Opposing Forces

by Adrienne Giordano

  “Bitch,” the guy shouted.

  He shook his head and his face split into a grin. He’s not done yet. Her attacker squatted and readied for the fight.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw the alarm keypad. A few feet. If she could press the two keys that initiated the alarm, she might get out of this. Five seconds to initiate the alarm. That’s all she needed.

  She sidestepped, but behind her, the bigger man wrenched a fistful of her hair and yanked. A ripping sensation burned her scalp.

  “Ow-owwww.”

  “Shut up,” he said, while his friend crowded her.

  “You want to play rough?” The shorter guy backhanded her—hard—on the unmarred side of her face and his ring split her cheek just below her eye. The other man tightened his grip on her hair. More ripping.

  Think. “I’m sorry,” she said. “You scared me.”

  “That’s the point, you stupid bitch.” The bigger guy tugged her hair again and wrenched her neck. “You need to learn to mind your business.”

  Finally, he released her, shoved her forward and smacked her on the back of her head. By now, her aching skull stopped absorbing the blows.

  She blinked once and steadied her gaze. Keypad...just a few more feet.

  The beefy guy slapped her on the back of the head again and momentum carried her a step closer to the keypad. She faced the other man. “Wh—who are you?”

  “Shut up!” He smacked her again. Same cheek. She sucked air as the burst of pain flashed white and blinded her. She fell toward the wall, her vision floating. Why were they doing this? She closed her eyes and the blissful tug of unconsciousness teased her.

  After that last slug, the keypad was almost within reach. Fuzzy...yes, but the panic button was so close. All she needed was to stay conscious and take another step. Or maybe one last smack would get her there.

  How much more could she take, though? She had to try. She turned toward them. “You scumbags. What do you want?”

  The shorter man stared, his mouth agape. He glanced at his friend. “Can she be this stupid?”

  “I’ll shut her up.”

  He raised his fist and Jillian held her breath, waiting for the blow that would either launch her to the keypad or knock her out. A sob caught in her chest and she burrowed into the wall as she inched her way to the keypad.

  Right there.

  But the huge guy was on her, his big fist knotted, ready to strike. She spun to the keypad and jammed two fingers against the panic button.

  Four, three, two, one.

  A piercing siren filled the house. Through the door she heard the wail from the outside speaker. Help would come. Someone. Anyone. Please.

  The man grabbed her hair again, wadded it into a knot and slammed her face into the wall. “Bitch!”

  What was left of her cheek succumbed to the attack and nausea took hold, seizing her, making her vision swim. She swallowed once, then again. Her knees gave out and she buckled for a second, but forced herself upright.

  Help me.

  “Turn it off,” the shorter guy screamed.

  Not a chance. The only thing that might save her was that screaming alarm. The house phone rang. Alarm company. If she didn’t answer, they’d send the police.

  The shorter man clasped her hair again and shoved her toward the keypad. “I said turn it off. Don’t make me carve you up.”

  Jillian remained silent, her hands trembling at her side. They’ll kill me.

  He gritted his teeth, set his jaw and his flat, dead eyes told her the next blow would be the worst. She raised her arms in front of her face again.

  “Turn it off!”

  “My neighbor is a cop. You’ve got thirty seconds before he comes.” A lie, but they didn’t know that.

  The big guy tried to snake his hand between her arms, but she slapped it away. The shorter one shoved her, grabbed her wrists and pinned them against the wall above her head. Then the other man slid his hand up, hooking her throat and squeezing. She gagged, then swallowed against the fingers digging into her neck.

  No air.

  A loud banging and yelling started at the front door, but he squeezed harder, cutting off more air. Her chest ached and she gagged. More banging from the front. Hazy now. Distant. Her attacker glanced over his shoulder, seemed to calculate the odds, then came back to Jillian and stared her straight in the eyes. “Got plenty in store for you. Meantime, stop messing with our shipments.”

  He released his grip and the second guy slid the bolt on the door. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Once again, her knees buckled, but the banging on the front door called to her. Pushing against the wall, Jillian leaped to the slider and engaged the bolt while the shrill, piercing wail of the alarm battered her already maimed head. She ran to the front door, checked the peep hole and saw her neighbor, elderly Mr. Krohl—as if he could help her?—standing on the other side. She swung the door open and Mr. Krohl’s gaze widened.

  “Good Lord,” he said.

  She must look a fright. She reached for the keypad, punched in the code and the house descended into silence. The phone rang again and she grabbed it from the end table. The alarm company.

  After she gave them the all-clear code, they informed her the police were on the way. What would she even tell them? She’d have to come up with something that didn’t sound half-baked. Two break-ins in nine days wasn’t a coincidence.

  Mr. Krohl peered inside. “What happened?”

  Against her good judgment, not to mention every survivor instinct she possessed, she burst into tears. Mr. Krohl wrapped his boney arms around her. “There, there. It’s okay now. Let’s get you inside.”

  “Jillian?”

  Jack.

  His voice forced her upright. He stood behind Mr. Krohl, the porch light illuminating his baby face that had somehow morphed into steel.

