Every Step She Takes (Who's Watching Now Book 2)

by Jannine Gallant

  A whistle of sound to his right. One of the guards jerked and dropped. The other two dived on Sutton.

  Shit. Movement was a blur behind the vans. The courthouse door opened, and someone—Fritz—shoved Casey through.

  Travis depressed the button on his radio. “What the hell happened?”

  “Sutton’s safe. One of my men is down. The shot came from your location. He has to be close. Find the bastard, Travis!”

  Stepping out to the railing of the balcony, he turned to face the building and scanned the apartments to his left. A shadow of movement two doors over and one floor up.

  Travis ran back inside and sprinted through the dimly lit apartment, dodging around a wilted ficus tree in the entry. Pushing open the door to the stairwell directly across the hall, he took the stairs two at a time then paused to steady his breathing. He pulled his weapon and inched the door open. No movement in the corridor.

  Carpet muffled his footsteps. Standing to the side, he reached for the doorknob and gently turned it. Locked.

  Well, shit. So much for catching the sniper off-guard.

  He depressed the radio transmitter, his voice barely a whisper as he updated Fritz. “Apartment 708. I’m going in.”

  “Backup is maybe two minutes away.”

  “No time. He’ll be out of here by then.”

  Raising a foot, he slammed it into the lock. Wood splintered as the door swung wide.

  Mason Rogers faced him, a compact rifle case slung over one shoulder. His gray eyes widened as he reached toward his hip. Two shots echoed as they both fired, and a searing pain sent Travis staggering backward into the hallway. He went down, firing again.

  Footsteps pounded the carpeted floor. Rising on shaking legs, he pressed a hand to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, warm and sticky. He took two steps. Nausea threatened, and the hallway wavered and tilted as he crashed to his knees, free falling as everything went black.

  * * * *

  The murmur of voices rose in the courtroom as Casey Sutton took the stand and was sworn in by the clerk. Grace scribbled in her notebook, recording her impressions of the proceedings, noting the furious expression on Estrada’s face, brows drawn together, lips twisted in a grimace as he spoke to his attorney. The distinguished, silver-haired man jerked at his collar and shielded his mouth before answering.

  Obviously it wasn’t the response Estrada wanted. A vein bulged at his forehead, and his face turned the color of his maroon tie.

  The prosecuting attorney opened with the basic facts. Casey gave his name and address then launched into the events leading up to the drug bust and murder. Grace’s hand stilled as she remembered the first time she’d heard all the details on a trail through the Alaskan wilderness. Though he’d listened as intently as she to the recitation, Travis’s eyes had constantly scanned their surroundings for any sign of movement—any hint of danger.

  Casey’s story-telling skills were phenomenal. Grace jotted down a couple of notes about pacing she could use in her own writing as the tale progressed. The courtroom was silent with spectators straining to hear every detail. When he described the shootout on the dock, even Estrada’s face registered horrified fascination.

  “Objection, your honor.” The defense attorney leaped to his feet.

  While the lawyers haggled over some technicality, Grace glanced toward the rear of the room. Fritz stood near the closed double doors. When he caught her eye, he jerked a thumb toward the exit.

  A chill shivered through her. Something was wrong. Grace didn’t know the federal agent, but surely his eyes wouldn’t hold a touch of panic if something awful hadn’t happened. Casey had obviously been delivered to the courtroom unscathed, so that could only mean—

  Travis.

  The thirty minutes she waited for the judge to call a recess seemed like an eternity. The second the gavel hit the desk, she leapt out of her seat and raced toward the door. Pushing past a woman speaking in a loud voice to a frazzled-looking bailiff, she searched the hallway. Fritz stood with his back to her, talking on his cell phone. He pocketed it just as she reached him.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He touched her arm. “He’s going to be okay.”

  She pressed a hand to her chest. “What happened? Where’s Travis?”

  “At the hospital, but he’s going to be fine. The bullet just nicked him. He’s got a fractured rib, but they plan to release him by this evening at the latest. Recovery should be quick and relatively painless. The doctor prescribed some pretty strong pain meds, so he’s a little loopy right now.”

