by Tee O'Fallon
Opening up her chat folder, she clicked print. Whatever they’d been discussing, at least she had a transcript. Maybe the spooks could make something out of this. She grabbed the single sheet from the printer and slipped it into a large envelope with the appropriate security restrictions stamped on the outside, then headed for her boss’s office to drop it off.
Trista’s stomach let out a growl as she parked in the side lot of the Mellow Moose Tavern. The Moose was just about every Langley employee’s favorite place to eat. Unexpectedly, there were quite a few cars in the main lot. Then again, the Moose was one of the only restaurants around that served decent food this late at night. Or morning, really.
It had been nearly midnight when she’d turned off her computer and headed home. Despite missing lunch and dinner, all her successive efforts to find Karakurt again had proved fruitless. She yawned, looking forward to grabbing some takeout, then falling into bed. She’d been at it for nearly seventeen hours, and she was exhausted.
Tomorrow, or rather later today, she’d get back on her board and surf the chat rooms. Sooner or later, Karakurt would show himself again.
Another gurgling growl low in her belly had her reaching for the door handle, but it was jerked from her grasp as the door opened. A hand gripped her wrist, twisting her arm as she was yanked up and out of the car.
A hand clamped over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the sound came out in a muted squeal. Her attacker spun her around and shoved her against the side of the car. Rearing back with her elbow, she tried jabbing him in the ribs, but all she connected with was air.
Something sharp bit into her neck. A knife. And with every quick inhale, the knife pressed deeper into her flesh.
Her heart pounded, terror twisting in her belly as her attacker dragged her across the pavement toward the tree line. She twisted in his grip, swinging her arms out, trying to hit him.
But she was no match for his size and strength.
A moment of horrific clarity hit her. I’m going to die.
Chapter Two
“Let’s get out of here, girl. I’m beat.”
Matt waited for Sheba to jump in the SUV—a CIA-issued Explorer, specially equipped for K-9s—before closing the door behind her. He wiped the sweat from his brow, relieved to be heading home. These double shifts were killing him, and he couldn’t wait to grab some food and kick back.
As he got into the driver’s seat and buckled up, his thoughts rewound to events of that morning. More specifically, to Trista Gold.
Having been newly assigned to Langley, he hadn’t gotten to know many of the employees, but he knew who she was. The CIA’s crack analyst.
“She’s a little thing with a lot of power at her fingertips.” The remembrance of her petite form in his arms had him realizing just how tiny she really was. And how unexpectedly curvy her body was beneath that head-to-toe gray outfit.
Hearing his words, Sheba thrust her snout through the cage opening between the headrests and gave a soft snort.
Cranking over the engine, he pulled out of the lot and headed to the main gate. Only one place would be open this time of night and still serving. Luckily, the Moose was on his way home.
He wondered where Trista lived. Actually, he wondered a lot about the woman, something that shocked the shit out of him. She was nothing like his type. Trista was shy, unassuming, and wore minimal, if any, makeup. Rather than trying to hit on him as most women did, she couldn’t seem to get away from him fast enough. Still, there was something about her that intrigued him. He just couldn’t put his finger on what it was.
As Matt drove past the security gate, he waved to Mac, the officer on duty, then turned toward Dolley Madison Boulevard and the Langley Shopping Center.
“You know, girl,” he said, reaching out to stroke Sheba’s velvety-soft muzzle, “I’d bet my ass that beneath those librarian glasses and those god-awful schoolmarm clothes she wears, there’s a stunning beauty itching to cut loose.”
Woof.
Sheba’s warm breath blew against his ear. She knew he was talking to her, and he loved their late-night chats. Unlike most women he dated, Sheba was a great listener. Some nights after a double shift, their conversations were the only thing keeping him from falling asleep at the wheel. It also helped him unwind.
He and his Belgian Malinois had been together for two years now, and he couldn’t imagine being teamed up with anyone else. They’d become tight, anticipating each other’s next moves and thoughts, the same as any human partner ever could. Maybe more.
