The Kill Box

by Nichole Christoff

  It was an intriguing offer.

  But I shook my head.

  “I can’t, Marc. Thank you, though.”

  I slipped from his embrace, hunted up my overcoat, and willfully overlooked the DEA agent’s deepening frown.

  “What’s your hurry, Jamie? Hot date?”

  I grinned. I couldn’t help it. I had more than a hot date.

  I had a houseguest.

  And I couldn’t get home to him fast enough.

  Granted, by Washington, D.C., standards, the route from Reagan National Airport to my place in the heart of Old Town Alexandria was a quick trip. In fact, the expedition was hardly long enough for my phone call to Hudson Paul. But to me, the journey still lasted an eternity.

  Sooner rather than later, however, I eased my glossy green Jaguar XJ8 into the alley that ran behind my rehabbed 1803 townhouse. I punched my complicated PIN into the keypad that opened my garage and drove inside. Once the door was down, I got out of my car.

  Upstairs, in the kitchen on the house’s main level, I found the private nurse I’d hired. She had roses in her cheeks and silver in her hair, and her deep purple surgical scrubs had been ironed to within an inch of their life. She was drying my big stoneware mixing bowl with an Irish linen dishtowel when I greeted her, and behind her, cooling on the range-top, rested a pan of freshly baked lasagna. The savory scent of oregano wafted all the way across the room to me.

  “How’s the patient?” I asked her.

  She smiled ruefully, draped the dishtowel over the lip of my farmhouse sink to dry. “He’s a little cranky, but he’s trying not to show it. He sure is ready to get that cast off his leg.”

  Of that, I had no doubt.

  In the spring, I’d met Mrs. Montgomery’s patient. He was a soldier with a moral compass that pointed true, a soft spot for stray dogs, and a smile that put sunlight to shame. And this fall, he’d had my back when I’d tangled with a mercenary on a secret military installation. As a result, he’d ended up getting hurt. With a leg broken in three places.

  Facing surgery and rounds of checkups at the D.C. area’s new Walter Reed National Military Medical Center, he would’ve had to endure the discomfort of a long stay in the military’s temporary housing, the expense of a shabby motel room near the hospital compound, or the trial of travel to and from his own New Jersey digs.

  So I’d invited him to stay with me.

  And Lieutenant Colonel Adam Barrett had accepted.

  Now, after six long weeks of pain and pills and staying put, Barrett’s cast would come off in the morning. He couldn’t wait. And neither could I.

  I couldn’t wait to see him, either, so I wished Mrs. Montgomery a pleasant evening and left her to make her own way to the front door. I dumped my overcoat and suit jacket on an obliging chair and hurried down the hall. I stuck to the Savonnerie runner streaking down the middle of the floor and let its deep pile swallow any clicks my handmade high-heeled shoes might’ve made on the hardwood. At the open door to the guest room, I paused. And while my heart did somersaults, I peeped around the jamb.

  There, on this side of the crewelwork coverlet, Adam Barrett reclined like some kind of recuperating Celtic hero. The hulking cast that encased his leg from toes to hip had been propped on enough pillows to furnish a high-end hotel. And Mrs. Montgomery had heaped plenty more against the mahogany headboard.

  Barrett’s blond head lolled across them, his hair a little shaggy according to army standards. Abandoned books were stacked beside him on the mahogany nightstand. And well within reach, his aluminum crutches gleamed against the wall.

  While I watched, Barrett tucked a muscled arm behind the nape of his neck. The TV’s remote control lay listlessly in his other hand. He flipped from one channel to another, too late in the season to find a baseball game and too alone to complain about it.

  I said, “Hello, soldier. What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like this?”

  The frown Barrett had been sporting vanished instantly. He shoved himself a little higher on the cushions. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “Us private eyes aren’t called gumshoes for nothing.”

  “Well, you look great, shoes and all.”

  “When the doc cuts you loose tomorrow, you might never want to look at me again.”

  “That’s not gonna happen,” he said.

  And I smiled in spite of myself.