  Grace slumped against the wall. “Give me the condensed version.”

  “Rogers took a shot at Sutton but missed. Hit one of my men instead. He’s in surgery.”

  “Oh, crap. I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, so am I, but he should pull through.” Fritz ran a hand through his short hair until it stuck up in all directions. “The shot came from the building where Travis was stationed. He located Rogers and confronted him. Based on the blood we found in the hallway, Travis did some serious damage to the man, but none of the local hospitals or clinics has admitted anyone matching his description.”

  “Where’s Travis?”

  “San Francisco General.”

  “I’ll be there if you have anything else to share.”

  “We’ll get this punk, Grace.”

  “I’m beginning to have my doubts.”

  Fritz grunted then strode off down the corridor. She should be thankful he’d had the courtesy to break the news in person. Instead, she wanted to punch him for putting Travis in danger in the first place. Pressing her lips together, she hurried back to the courtroom to find her sketch artist chatting with a group of reporters from rival papers.

  “Here.” She thrust her notebook into his hands.

  “What the hell am I supposed to do with that?”

  “Take good notes. I’m leaving.”

  “Are you kidding me? The boss will crucify you. I’m no writer. I’m here to draw pictures since cameras were banned in the courtroom.”

  “I don’t care. I have something more important to do.”

  His brown eyes widened. “What could be more important than this story?”

  “The man I love.” Spinning on the glossy marble floor, she ran out of the building.

  * * * *

  Grace held tight to Travis’s hand. “I can’t believe he shot you. Again.”

  “It’s getting a little old. Fritz said I hit him. When I kicked in the door, he was facing me. We both fired. I remember taking a second shot that went wide then nothing.”

  “Rogers is like one of those zombies in a bad horror flick. The hero shoots and shoots, but the monster just keeps coming at him.”

  “Bullets don’t bounce off this little shit. He’s got to be in pretty bad shape.”

  “I hope so. I hope he’s dead in an alley somewhere.”

  She squeezed his hand harder, and Travis flinched.

  Easing her grip, she tried to smile. “Sorry. I’m a tad upset.”

  His eyes glazed over. “Damn pain pills. I can barely stay awake. Shouldn’t you be at the courthouse?”

  “I should be here. Nowhere else. Just here with you.” She drew in a breath. “God, do you know how much I hate seeing you lying in that bed?”

  “I’ll be out of the hospital soon and back home with you.” His eyes drifted closed. “Funny, but that’s what your apartment feels like to me. Home.” He blinked. “Can you go get me some clothes to put on? They cut my shirt off me, and my pants are covered in blood.”

  “I don’t want to leave.”

  “I’m not much company. I keep falling asleep.”

  “The nurse said the effects of the meds should wear off in a couple of hours.”

  “Then I can go home.” His words slurred.

  She stroked his cheek. “Maybe I should go and let you rest. I’ll get your clothes and be back before they release you.”

  “Don’t go to your
apartment alone. Maybe call that cop.”

  “Who, Nolan?”

  Travis nodded. “How come all the guys you used to date are better looking than me?”

  Grace grinned. “He’s not, but I’m glad you’re jealous.” She bent and kissed his lips. “Sleep tight while I’m gone.”

  “Don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

  He really was out of it. She waited until his eyes closed and his mouth went slack then left the room. The pretty blond woman manning the nurse’s station down the hall smiled as she paused by the desk.

  “Do you have a question?”

  “Will Travis really be able to go home this evening?”

  “The minute those pain meds wear off, I imagine he’ll be raring to go. We’ll give him something milder to manage the discomfort after this.”

  “That’s good. I’ll be back to get him in a couple of hours.”

  Grace rode the elevator down, left the hospital through the rear of the building and retrieved her car from the parking garage. Relaxing into the seat, she let out a breath. Travis really would be okay. He’d have another scar to add to his collection, but his fractured rib would heal. Nothing vital had been hit, thank God.