  “What the hell?” he hollered, shooting a vicious glare at Mr. Krohl.

  Her arms came up in a flash. “No! This is my neighbor. Mr. Krohl.”

  In the distance a siren blared. On their way. Time to think. But her mind and body were sludge, everything ached. She glanced at Jack and, as usual with him, an immediate stillness settled her. Somehow, he always managed to help her.

  “Who are you?” Mr. Krohl asked him.

  “Mr. Krohl, this is my friend, Jack.” She touched the man’s arm. “He’ll help me now. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”

  He glanced at Jack, then back to her, clearly wondering. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

  She nodded. “Yes. Jack will help me. I promise you.”

  The sirens drew closer and a flash of red bounced off the street and adjacent houses.

  “I’ve got it from here, sir,” Jack said in that officer’s voice that made the request sound more like an order.

  Mr. Krohl took one last look at Jillian and shuffled back to his adjoining home.

  Jack stepped closer, brought his hands up to touch her face, but stopped. “Baby, what happened to you?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Lynx’s thoughts scattered into a mess of fury. Jillian stood before him, her left cheek busted open, turning purple and oozing blood. The other side didn’t look much better. What the fuck had happened?

  He brought her close and hugged her and her shoulders heaved. Crying. Behind him, the police cruiser came to a stop and the piercing siren went quiet. Jillian started screaming, howling in his ear about two men who went out the back door.

  Chaos. His mind drifted. Gunfire. Bombs. Wounded soldiers. Officer in charge. All of it came back to him. He gathered her closer and held her, making sure not to press her face against him and cause further injury. “Sshhhh. Take it easy. You’re safe now.”

  If he could get her to calm down,
to tell him what happened, he could help. The best he could ascertain was two men had broken in. How, though? He’d locked up. He glanced at the intact doorframe.

  She must have let them in. After all she’d been through, she’d never open that door.

  The house grew quiet. No more screaming. She hiccupped and gripped his shirt at his waist. Tighter and tighter she twisted the material, clinging.

  “I’ve got you,” he whispered. “I’ve got you. The police are here. Okay?”

  She took a huge step backward, her watery eyes on him as she reached to swipe the blood from her cheek.

  Two car doors slammed. Any second they’d be walking up to this door thinking Lynx had beat her. Potential shit storm considering he didn’t even know what happened.

  Throughout his career, he’d learned there was a certain deranged order to a crisis. Once she settled down, she’d tell him everything. First, they’d have to get through the police interview. Not knowing the story, he wouldn’t be able to help.

  She was on her own.

  “What do I tell them?”

  “Honey, you have to tell them the truth. We don’t have time for anything else.”

  * * *

  Thirty minutes later, after Lynx and Jillian had been separated by the cops, the officers were persuaded that he hadn’t been the madman who hurt her and let him back in the house. He still didn’t know what the hell had happened. All he knew was that when he came in the door, the cops were walking out to call their crime scene people in to take prints.

  Jillian sat on the sofa and he squatted in front of her. “You okay?”

  She nodded. “I had to tell them something. They wouldn’t leave.”

  “That’s okay. What did you tell them?”

  “I told them I saw a weird shipment at work and then my house got broken into.”

  He rubbed her leg. “That’s it?”

  “I didn’t know what to say. It all sounds so crazy. Tell me I did the right thing.”

  Lynx moved beside her on the sofa. “You had to give them something. And, hey, if this puts the pressure on Stennar Pharm and gets them to back off, then it’ll be worth it. I’m getting you protection, though. You can’t stay here alone.”

  She raised her hand to her cheek, but he grabbed it before she touched her face. “Don’t.”

  He took her hand and dragged her upstairs—away from the bugs—to the bathroom, where he settled her on the toilet seat, soaked a towel and gently cleaned the wound.

  “Hold it there,” he said. “You’re gonna need a few stitches. How’d they get in?”

  “I was coming home. I had just opened the door and someone touched my shoulder. I thought it was you.”

  She thought it was him. Sickness filled his gut. “I’m sorry.”

  “I ran to the back door.”

  The door he’d bolted. Oh, Jesus. His good intentions trapped her in the house. “Did you recognize them?”

  “No. They said I needed to learn to mind my own business.” She leaned forward and rested her head on his shoulder. “Why are they doing this to me?”

  Slowly, he ran his hand over her back. “I don’t know, baby. We’ll find out, though. I promise you, we’ll find out.”

  * * *

  After getting the name of the doctor Vic kept on retainer, as he put it, to deal with minor injuries their operatives got while playing with weapons they shouldn’t necessarily be playing with, Lynx made sure Jillian was taken care of, got a couple of guys to stand guard outside her house and then, running on pure instinct, had Janet track down Ned Dillard’s address.

  He now stood in front of Dillard’s two-story colonial with the wide front porch and covered chairs. In the dark, the house looked white. A typical middle-upper-class suburban home that may or may not have been paid for with illegal funds. Lynx didn’t know. Not yet.

  He propped his hands on his hips, fingers tapping and catching on the pockets of his slacks. The March chill pricked the back of his neck.

