Unafraid

by Allie Harrison

  Unafraid

  Allie Harrison

  Contents

  Other books by Allie Harrison

  Dear Reader

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2019 by Allie Harrison

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design & Interior Format by The Killion Group, Inc.

  Other books by Allie Harrison

  Invisible

  Small Town Secrets

  Small Town Storm

  (Coming soon) Small Town Graveyard

  The Haunted Series (All stand alone haunted romances):

  Hargrove House

  Montgomery Manor

  Camden Place

  Winsgate Drive

  Dear Reader,

  If you read INVISIBLE, you’re already familiar with John Brandeberry and welcome back. If you didn’t, you’ll thoroughly enjoy getting to know the hot hero decoys of the Alpha Task Force. Either way, all of my stories are stand alone, however, so please enjoy. John Brandeberry is at a crossroads in his life. I hope you fall in love with him, just as I did, and the team he leads works together displaying the ultimate meaning of teamwork. And I think Tex will soon get his own story.

  As these Fall nights turn cool, cozy up next to a crackling fire with a hot cup of your choice of drink and let John and his team warm you up.

  Happy Reading,

  Allie

  This book is dedicated to the members of the Gateway Goddesses.

  Thank you for your guidance, inspiration, and help.

  Chapter One

  John Brandeberry stood in the room he had shared with Susan for twenty-three years. In the gray shadows of dawn and the silence, he heard his own heart beating, felt it rushing in his ears in an odd mixture to thump-swish.

  Susan was gone. Forever.

  She only existed now in his memories, in the photos on the walls, in his heart, in his dreams, and in the spicy scent of cinnamon and vanilla that still lingered in the kitchen.

  It was her eyes he saw when he looked at Charlie, his son. But in a sense, Charlie was gone, too. The little boy Charlie who lived in his memories, holding Susan’s hand, who eagerly wanted to race to the slide at the park, had grown into a young man who now stood taller than John. And while he was only ‘gone’ to college, he at least wasn’t really ‘away’ at college. He was commuting eleven miles, but John felt the world and college life had sucked his son up, leaving John and the house…

  …more empty than when Susan died over a year ago.

  He knew Charlie worried over him. After all, the young man called him every day. Yet, if he didn’t, John called him. So, in more ways than John could count, they needed each other. The sound of Charlie’s voice grounded him, kept him alive, kept him breathing, just as it did three weeks ago when a bullet slammed through John’s kitchen window and landed in the back of John’s shoulder.

  The leader of an elite team of covert operation decoy agents, John’s code name was Marlin. He still couldn’t believe Charlie had saved countless people as well as his entire team by putting a computer virus on something he called a computer wormhole while John wasn’t even awake yet in the recovery room at a nearby hospital. And while a few on John’s team had technical expertise, it seemed they were always one step behind the criminals. John knew he was just behind the times. Technology was simply moving faster than he was.

  He worked better hands on. In other words, hands on his gun while he followed, watched, dressed a part to blend in and flush out the bad guys. It was what his team did—become whatever was necessary to stop the criminals. Just as he was Marlin, each team member had a code name so that if something went wrong, none of them could be traced back to his true identity. Each only carried identification when necessary. It was how he’d spent years keeping Charlie safe.

  But here in this room, in this empty, silent bedroom, he was only John Brandeberry, minus the woman who had held his life together for almost a quarter century.

  Up to now, he’d been former Special Forces, father of Charlie, husband of Susan. It was hard to think about who John Brandeberry was or what he should do.

  Now.

  Having a bullet find the back of his shoulder had opened his mind to a lot of unanswered questions. Number one being which direction he should now take. While he felt too tired and old to move forward, he was too damned young to quit.

  He looked around the room that held the twin bed he’d put in here when Susan had become sick enough to require a hospital bed and he’d been forced to get rid of the queen size bed they’d shared for years. Yesterday, John had gotten rid of the hospital bed where Susan had spent her last days and had taken her last breath holding his hand. At the time, he’d thought his tight grip on her could keep her with him. But he hadn’t been strong enough.

  After lying in a hospital bed like that one recuperating from his gunshot wound, he had come to the conclusion he didn’t want it in his house.

  For over a year, John wondered why the cancer had claimed Susan. Susan, who had a pure heart, who loved and accepted without question, who gave everything she had to him and the son they shared and anyone else in need.

  Why not him? His heart was far from pure. He’d lost count how many lives he’d ended since the United States government taught him how to fire a gun at the ripe age of eighteen and a half.

  But Susan hadn’t even liked swatting flies, said they didn’t really deserve to die just because they were aggravating.