  She slowed when she reached her neighborhood. Travis would be angry she hadn’t called Nolan for protection, but a busy detective had better things to do than babysit her. Mason Rogers was probably lying behind some dumpster bleeding to death. No way would he be concerned with her right now.

  She parked then took a long look up and down the street before leaving the garage. No one more threatening than a woman pushing a baby jogger and an elderly neighbor wielding a pair of hedge clippers with more enthusiasm than skill was in sight. Grace cut down an alley, dodged around trashcans then ran the last block to her building. After punching in the security code, she dashed inside.

  Her heartbeat slowed. It was stupid to be nervous. She was perfectly safe. Well, maybe not completely. When her editor found out she’d bailed on the trial, he was likely to kill her. Too damn bad. She’d call him later to explain. After collecting her mail, she mounted the stairs. Her footsteps echoed as they hit each tread, and the fine hair rose on the back of her neck.

  She was freaking herself out for no reason. The building was no quieter than usual. She just wasn’t used to being home so early on a work day. Pulling her keys from her purse, she stopped beside her door with its damaged lock. Travis hadn’t installed the deadbolt yet. Her fault completely. After their walk on the beach—and his declaration of love—she’d only wanted to show him how much he meant to her. One thing led to another, and the new bolt remained in the bag on the table.

  The smile on her lips faded. The door wasn’t locked. She’d pulled it tight and jiggled it before she left to make sure it caught. Stepping inside, she paused, and her chest tightened. Way too quiet.

  “Wylie.”

  A whimper sounded from the bedroom.

  “Wylie!” Dropping the mail, she rushed inside and stopped. Her skin chilled as goose bumps broke out on her arms.

  “Hello, Grace.” Mason Rogers stepped around the counter separating the kitchen from the living room. Bandages, a bottle of peroxide and antibiotic ointment were scattered across its surface. He picked up a knife—the blade dull with blood—and shifted it from hand to hand. Wincing, he moved closer.

  She tried to respond, but her throat was so dry she couldn’t choke out a word. Slowly she backed toward the door. Blood stained his once white shirt, and his left arm hung at an odd angle. Surely she could outrun him.

  “I wouldn’t try it. Your dog’s still alive, even after he tried to bite me, but he won’t be if you make me come after you.” His tone was conversational. A cool gray gaze locked with hers.

  “What did you do to him?” Her voice rose in a screech.

  He glanced down at the bloody knife. “Oh, this is mine, not his. I gave the mutt a swift kick. Just in case that mangy dog doesn’t mean as much to you as I think, let’s take it up a notch, shall we?”

  She hesitated and swallowed. “What does that mean?”

  “Your niece—Lark isn’t it—is very pretty. I’d enjoy seeing her again, getting to know her much, much better.”

  “Don’t say her name. Don’t even think it!” The room tilted and spun. She gulped air then grabbed the edge of the hall table for support. “My brother-in-law will kill you if you touch Lark.”

  “He might try. Travis tried today and failed. Frankly, I’m willing to take my chances. It’d be worth it just to see your face when that pretty little girl tells you what I did to her.”

  “You leave Lark alone, and I won’t run.” Her voice rose, and she tried to bring it down. Tried and failed as her pulse thrummed in her ears.

  “Too bad I don’t believe you.” He patted a lump at his hip beneath the bloody shirt. “How about I hurt the nice old guy who keeps letting me into the building? Or the red-haired lady across the hall. I have plenty of options, Grace.”

  She pressed a shaking hand to her mouth to hold back a whimper and stared at the bulge beneath the shirt that was no doubt a gun. “I’ll do whatever you want. What do you want?”

  “What do I want?” He drew in a breath, his chest rising beneath the bloody shirt. “What do I want? Isn’t it obvious? I want justice.”

  “Justice? Justice for what?”

  “You really don’t know?”

  She shook her head.

  Sadness flashed in his eyes. “Not what. Whom. For my brother of course. I want justice for David.”