Sheba was the only female constant in his life, and he preferred it that way. It was the way things had to be. Years ago, he’d figured out that as soon as he began to feel anything resembling true happiness with a woman, guilt would smash the relationship into smithereens. As a result, he had a long list of pissed-off ex-girlfriends who’d been unceremoniously dumped. Ten in the past twelve months, if his count was accurate. It wasn’t that they’d done anything wrong, or even gotten too clingy.
The old saying It’s not you, it’s me was far too accurate. They never believed him, but it was true. What he didn’t tell them was that he didn’t deserve any happiness. Not after what he’d done.
He dragged a hand down his face. Twenty years later, and the guilt was still as raw and fresh as if it had happened only yesterday. The only good thing was that he hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since that day.
Slowing the Explorer through town, he passed the supermarket. He hated shopping but had next to no food in the house. With his buddies and their K-9s coming into town to stay with him during the upcoming pre-election events, he’d have to pick up a ton of groceries. Pretty much the only thing he had plenty of was kibble. Turkey and salmon flavor. Sheba’s favorites.
When he lowered the window for some fresh air, the smells of greasy fast food wafted into the truck, and he scowled. Trista Gold smelled a whole lot better.
When she’d fallen into his arms, he’d breathed in pretty-smelling woman. It must have been her shampoo or perfume. Vanilla and sweet spice. He’d guess she was in her early thirties, and had no ring on her finger. Come to think of it, she hadn’t been wearing a single piece of jewelry. Odd, but the woman had something about her that really got to him.
Her heart-shaped face included a cute nose and lips so rosy pink they didn’t even need lipstick. He hated the stuff. Most of the women he dated usually wore red or deep pink that inevitably wound up all over his face or on his shirt collar. He didn’t know what they made that shit out of, but it never seemed to completely wash out of his clothes.
Without those gargantuan, dark-rimmed glasses hiding half of Trista’s face, he’d finally gotten a good look at those sparkling green eyes of hers. They were the same color as his mother’s ferns just before they unwound from their spiral bud. With those thick waves of honey-blond hair all messed up and escaping from that prim bun, she’d looked less like a schoolmarm and more like a woodland nymph on a bad hair day.
Now it was his turn to snort at the imagery he’d concocted. It wasn’t like him to wax all poetic-like. What he ought to do was tell her to ditch the bun.
“She sure doesn’t like you, though.” He gave Sheba a quick scratch under her chin, and she leaned farther through the opening, resting her head on his shoulder. “She took one look at you and almost had a heart attack.”
Sheba gave his ear a quick lick.
“Hey!” He gently swatted her muzzle away.
Woof. Sheba snorted and lay down in the back of the truck.
Not that he could ever see himself in a relationship, but if by some miracle he ever got his head out of his ass, any woman of his had to like dogs. No cringing in fear the way Trista had. It was obvious from the all-consuming panic in her eyes that the woman had been severely traumatized by a canine somewhere in her past.
Too bad. She didn’t know what she was missing. In his opinion, dogs had better character, honesty, and loyalty than most humans. The only exceptions he’d encountered late
ly were the guys he’d gone through K-9 school with.
At the traffic light opposite the Moose, he flicked on the turn signal and braked to a stop behind another vehicle. He’d take the guys here next Saturday. They’d get a kick out of the place. Especially Mo, the bartender. Glancing at the Moose’s main parking lot, he was gratified to see plenty of cars. That meant he could still get some food.
Motion near the adjacent tree line caught his eye. “What the fu—”
A woman was flailing her arms and being dragged across the parking lot toward the woods. There was barely enough light to make out details, but was that—Trista Gold?
Matt slammed his foot on the accelerator and cranked the wheel, zigzagging around the vehicle in front of him and blasting through the red light.
The Explorer’s engine roared as he sped into the lot. At the edge of the curb next to the tree line, he slammed on the brakes, tires screeching.
He flung open the door, simultaneously pushing the remote button on his vest that would automatically pop open Sheba’s door. “Zadrrz!”