  For a year in her absence, he’d wandered around the house like a ghost. Yes, he’d done his job, but he’d avoided this room. Until recently, he’d even avoided Charlie.

  He shifted his shoulder slightly and felt the catch. It was no longer pain. It was just a twinge, a simple reminder of how close death had been when it slammed through his kitchen window. Two inches southeast and that bullet would have hit his heart. And Charlie would be mourning his death instead of sitting in his programs class.

  He welcomed the pang in his shoulder. Until that moment, those around him would have thought a big part of him died with Susan. But that bullet woke him up, reminded him he had life left, reminded him of his promise to Susan that he’d live for her. And hearing Charlie scream, begging him not to
die had given John new perspective.

  He didn’t die.

  At that moment, he hadn’t wanted to die, even though death meant he’d be with Susan again.

  No, his place was here. With Charlie. With whatever this life chose for him, at least for a while. Here.

  He just needed to decide if here meant here in this empty house.

  Or somewhere new. He could sell this place, get something smaller with room enough for him and Charlie, somewhere he wouldn’t have to think about Susan’s dying days in this room. Right then, he didn’t even care about the hidden room downstairs. That could move with him—if he chose to leave.

  He just didn’t know if leaving this was easier than trying not to look at it.

  He let out a heavy breath. Then he moved his left hand, ignoring the jolt that moved through his shoulder with the movement. He was amazed at how easily his wedding ring slid off his finger. He must have lost some weight during his recuperation. It wasn’t as if the ring Susan had slipped on his finger hadn’t ever been off before. He’d taken it off on numerous occasions when he left for secret missions, missions where the ring might be used against him or his family if he were captured. But it had always been slipped right back on when he was safe at home again. Now, he took it off for good. He set it on Susan’s dresser next to the pretty musical jewelry box he’d given her on her first birthday as a married woman. Then he turned away and headed toward the door. Yes, he was ready to grasp life again. To even fight for it if necessary.

  But he wasn’t certain about this room. Not yet. He needed more time.

  He made his way out to the hall and closed the door behind him, sealing off the room as he’d done many times during the past year. Thoughtlessly, he used his wounded, healing arm to close it and felt a bit more than the twinge with the action.

  Ignoring the reminder, he moved down the stairs.

  The kitchen was lighter, filling with sunshine that peeked out from the horizon. John looked out the window. He’d been shot through that window. Although he’d never really looked at it afterward, he knew the exact spot the bullet came whizzing through to tag him. John knew where his shooter had lain on the roof of his neighbor’s house across the street, even though he hadn’t seen him there, either.

  John knew these things because he had once fulfilled such operations. He knew how they worked. He knew where he would have been.

  The enticing aroma of spice touched him over the heavy smell of coffee brewing through the coffee maker. No matter what he did in the kitchen, there was always that inviting scent of something like cinnamon or apple pie spice that Susan’s delicious baking had brought. Even though she was gone and very little baking was done now, the aroma lingered, as if it somehow settled into the nooks and crannies. To John, it was the smell of home.

  As he’d stood upstairs in the empty bedroom they’d shared, he’d considered selling the house.

  Now he realized he could never part from that sweet hint of spice.

  He poured himself a cup of coffee and stood at the window as he took a sip.

  Horrible.

  Was all he could think of before he leaned over and spit the drink of coffee into the sink.

  Then he remembered. Charlie had said the coffee maker wasn’t working right. He described it as tasting like watered down bile no matter how many grounds got measured in. John had said he’d check into getting a new one, but he’d forgotten until now. Thoughtlessly, he unplugged the machine and tossed the sludge into the sink.

  He figured it was God’s way of telling him it was time to get out of his house, anyway. He could go out, get a cup of coffee, maybe even have breakfast. He could stop, buy a new coffee maker, and even get some paint and start on doing something different to the bedroom upstairs. The shot had slammed into his left shoulder. He was right handed, perfectly capable of painting with his right.

  No better time to get on with life than now. After all, his son was in a good place. His shoulder wasn’t hurting too bad. And one of the worst career criminals he’d ever known, the one who’d shot him, was in custody thanks to Charlie and John’s team. He could breathe easy for a while.

  He could enjoy coffee and a huge breakfast.

  Chapter Two

  Abigail Matlock let out a frustrated huff.

  The steam machine wasn’t working. Again.

  She’d just paid an absolutely crazy amount to get the damned thing fixed. As a matter of fact, if she had known it would cost her that much, she would have forked out the money for a new one instead.