  Chapter 28

  Mason had dreamed of this day for weeks, ever since she walked aboard the plane heading for Moose Flat. Punishing Grace Hanover was long overdue, which showed a lack of respect for the brother he’d idolized. For eighteen years David had been dead and buried, all because of the woman clutching the armrest as the Porsche squealed around a corner. He eased up on the accelerator. It wouldn’t do to attract the attention of a cop.

  “Where’re you taking me?”

  “You’ll know when we get there.”

  Her lips tightened when he inched onto the Bay Bridge through the rush hour traffic.

  At this rate, it’d take forever to get two miles, let alone twenty. He slammed his hand down on the steering wheel and smiled when she jumped.

  His cell phone rang, and he glanced at the number on the display. Estrada’s brainless minion again. Might as well answer it and get a conversation he’d rather avoid over with.

  “Yeah.”

  “Estrada sent you a message. You’re done. Finished. You’ll never work again. Which isn’t going to matter in the long run because he’s going to kill you.”

  Mason breathed through his nose and focused on managing his temper. “Not my fault the information you gave me was inaccurate. From my position, I would have had a perfect shot if Sutton had gone in through the side door. You told me they’d use that entrance.”

  “Someone screwed up, but it sure as hell wasn’t me! You should have adjusted when they changed locations, had a backup plan in place. You should have done your job!”

  “My view was obstructed. No one could have made that shot.”

  “Estrada hired you because you’re supposed to be better than the rest.”

  “I am.”

  “You’re no one. You’re dead.”

  Mason dropped the phone on the seat. The job had been a fucking joke from the very beginning. Moose Flat, Alaska. He should have listened to his instincts and turned Estrada down when he offered him the contract. It figured the whole thing would end in a complete fiasco. Still, something good had come from the cluster despite his shredded reputation. He had her.

  Glancing over, noting the fear clouding Grace’s green eyes, he smiled.

  * * * *

  David had never mentioned a brother. Not once in the eight months they’d dated. Grace had ate dinner with his parents, been in and out of his house a dozen times. There’d been no sign of a young boy anywhere, even if he hadn’t lived with the
m. No forgotten toys in the corner of a room. No crayon drawings on the refrigerator. Not a single photo on the hall wall beside a dozen or so of David.

  Maybe if she could get Mason Rogers to talk, she could somehow convince him David’s death hadn’t been her fault. Even if she couldn’t—and the wild look in his eyes didn’t give her a whole lot of hope—she’d at least satisfy her curiosity.

  The car crept along in the bumper-to-bumper traffic as Grace considered the best way to question him. The last thing she wanted to do was make this lunatic angrier. Though his right hand was steady on the wheel, his left arm was tucked close to his side at an odd angle beneath Travis’s shirt. He’d left his bloody one in the apartment. The tic in his cheek set her nerves on edge.

  “Have you been to a doctor? The way you’re holding that arm—”

  “It’s broken. Your boyfriend hit the humerus.” His eyes narrowed as he glanced her way. “Do I look stupid? Of course I didn’t have it looked at. I’m sure my description is posted in every ER in the area.”

  “You must be in a lot of pain.”

  “You think? I dug a bullet out of my arm.” He shrugged his right shoulder. “I have a high tolerance for discomfort. Once I’ve finished with you, I’ll head far enough away to escape attention and have it set properly.”

  She shuddered, not sure which part of his statement was the most disturbing—the overt threat to her person or referring to a fractured bone as a discomfort. His mistaken belief he could simply drive away unscathed after disposing of her, without setting in motion a nationwide manhunt, was laughable. Maybe he wasn’t as smart as she thought. Or his God complex had gotten completely out of hand.

  “I loved David, you know. He was the first boy I ever cared about.”

  The car jerked. In the next lane over, a horn blared.

  “Liar.”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “If you loved him, you would have stayed with him. You wouldn’t have let him go off and get drunk that night.”

  “What do you know about it? You couldn’t have been more than five or six when it happened.”