  “Mrs. Montgomery’s headed home,” I told him, “but she left us mountains of lasagna. We could get you out of here. Move you into the dining room for a dinner party. Or have a picnic on the living room floor.”

  Barrett nodded acceptance. But it wasn’t enthusiasm. Belatedly, I realized why.

  To get to a picnic on the floor, Barrett would need my help.

  For any soldier, accepting help is a challenge. I knew this as well as I knew my own name. After all, I’d been raised by a soldier/father who’d demanded the best from himself—and from everyone else around him. His high standards propelled him to the rank of major general and beyond. Now my father was a United States senator. And the values he’d drilled into me made me the success I was today. So I knew that in the field and at home, our men- and women-in-arms are expected to be self-sufficient.

  And they are.

  But for Barrett, accepting help was even more difficult. Because he wasn’t just a soldier who took orders. He was a capable military police commander who gave them.

  “Forget what I said,” I urged him. Because I never wanted Barrett to feel like less than he was. Not when he meant so much to me.

  And it was this that propelled me across the room.

  Determined to perk him up, I drew alongside his bed, stepped out of my elegant shoes. Careful of his cast, I sank a knee into the mattress beside his thigh. And, swinging a leg across his lap, I straddled him in one smooth move.

  With a fingertip, I traced the letters stamped on the old gray sweatshirt he wore—A-R-M-Y—and I smiled. “I’ve got a proposition for you.”

  The television remote dropped from Barrett’s grasp.

  And his hands gripped my hips.

  “Whatever it is,” he replied, “I’m going to say yes.”

  Truth be told, in the seven months since we’d met, Barrett and I hadn’t had the opportunity to say yes to much of anything. And that went double for sex. But I’d been okay with that. Because sex is a game changer. And anyone who says otherwise is a liar.

  In recent days, however, Barrett and I had booked a weekend getaway to celebrate his return to health. When Friday rolled around, we’d be headed to Virginia’s wine country, where we’d spend our days walking the vineyards. And our nights? Well, neither of us had suggested definitive plans. But I thought we both had a pretty good idea how we’d finally be spending those.

  “Tonight,” I said, smoothing my hands along Barrett’s broad boxer’s chest. “Don’t worry about dinner in the dining room. We can stay right here.”

  “Sure. This bed’s the ideal place,” Barrett replied, “to have lasagna.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed. “And Mrs. Montgomery probably left a salad in the fridge.”

  “But she’s gone for the day?”

  “She is.”

  “So we’re alone?”

  “We are.”

  “Hmm,” Barrett said. “I do like lasagna.”

  But lasagna was the last thing on my mind when he bent his good leg, changed the angle of his lap. The move tipped me into him. And his mouth met mine.

  Anytime Barrett kissed me—every time he kissed me—was like wading barefoot into a rushing river. The shock of him always left me breathless. And the swift slipstream of his intensity always threatened to sweep me away.

  But what a way to go.

  As one kiss led to another, I wrapped my arms around Barrett’s neck. His left hand traveled the line of my thigh. It flexed behind my right knee—and the next thing I knew, I was flat on my back. With Barrett on top of me. His bodyweight pinned me to the comforter in a c
ombat move made playful by passion.

  “Your leg—” I breathed.

  “—is fine.”

  “I’ll feel better when I hear the doctor saying that tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow,” Barrett said, “is a long way away.”

  He was so right.

  Barrett’s deft fingers found the first pearl button on my blouse. It yielded to him in a heartbeat. And then and there, I knew I was going to do the same. Because having Barrett spend these weeks in my guestroom had felt like foreplay. And I was ready for what came next.

  Silk gave way to the satin I wore against my skin, and Barrett’s palms cruised along my curves. I sighed with the sensation of his touch, slipped hungry hands beneath his sweatshirt, felt the flexing of his muscled back—until a muffled thump in another part of the house broke my concentration.

  Barrett turned his head to look toward the hall. Past his strong shoulder, I saw the shadows shift. Mrs. Montgomery’s form darkened the doorway.

  But Mrs. Montgomery had company.