  Don’t do this. There were a million reasons he shouldn’t walk up to that house. Out of the million, not one, including Mike’s three-hundred-million-dollar contract could convince him. This whole goddamned sitch needed to be nuked. And Lynx was the guy to do it.

  He climbed the three brick steps, rang the bell and slowly drew a few breaths of night air.

  Then he heard voices. One distant and one coming closer. A man’s voice—Ned probably—saying he’d get it.

  Lynx kept his hands loose at his sides. He might need them. Might not. All depended.

  The door opened and revealed a guy dressed in track pants and a T-shirt. His hair was dark with specks of gray and he was an inch taller than Lynx. He looked fit, but if it came down to it, he’d be no match.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Ned Dillard?”

  “Yes.”

  Lynx focused the energy consuming him. “My name is Jack Lynx. You know who I am. You’ve heard my name on the bug you planted in Jillian Murdoch’s house. What you don’t understand is the shit storm I’m about to bring to you.” He thought about Jillian’s battered face, let the spewing rage inside build another layer while Ned’s gaze darted side to side. “Lay off Jillian. If she breaks a nail, if she trips on a curb, if she gets a paper cut from a report you gave her, the shit storm doubles.”

  Ned stared at him, his brows drawn together. “What are you talking about?”

  “Tell me you understand.”

  “I don’t—”

  Blood barreled into Lynx’s brain, a literal onslaught of anger squeezing through his neck and rising. Don’t lose it. He got quiet, relaxed his shoulders and folded his arms. His years as a military officer taught him how to get people in line. “This is not a conversation. I’m telling you how this will go. I know what you had done to her tonight. Tell me you understand. Either way, you’re going down.”

  “Who is it?” a woman yelled from the top of the stairs.

  Ned kept his eyes on Lynx. “A work thing. Be right in.” He came out of the house and closed the door behind him. Lynx didn’t move. Let the fucker work around him. Ned shifted two feet to the right. “What happened to Jillian?”

  “In three seconds I can have you on the ground begging for your life. Do not fuck with me. Do not fuck with Jillian. Tell me you understand.”

  Silence passed between them. Lynx stood still—not even a flinch. Ned opened his mouth but shut it again.

  “Don’t make this hard,” Lynx said. “The stitches on her face are enough for me to fuck your world up good. I’ll probably do that anyway, but you help your own cause by telling me you understand.”

  Ned shook his head, actually looked sincere. “What stitches?”

  This guy was good. Not that good, though. Lynx grabbed him by the shirt, shoved him against the house and clawed his fingers at his throat.

  Ned gagged once and Lynx released the pressure. “That’s what you put her through tonight. You like how that feels?”

  No answer.

  “Any of your men put their hands on Jillian again, I’ll rip your throat out. Do you understand?”

  Finally, Ned nodded, but his dark gaze bounced around again. Confusion. Either this guy was totally playing him or he had no clue what the hell was going on.

  Lynx let go and Ned leaned against the house, gasping for precious air.

  “One paper cut,” Lynx said, “and I come back here.”

  He turned and left Ned Dillard standing on his pristine white porch, the two-story columns gleaming against the overhead light. Lynx didn’t look back. He’d done what he’d set out to. To let this asshole know the game was on.

  Only, after this power play, Lynx wasn’t sure who exactly the players were.

  * * *

  Jillian sat
on her sofa studying the ancient porcelain lamp on the end table. The one with the bug hidden under it.

  Sons of bitches.

  She’d loved that lamp the second she’d seen it in the consignment shop. Sure it was yellow, but she liked the splash of color it gave the room. Such care had been taken with this room, right down to the silk drapes she’d found on eBay. So what if the drapes were too short and she had to build a cornice to go over the top of the windows? The cornice had cost her twenty dollars in material and she’d been able to hang the drapes two inches lower to hide the length issue. Stretching a buck had never been a problem for her and it enabled her to make a home. One that provided warmth and comfort and peace of mind.

  Except for the illegal listening devices.

  Sons of bitches.

  Someone tapped on the front door and she spun to it. Must be Jack. Otherwise, Bobby, the heck of a nice guy standing guard in her driveway, would have alerted her. His presence, although a welcome sight, would never make her comfortable. Who could be comfortable knowing their situation had grown so tenuous they needed a guard?

  She rose from the sofa inch by tiny inch. Her aching body couldn’t move much faster. “Jack?”

  “It’s me.”

  “I’m coming,” she hollered. “A little banged up here. Moving slow.”

  I should give him a key.

  That was something that had never entered her mind. With anyone. Even the thought of it sent the not so dull drumming in her head to a full cymbal crash.

  Reading too much into the idea that she liked Jack being here would be a mistake. She never denied her self-imposed loneliness. What was the point? She’d chosen her lifestyle for her own protection. This mess of emotions she was feeling now? That could only be attributed to the torment that had taken over her life. To the vulnerability of having her home invaded not just once, but twice.

  She checked the peephole and saw Jack on the other side of the door. The cymbals mellowed. Thank you.

  She cracked the door and he slipped in. “Sorry you had to get up.”