Instantly responding to the Czech command, Sheba leaped from the vehicle and bolted ahead of him.
He took off at a dead run, blood pounding in his ears as he charged into the woods, catching a glimpse of something shiny—a blade—at Trista’s throat.
Ahead of him, Sheba growled, leaping and latching her jaws on the attacker’s arm. Then he heard another growl, this one human, as her teeth sank into flesh. At the same time, Matt barreled into the guy, tackling him to the ground.
The son of a bitch immediately resisted, giving Matt an excuse for pounding his fist into his jaw again and again. Several gratifying pained grunts later, the guy went limp. Matt was about to flip him onto his belly and cuff him, when an eerie screech broke the silence.
He jerked his head around to see Trista’s hand at her throat, her eyes bulging wide. Her mouth was open as she gasped repeatedly for air.
Holy fuck!
Terror gripped him. I’m too late. Her throat had been sliced open.
He went to her side. “Trista. Trista!” he repeated when she didn’t respond. The only sound coming from her throat was that same horrible wheezing.
Which meant she was still breathing but not well.
Grabbing the mic on his lapel, he called for an ambulance and local PD assistance. As the dispatcher relayed his requests, he tried examining the wound on her neck, but Trista refused to move her hand.
“Pozor!” he shouted to Sheba, giving her the command to guard the unconscious man’s limp body.
Trista gripped his arm, her nails biting into his skin. “In-inha—”
“What?”
To his left, leaves rustled, and Sheba growled. Matt’s heart pounded as he whipped his gun from its hol-ster, pointing it at the noise. Trista’s attacker was up and hauling ass through the darkened woods. But Matt couldn’t leave her. Not like this. Not until the paramedics arrived. “Shit.” He hated letting the fucker escape, but she needed him.
Sheba’s body quivered as she repeatedly lifted her front paws off the ground, eager to give chase yet obediently awaiting his command.
“Revier!” Sheba spun and charged into the woods to search for the guy. Seconds later, Matt heard sharp barks slice the air, then a human yelp from somewhere deep within the tree line.
Clenching his teeth, Matt cursed and reholstered his weapon. He didn’t like the idea of his dog out there alone with a murderous, knife-wielding asshole.
He grabbed a flashlight from his belt, shining the beam on Trista’s face. “Stay with me. Don’t you dare die on me.”
Her eyes were still wide and panicked, one of her hands still clutching at her throat. He expected to see blood streaming through her fingers, but all he saw was a thin trickle from a narrow, superficial cut.
She pointed over his shoulder. “Inhale—” More high-pitched wheezing.
“Inhaler?” Fuck. He was an idiot.
She’s having an asthma attack.
Pushing to his feet, he ran to the only car in the lot with its door wide open and grabbed her purse from the passenger seat. He dumped out the contents, easily finding the inhaler. As he ran back to her and knelt, he shook the inhaler, then put it to her mouth.
She wrapped her hands around the canister, pushed the button, and took a fast, deep breath, holding it.
Fear twisted his gut as he watched her face, waiting for the meds to take effect. Fuck, he felt helpless.
More rustling from the tree line had him whipping out his gun again, resting his flashlight on top of the barrel. Sheba’s eyes glowed red in the high-powered beam. Panting, she sat at his side, sniffing Trista’s arm.
Sirens wailed in distance. Trista’s eyes were closed, and he noticed her glasses were gone. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. She was getting more air now but might need another hit from the inhaler.
He holstered his gun, then cupped her cheek, which was cold and clammy. “Hang in there. An ambulance is on the way.”
When she began to shiver, he worried she was going into shock. Shifting on his knees, he encircled her in his arms, trying to transfer his warmth to her slim body. Resting his chin on the top of her head, he inhaled that same sweet flowery scent he’d detected that morning.
Sensing distress, Sheba lay down on the ground beside them.
The sirens grew louder, then red and blue lights lit up the parking lot and the trees. Police cars and an ambulance rolled in, grinding to a stop.