  A man I’d never seen before dragged her into the bedroom by her silver-laced hair. He forced her to kneel in front of him. And he shoved the long barrel of a shiny .357 Magnum into the soft tissue at her temple.

  At that caliber, the gun was overkill. One pull of the trigger wouldn’t just murder Mrs. Montgomery. It would blast the contents of her cranium to the ceiling.

  Barrett moved faster than I would’ve believed possible, rolling off of me and onto the edge of the bed. He could hardly stand, though. And without his crutches, he couldn’t walk. I jumped to my feet, automatically grabbed for the Beretta 9000S usually holstered at my side. But I’d left the weapon in my bedroom, in my gun safe, when I’d gone to meet Marc at the airport that morning.

  As if I were armed and dangerous anyway, the intruder screamed at Barrett. “Tell your girlfriend not to come any closer! I’ll shoot this woman in the head! I’ll shoot her!”

  “No!” The word was out of my mouth before I could stop it. I pointed an authoritative finger at the stranger in my home. “This is my house. You put the gun down.”

  He didn’t obey me.

  And Mrs. Montgomery whimpered like a lost little girl.

  “We’re staying right here,” Barrett assured the man. “Let the lady go and we’ll talk.”

  “No talking!” the stranger yelled. “Just doing!”

  His face was as filthy as a coal miner’s after the night shift and his tattered desert-tan jacket had belonged to a soldier. It was as dirty as the rest of him, but I could make out the name tapes sewn above the chest pockets. One read US ARMY. The other read MCCABE. Whether the jacket was his and his name was McCabe, I couldn’t say. But his wide and wild eyes and the shaking of the hand that gripped his gun told me he was hopped up on illegal drugs. And I was certain that alone could make him deadly.

  “What do you want us to do?” Barrett asked him.

  In answer, the intruder did the most extraordinary thing.

  He called Barrett by his first name.

  “I want you to come with me, Adam.”

  I blinked in disbelief. “Barrett, do you know this guy?”

  Barrett didn’t reply.

  “You’ve got to come home with me,” the gunman told him.

  “He’s not going anywhere,” I snapped. “He has a broken leg.”

  But the stranger kept talking like I wasn’t even in the room. “Don’t do it for me, Adam. Do it for Eric.”

  “Eric?” Barrett whispered.

  The intruder nodded. His arms dropped to his sides. The gun fell from his fingertips, clonked on the hardwood. I darted after it and snatched it up. Mrs. Montgomery collapsed like her bones had turned to jelly. And her assailant sagged against the doorjamb as if accosting us had taken all his strength.

  “Barrett,” I demanded, “what’s going on here?”

  “It’s all right,” he assured me. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

  But I could see that was a lie.

  And Barrett had never lied to me before.

  Unfortunately, it wasn’t long until he lied to me again.

  I left Barrett to tuck a weepy Mrs. Montgomery into a cab while she was still on this side of hysterical, and made a mental note to cut her the largest check my swollen bank account could afford. Luckily, she hadn’t been injured or worse. But luck only goes so far.

  And her assailant was still inside my house.

  Unarmed and seemingly under Barrett’s command, the guy had become as meek as a mouse the moment Barrett had heard him out. Such a mood swing suggested he was under the influence of any number of pharmaceuticals, however, and it would take professional help to sort him out. So when the cab pulled away from the curb, I raced upstairs. But Barrett had banished the man to the adjoining bathroom. I heard water running in the shower and wondered if I’d recognize the guy underneath all the dirt.

  “Mrs. Montgomery’s on her way home,” I told Barrett. “I say we call the police while—”

  And that’s when I noticed Barrett’s duffel bag yawning on the foot of the bed. He hobbled to the dresser with a single crutch under his arm. He extracted a wine-colored waffle-knit shirt from a drawer, rolled it into a long log, and returned to shove it into the bag.

  Because Barrett was packing.

  He said, “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, Jamie.”

  “Barrett, that sounds an awful lot like goodbye.” And in that moment, I felt as cold as if winter had taken up residence in my soul. “Can you at least tell me how you know this guy?”

  “His name is Vance McCabe. We were friends in high school and he’s an Iraqi war vet.”

