The Enforcer

by Anna Perrin

  Young’s signal came. She set off.

  Freezing cold rain pelted her as she sprinted across the lawn to the hedge. In seconds, her jeans were plastered to her body like a wet second skin. She crouched low, her muscles tense with fear, knowing at any moment a bullet could slam into her. In the darkness, another of Young’s low whistles sounded. Remembering his instructions, she followed him into her neighbors’ yard. Unfortunately, their dog was outside, and his barking and snarling pinpointed their location with the same intensity as a siren.

  “Run!” Young hollered.

  She stretched out her legs and raced after him. The wet grass was slippery, but she managed to stay on her feet, pumping her arms to propel herself faster. Across the yard, down the street and around the corner. The speedy pace soon had her gasping for breath, but Young, running beside her, wasn’t even winded, damn him. When she stumbled over a curb, he grabbed her arm.

  “Keep going,” he urged. “My car isn’t far off.”

  A few minutes later, they reached a black Mustang.

  “W-where are we going?” she asked, as they rocketed out of her neighborhood.

  He didn’t answer. He was too busy checking the rearview mirror. When he seemed satisfied that no one was following them, she repeated her question.

  “I have a cabin on Camel Lake,” he said. “Gene thought you’d be safest there.”

  She had heard of Camel Lake, but never been there. About a ninety-minute drive from Cincinnati, the lake was known for its clean water and excellent fishing. Gene must really be concerned about a breach of security if he didn’t want her staying at one of the Bureau’s safe houses in the city.

  Rain dripped off the ends of her hair and trickled inside the scoop neck of her tank top. She was cold and uncomfortable. But her soaked clothes were only partly responsible for her discomfort. Young’s presence accounted for the rest of it.

  She glanced sideways at him. The glow from the dashboard lit up his rugged profile and broad shoulders. All that maleness was unnerving, distracting. How long would she have to stay at the cabin with him?

  Another rivulet of water streaked between her breasts. She shivered.

  He cranked the heat up to its maximum setting. “There’s a sweatshirt inside my gym bag,” he said, motioning with his thumb toward the back of the car. “Help yourself.”

  She glanced over her shoulder at the bag. No way could she reach it without leaning over and sticking her backside up in the air.

  “I’m okay,” she said, even though her fingers were so chilled, she had to rub them to restore circulation.

  “I promise it’s clean.”

  His voice was low and persuasive, the same seductive tone she imagined he would use in bed. She rubbed her hands harder, berating herself for the wayward thought.

  “I’ll warn you,” he said. “This heater takes forever to get hot.”

  He wasn’t shivering at all. Maybe he was too hot-blooded to feel the cold. It certainly wasn’t because he carried excess body fat. The sinewy arms and chest pressed against her body earlier were solid muscle.

  “Claire?”

  She was supposed to be considering his sweatshirt offer, not his physical attributes. And although she was tempted, she’d have to pass—on both. Donning clothes he had worn seemed so personal. She cleared her throat. “No, thanks.”

  He gave her a long, silent look, then returned his attention to the road.

  Claire settled back and tried to assimilate what had happened to her…and what had nearly happened.

  Damn, that job offer in Minneapolis was looking good. No more one-on-one therapy sessions with traumatized patients. No more decisions about who was fit to return to work and who should go on disability. And, of course, no more heart-stopping incidents like tonight. Just twenty hours a week of teaching stress management techniques to executives.

  “Gene said you had Forrester committed to Ridsdale for seventy-two-hour lockdown.”

  Abandoning her thoughts, she replied, “That’s right.”

  “Why?”

  Young’s question surprised her. But maybe Gene had been too rushed for explanations. “During our last session, I uncovered his intention to kill someone.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. The fire alarm went off, and we had to evacuate the building. Afterward, he wouldn’t come back and continue our session. Sending him to Ridsdale was the only way I could ensure he wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Forrester definitely needs his head examined if he thinks shooting you is a smart move.”

  Shooting you.

  The image of her own bleeding, bullet-riddled body made her shudder.

  Had Forrester intended to kill her?

  She wished she could believe he’d only wanted to scare her, but the shots had hit too close. A few inches to the right, and she would have died without ever seeing her executioner.

  Without ever seeing…

  She turned toward Young. “Did you see him tonight?”

  “What?”

  “When you left me, did you see Forrester?”

  “No,” he admitted.

  “Then how can you be sure he shot at us?”

  “You’re the one who fingered him as a potential threat,” Young said, irritation plain in his voice.

  “What if it wasn’t him?” Forrester might be the obvious candidate, but they lacked proof of his guilt.

  “You lock up anybody else recently?”

  She stiffened. “Of course not.” Did he think she enjoyed confining patients to Ridsdale? That she got a kick out of exerting her power? Obviously, he didn’t know her. An important point to remember the next time she felt the slightest twinge of attraction for him.

  “Make somebody angry enough to want to see you dead?” he asked.

  Her own anger made it hard to respond in a calm tone. “Not that I know of.”

  Young stabbed the dashboard with his forefinger. “Forrester had motive and opportunity. That makes him the prime suspect.”