  And now she was going to have to tell another customer he couldn’t have steamed milk in his latte. At least most everyone in her Lotta Latte coffee shop this morning seemed in good moods. And the guy who ordered the latte with steamed milk had smiled at her when he ordered so, hopefully, he wouldn’t take it personally when she gave him the bad news. He was good looking, too, for an older guy. Maybe he wasn’t that old. Because she liked the way he looked at her—as if he really looked at her, instead of just looking through her as she took his coffee order, as did most other customers. She was just the barista, someone the customers needed to wait on them. She would bet her weekly tips not one of them could describe her if the police asked them to.

  But he could.

  The man with a touch of gray in his scruffy facial hair. He had a crooked nose. Obviously, he played a few games of football, she thought. His hair was wavy and cropped rather short around his ears. There were hints of gray in his hair, too, and Abigail would also bet that his hair would be really curly if he let it grow out. The stubble on his face looked as if he preferred it that way. It didn’t in any way look unkept, like a man who simply forgot to shave or as if he just rolled out of bed. She was certain the bit of mustache would tickle if he kissed her. Despite the stubble, he had a military look about him, in the way he stood, in the way he moved. Even the way he sat and read the newspaper had a bit of ‘attention’ to it, as if he never fully relaxed.

  She had the idea this guy got up to watch the sun rise. This man had mission in his dark blue eyes. His purposeful stance and the way he took things in as he looked around told her he knew how to get things done. He looked around her shop as if he needed to study the place. He wasn’t preoccupied on his phone like most everyone else. She guessed he had more important things to do.

  The worn leather jacket he wore over a denim work shirt and black jeans looked soft and well loved. And he wore leather brown running shoes that were about the same color as the jacket. Abigail was a firm believer that you could tell a lot about a man by his shoes. This man was practical, comfortable, and ready. For whatever life threw his way.

  He had told her when he ordered his coffee his name was John.

  A very no-nonsense name.

  “Excuse me, John?” she called out to him.

  He met her gaze, and she felt lost in the ocean she saw there. She swallowed and almost swayed against an invisible wave. Then she blinked, wondering how in hell he could hypnotize her with a single look. “Yes?”

  His voice was deep, rich. She imagined he worked in radio—military radio.

  Yes, he would be perfect in radio. She bet he was just coming off the night shift where he spent the midnight hour playing the right music to accompany his alluring, seductive, no-nonsense voice.

  It took her two whole seconds to find her voice. “I apologize, but my steam machine isn’t working.”

  “That’s fine. A little whole cream will work out great.”

  If she didn’t know better, she’d be certain the smile he gave her reached out and actually touched her. And it was a warm, caressing touch, too. Like a subtle brush of fingertips up her back that sent a shiver through her.

  It had been a long time since she’d felt anything remotely like that.

  She had to swallow before she could reply. “Thank you. I’ll give you an extra large at no extra cost for the inconvenience.”

  He nodded his thanks to her, held her gaze another moment, then pick
ed up the newspaper he’d been reading when she interrupted him to inform him of the lack of steamed milk.

  She grabbed an extra-large cup, filled it and added cream, finished it off with a lid and heat protector. She didn’t call him back up to get it. She had no other customers waiting, and she was still sorry about the steam machine. So she left the counter and delivered it to him. He let the paper drop to the table as she handed the cup of coffee to him.

  He reached up to take it from her. Nice hands, she thought. Short, manicured nails, fingers that weren’t too long, and not exactly short or stubby. No wedding ring.

  “Thank you.” He shifted his gaze and took in her nametag. “Abigail. Are you the manager here?”

  Again, she was touched by his voice. She wondered if he could sing. If he could, he’d be great. No, she still saw him on late night radio. “Manager and owner.”

  His fingers brushed hers as he took the cup. Much more than an ocean touched her this time. An electrical spark slithered up her arm and caused her breath to catch.

  What the hell was that?

  She’d never reacted to any customer or any man like that before. Besides, if her ex had taught her anything, it was that the only thing she needed less than a man in her life was any reaction to one. At the same time, she fought the urge to reach out and touch him again, just to see if it happened a second time.

  Instead, she licked her suddenly dry lips and turned back to the counter.

  Within minutes, she was taking the orders of three college girls and calling to see what kind of warranty she had on the steam machine repair. She looked across the room to the table next to the window, only to find John watching her. He didn’t keep it a secret, either. No, he openly studied her, his gaze again meeting hers fearlessly.

  His intent examination of her sent her heart pounding.

  What the hell was wrong with her? She didn’t need this, not any of it. As if to remind her just how much she didn’t need to react to him, the scars on her belly itched.