“Over here!” he shouted.
For a second, he had a vision of the other cops blasting him to kingdom come. He’d reported a woman being attacked, and here he was holding her tightly on the ground.
“Police, don’t shoot!” Matt called out as he maneuvered Trista so the badge on his shirt would be clearly visible.
Then she went limp in his arms. Matt placed his hand on her sternum, and his blood ran cold. She was barely breathing.
Correction: he didn’t think she was breathing at all.
Chapter Three
People yelling at her. Radios squawking. Trista took a shaky breath, and when she opened her eyes, she was nearly blinded by all the flashing red-and-blue strobes.
Emergency vehicles.
Something covered her mouth and nose. A mask. Make that an inhaler. Not hers, but a big one, the kind hospitals had used on her when she was a kid. A nebulizer. She struggled to remember what had happened, then it hit her. She’d had an asthma attack. A bad one, this time.
People standing and kneeling over her were blurry. My glasses. Where were they? When she tried raising her arm to find them, someone squeezed her hand.
“Hey, Trista,” a deep voice rumbled softly near her ear. “Welcome back. You scared the hell out of me.”
I know that voice.
“Sheba, lehni,” the same voice commanded.
Sgt. Connors. Beside him, his K-9 lay on the ground, panting, water dribbling from her muzzle.
What are they doing here? For that matter, where is here?
The Moose. Attacker. Knife.
She tensed, and her heart began beating faster. Her attacker was nowhere in sight, but Sgt. Connors was there. He’d come to her rescue. Relief flooded her, and her pulse slowed. No longer did her chest feel tight. No wheezing or coughing. The inhaler had done its job opening her airways. Struggling to rise to a sitting position, she realized she already was sitting. Had they propped her up against a tree?
As a child, when she’d had bad asthma attacks, the doctors would put her in a sitting position, making it easier to breathe. But this tree was moving, breathing, and she knew what it was.
Sgt. Connors’s broad chest.
The night air had chilled, but his breath against the top of her head was even warmer. Feeling self-conscious about his proximity, she struggled to rise, but his arms prevented her.
“Easy there. Let the paramedics do their thing.”
Having no other choice, she relaxed against his chest and it felt good. W
arm. Solid. Protective.
“Respiration and pulse are back to normal.” A paramedic peeled off the Velcro blood pressure cuff on her arm. “Does your chest still feel tight?”
She pulled the mask from her face. “No.”
A second paramedic reached out a hand, stopping her. “Leave it on for a few more minutes, then we’ll take you to the hospital to get checked out.”
“No.” She swatted the medic’s hand away, dragging the mask from her face. “I’m not going to the hospital. I’m fine now. I’ve been through this before.” Not in ages, though. She only carried an inhaler in her purse out of habit.
“Trista,” Sgt. Connors said. “Let them check you out at the hospital.”
She twisted in his arms and found his face sooo close to hers that for a moment words fled. Even in the shadows of the trees and all the flashing red-and-blue lights, he was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen. “Th-this was triggered by stress. N-now that the trigger is gone, I’ll be fine.” Aside from stuttering, that was.
Dark brows slashed together in a scowl as he looked from one paramedic to the other. “What do you think?”
One medic shook his head. “I don’t like it, but she’s conscious and seems lucid. We can’t force her to go if she refuses.”
“I put a bandage on her throat,” the other one said. “Luckily, it was only a shallow nick.”
“I’m right here.” She fisted her hands. “So don’t talk around me. I’ve made my decision and that’s final. I have plenty of inhalers at home if I need them. If I have another attack—which I won’t—I’ll call 911.”
“I think you should take their advice and go to the hospital.” Sgt. Connors was shaking his head at her.
Shoving his arms away, she pushed to a kneeling position and faced him. “I d-don’t care what you think.” It irked the snot out of her that she could tell off both paramedics without stumbling over her words, but the second she looked at Sgt. Connors, her brain waves shorted out.