  When she drew breath to respond, Young interjected, “Don’t make this complicated, Dr. Lamont.”

  Folding her arms over her chest, she stared out the window. Young had made up his mind about Forrester. And although his arguments had merit, so did hers. He was just too stubborn to consider them.

  The swishing sounds of tires on wet road and the clacking of the windshield wipers made the trip seem endless. After a while the rain stopped, and Young shut off the wipers. But the tension inside the Mustang didn’t diminish.

  Thirty minutes later, she spied a sign indicating Camel Lake on the right.

  Young made the turn. “Almost there.”

  Several miles farther, the road became a narrow laneway.

  Finally, he stopped the Mustang in a small clearing. Flicking on the overhead light, he dug through the glove compartment. She heard the jingle of keys, then the murmur of his deep voice. “I’m not sure what you’re expecting, but the cabin’s pretty rustic.”

  Rustic. A term used to make primitive dwellings sound charming.

  She peered through the window at the surrounding darkness but couldn’t detect anything that looked remotely man-made. With a sense of misgiving, she turned to him. “How rustic?”

  He shrugged. “Basic amenities only.”

  “‘Basic’ includes indoor plumbing, right?” She wasn’t expecting a complimentary robe, but the possibility of a dilapidated shack and outhouse had her wishing she’d asked for details earlier. Then again, it wasn’t as if she’d had a lot of options.

  He hesitated long enough to make her nervous before the corner of his mouth kicked up. “Yeah, there’s plumbing.”

  That smile was the one she remembered from their first meeting, the one she had found so appealing, the one she had wanted to make happen. Now that she’d succeeded, she grew wary. Young’s smile made him far too sexy.

  Careful what you wish for.

  Grabbing her carry-on, she exited the car. Young hustled around
to the trunk, retrieved his gear and set off along a narrow, winding path through the woods.

  A pale sliver of moon glowed in the sky, lending just enough light for them to walk without tripping over rocks and tree roots. Their footfalls made rustling noises in the grass. Other sounds carried on the night air. Water lapped against the shore. Crickets chirped noisily. An owl hooted in the distance. Normally, being surrounded by nature calmed her nerves, but tonight she was on edge. Of course, adrenaline could still be coursing through her blood from being shot at. That explanation was certainly less perturbing than the other possibility: sexual awareness of her companion.

  She walked faster, telling herself she wasn’t running away, she was merely anxious to reach her temporary accommodations.

  A wooden structure appeared at the end of the path, nestled among the trees. Built entirely from rough-hewn logs, the cabin was larger than she had envisioned.

  “How many bedrooms are there?” she asked, as Young climbed the porch steps.

  “Two.”

  The right answer, since it meant neither of them would be stuck sleeping on the couch. He unlocked the front door and stood aside so she could enter. She stepped over the threshold, more than a little curious to see the cabin’s interior. With Young’s guidance, she located the light switches. On the left side was a country-style kitchen. To the right, the main room contained a leather couch and several oversize chairs grouped in front of a granite fireplace. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched the full length of one wall.

  A flash of metal caught her eye. A silver trophy stood on the coffee table. She moved closer. What did Young excel at—besides making her uncomfortable?

  The nameplate read 2007 Weir Marina Bass Derby Winners—Brent Young and Pete Sanderson.

  Sanderson?

  That was the name of the FBI colleague who had been shot—and evidently had been a close friend of Young. No wonder he had fidgeted throughout her presentation.

  She edged away from the trophy, then shot him a glance. How was he taking it? Had the reality of his loss sunk in yet? Did he forget sometimes that his friend was dead? She didn’t know him well enough to hazard a guess.

  “The cabin hasn’t been used since the fall,” Young said.

  She looked at the living room again, this time noting signs of neglect. Cobwebs clung to the central light fixture and a layer of dust coated every visible surface. Her nose registered the staleness of a place that hadn’t been aired out in months.

  “I guess you can’t fish here in the winter,” she commented.

  His gaze fell on the trophy. “Sanderson convinced me to go ice-fishing in Alaska once. We just about froze solid….” For a brief, unguarded moment, Young’s lips trembled and he squeezed his eyes shut.

  Her heart twisted as she witnessed his struggle for composure. One thing she’d learned early in life: healing from grief was a painful process that often unfolded over years. This place had to hold so many memories. Would Young have come here now, if not for her need for a safe haven? His action displayed an inner strength that she couldn’t help but admire.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her throat so tight she could barely speak. “I’m sorry that your friend died.”

  Opening his eyes, Young pinned her with a furious glare. “Pete Sanderson didn’t die. He was murdered. And when his killer is apprehended, he’s the one who will be sorry.”

  His glare discouraged conversation, but she had to ask. “Do you know who killed him?”

  He shook his head. “Fifteen agents are assigned to the case. They’ve interviewed everyone known to have come in contact with him in the past two months. His recent assignments are also being reviewed for possible suspects.”

  So clinical. So emotionless. As if he were speaking about a stranger.

  Everybody had different coping mechanisms. Apparently, Young’s was to distance himself.

  “With that many men assigned to the case, there’ll be a break soon,” she said.

