watcher in the upstairs window. If he gave a convincing enough performance, perhaps he’d look as though he belonged out on the street at zero dark hundred.

  Brady pushed to his feet and ran—a just-home-from-the-office-and-knocking-down-some-stress run. But anyone really paying attention would notice he wasn’t dressed for a jog, so the sooner he got out of sight the better. Two blocks down, he crossed the street and followed a wooden fence to the alley that would take him directly to the rear of the house with the white lace curtains.

  He slowed as he approached, waiting and watching for any sign of activity inside or out. All appeared deserted, which made him wonder if he’d imagined the furtive movement in the upstairs window. Still, he knew better than to ignore his gut, and his gut said someone waited there.

  Four concrete steps led to the back door and what appeared to be an enclosed porch. He kept to the shadows beside the steps and studied the knob, then removed a small metal container from his pocket and chose a pick. Apparently, security in Sitka was fairly lax. The lock might as well not have been there for all the time it took him to open the door and step into the dark interior.

  Brady slid his handgun out of its holster and clicked off the safety. The enclosed porch opened into a tiny kitchen. The small living area beyond held the staircase on the south wall. He stopped to listen every few feet. No creaks, no footsteps, no voices. Moving without making a sound had been a necessary part of his training, but few had had the incentive or determination that he and his fellow SEALs did to make it part of who they were.

  A nervous tic in Brady’s eye interrupted his focus, and he blinked impatiently. He drew in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds, then let it escape slowly. At the foot of the stairs, he stopped again. This is where he’d be the most vulnerable. Once he started up the stairs, someone above could spot him without being seen. He’d be an easy target with nowhere to go but up or down.

  His gun leveled straight ahead, he began his ascent, careful to stay as close to the wall as possible. He moved quickly and silently, raking his gaze over the shadows at the top of the stairs. The moon’s feeble light shone through a skylight above the landing, creating a ghostly aura. An eerie silence lay like a thick fog over the house.

  Two more steps and he’d reach the top. Once he made that last step, the room with the lace curtains would be behind him and he’d have to circle around the stairwell. No guarantee the intruder was st
ill in that room, but it was as good a place to start as any.

  His heightened senses were focused on detecting anything that breathed within these walls other than himself. As his foot came down on the second step from the top, the soft brush of feet on carpet above and behind him made his skin prickle. He crouched, half turned, and brought the weight of his right foot to rest beside his left.

  Shit! The aged floorboards beneath him creaked and groaned with his unplanned movement. Brady dove for the landing and hit the floor facedown, then crab-crawled silently to the relative safety of the shadows just outside the room overlooking the street.

  The barely discernible footsteps had come from inside that same room. Brady needed the intruder in good enough shape to answer questions—and he had a shitload of them. Unfortunately, he’d lost the element of surprise with one careless step. Now, the trick would be getting the trespasser to agree to talk without anyone getting hurt.

  He pushed to his feet, gun in hand, and advanced toward the doorway, stopping outside the threshold to get the lay of the land. Straight across from him, the window where the watcher had stood now stared vacantly back at Brady. The moonlight threw slivers of illumination halfway across the floor. Dark drapes hung to each side of the lace curtains.

  On his left was a closet, its door standing open, a bed, a chest of drawers with a large mirror. To his right, a wooden rocker and an antique armoire. The room was deathly quiet—too quiet. Not many places to hide, unless one was adept at hiding in plain sight.

  The hair on his neck was standing on end, and his skin tingled with the certainty that his target was close. He remained still and swept his gaze slowly around the room. Lifting his head, he breathed in, sampling the air.

  So unexpected was the aroma that teased his senses, it was a few seconds before the correct answer settled into place. A woman hid somewhere in the darkness, smelling subtly of vanilla and apple pie. Sweat tinged the air as well. She was afraid. And blood? Was she wounded?