  A muscle in his jaw flexed. “No matter how long it takes, the bastard responsible for ending Sanderson’s life will be brought to justice. I’m going to make sure of that.”

  Chapter Two

  Brent grabbed the can of Folgers fine grind from the freezer, tossed half a dozen scoops into the coffeemaker and punched the on switch.

  Why had he talked to Claire about Sanderson last night? That wasn’t his way. In fact, he was known around the Bureau for being tight-lipped. Nobody knew anything about him outside of work. And even though his reticence had fueled wild speculation at times—especially regarding his choice of female companionship—he valued his privacy too much to divulge details of his personal life to anybody.

  The only exception had been Pete. That man had known him inside out. His strengths, weaknesses, accomplishments and failures. And now his mentor—and best friend—was gone. Blown away in an abandoned warehouse two weeks ago.

  The lack of progress in the investigation was gnawing at him. A prime suspect should have been identified by now. All those agents on the team and what had they come up with? Squat.

  But it was more than frustration he’d felt last night. Returning to the cabin had hurt like hell. He’d never been here without Sanderson. For years, the two of them had deserted the city as often as they could. To fish and swim, drink beer and unwind from the pressures of work. Now the place was his. But everything about it—every stick of furniture, every fishing magazine, every boating knickknack—was a cruel reminder that those good times were gone forever.

  Claire had picked up on that as soon as she’d seen the inscription on the trophy. The sympathy in her eyes had drawn him in, dulled the memories, eased his pain a little….

  He’d quickly reminded himself that she’d been trained to show concern in these types of situations. Just as she’d been trained to dig around inside people’s psyches, ferret out their innermost secrets and then slap labels on them.

  Oh, yeah. He knew from bitter experience more than he wanted to about psychologists and their modus operandi.

  Safeguarding an FBI shrink was the last assignment he’d have ever chosen. But it wasn’t up to him to choose. Guys like Gene Welland made those calls. His role was to fulfill the requirements of the job with kick-ass proficiency. Protecting Claire would be no exception. Even though he couldn’t respect her profession, he would watch over her as though she were the most important person in the world.

  He’d just have to take care he didn’t let his feelings about Sanderson surface again.

  CLAIRE REACHED for her carry-on as soon as she awoke the next morning, eager to listen to the tapes of her sessions with Forrester. Fortunately, it was her standard practice, with the consent of her patients, to tape all her appointments. It saved her breaking eye contact to make notes. It also resulted in a more accurate record of the topics she and her patients discussed.

  She had packed the tapes for her trip to Minneapolis, hoping to review them there, but there had been no time. The CEO of Balanced Life Consulting Group had kept her occupied with meetings, then made her a very generous offer which she had not yet accepted. There was so much to consider. Such as, was she ready to admit defeat and quit the Bureau? More than pride was at stake. She’d also be betraying the promise she’d made to herself at her father’s graveside.

  She couldn’t dwell on that now.

  Last night she’d been too strung out to tackle the tapes. But with Forrester no longer confined to Ridsdale, she needed to gain a better understanding of the man and his intentions. To do that, she would search her recordings for subtle nuances, crucial words she’d missed before, anything that would identify his intended victim.

  She retrieved the tape recorder from the center section of the carry-on, then turned the bag over. A bullet had pierced the outside pocket. She dug inside, her heart pounding. Only one of the three tapes had survived undamaged. She peered at the label, breathing a sigh of relief when she saw the tape was of their latest session, the one she considered to
be the most critical.

  Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she inserted the tape, then put on the headphones and hit the play button.

  She heard herself say, “You seem very agitated today, Andy. Do you want to tell me why?”

  There was a noticeable pause on the tape.

  “Did something happen?” she prodded.

  After a while, he muttered, “Should have been a perfect MIOG op. Instead, megascrewup.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He mumbled, “Research is the key. Most of the time.”

  Even though she had had no idea what he meant, she’d said, “Go on. Tell me what went wrong.”

  “IPO was a bad choice. Who knew?”

  “I don’t understand. Can you talk more plainly?”

  A long silence followed her request. “You might be sorry you asked.”

  “I won’t be.”

  She recalled uttering those words with complete confidence, unaware that he would soon shock her.

  “Nobody stops me from getting what’s mine.”

  “Is that what somebody did?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  She remembered his fists clenching and had the first inkling that rage was fueling his agitation. “So what will your response be?”

  “I like that blouse you’re wearing. The color suits you.”

  “Thanks, but you’re trying to change the subject.”

  He let out a low chuckle. “Is that what I’m doing?”

  “Tell me what you intend to do about this problem person of yours.”

  “Why do you assume I’m going to do anything?”

  “Because turning the other cheek isn’t your style.”

  “You think?”

  “I think I’m not in the mood for games. If you don’t want to be open with me, then it’s time for you to leave.”

  “But I’ve only been here for ten minutes,” he objected.

  “I see no point in wasting more of my time. The choice is yours.”

  He had looked disconcerted by her ultimatum, but she’d grown sick of sessions that went nowhere. Andy Forrester wasn’t the only agent who gave her the runaround.