  “And do you know your friend is pretty strung out right now?”

  Barrett didn’t respond. He just stuffed a sweater into his duffel bag. In the bathroom, the shower went silent.

  “Well, you can’t leave tonight,” I said, trying to be reasonable. “You’ve got an appointment tomorrow so your cast can come off.”

  “It’s been six weeks. The cast can come off—with or without an appointment.”

  Barrett made another round-trip to and from the dresser drawers.

  “Yes, but we had plans. For the weekend.” For lovely days. And romantic nights.

  Barrett zipped up the top of his duffel. “I’m sorry, Jamie. Vance!”

  At Barrett’s shout, his so-called friend appeared in the en suite doorway. Barrett tossed his duffel at the guy. With quicker reflexes than I’d have thought he possessed, Vance McCabe caught the bag against his gut like a varsity athlete catches a football.

  And while I stood there sputtering like a teakettle that had been pushed too far from the heat, Barrett gathered up his second crutch. Without another word, he lurched toward the door. And just like that, he was gone.

  Chapter 3

  Three days passed.

  I heard nothing from Barrett.

  I texted him as often as my pride would allow. He didn’t respond. In the meantime, his sister called me. Elise was a doctor in New Jersey. She had a husband and two small boys whom Barrett adored. Last spring, and in September, too, Elise had been pretty vocal about my getting together with her brother. She’d been heartily in favor of it—even when I wasn’t.

  Now, considering the recent turn of events, I didn’t know what to say to her.

  So I dodged her calls.

  When Friday night rolled around—and Barrett still treated me to radio silence—I accepted Marc Sandoval’s renewed invitation to drinks. Drinks turned into a candlelight dinner at a cozy restaurant in Old Town. And dinner turned into a moonlit stroll along the Alexandria waterfront.

  But the waterfront was as far as I could go.

  Long before the witching hour, I thanked Marc for a nice time, turned my cheek when he moved in to kiss me good night, and beat it back to my empty, echoing house. It was after 11 P.M. when I walked through the door. But in my home office, the phone was ringing off the hook.

  I darted to my desk, s
natched the thing from its cradle. “Hello?”

  “Miss Sinclair? I’m sorry to bother you. I know it’s quite late.”

  To be honest, I’ll admit the voice on the other end of the connection wasn’t the one I’d been dying to hear. But I told myself that didn’t matter. In my line of work, people with real problems called at night. Not grown women bothered because some guy had left them in their lingerie so he could go traipsing into the unknown with an old high school buddy. No, my caller was a little old lady, guessing by the warble in her voice. And the catch in her throat suggested she was out of options.

  She said, “My granddaughter gave me your number. My grandson’s in a good deal of trouble.”

  “Trouble,” I said, “is my specialty.”

  So were referrals and repeat business. They were any entrepreneur’s bread and butter, but given my rarified field as a private-eye-turned-security-specialist who took on high-risk, high-profile clients allergic to bad press and the police, they were definitely mine. Besides, taking on a new job—and sorting through someone else’s dirty laundry—would give me something else to think about. Because in recent days, I’d been stuck on how much Barrett’s bailing on me stung. A new case would keep me too busy to think about it.

  So I forced a smile I hoped the old woman could hear. “How can I help you…? I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “It’s Miranda,” she said. “Miranda Barrett. And I need you to help my grandson, Adam.”

  I’d never hung up on an old woman before and I wasn’t about to start now.

  But I was sorely tempted.

  Instead, I drew a deep, cooling breath and told myself to mind my manners. “Mrs. Barrett, I don’t think Adam wants help from the likes of me.”

  “There’s a difference between want and need, Miss Sinclair. Adam needs help. He came home three days ago and has gone off with that McCabe boy every night since. Now Adam’s in jail. I can’t get the sheriff to tell me why.”

  “Then you need a lawyer or a bail bondsman. You don’t need me.”

  “A lawyer couldn’t help Adam the last time.”

  The last time? I didn’t like the sound of that and neither did my stomach. It spun sideways before shrinking into a cold, hard knot. I’d always known Barrett and his sister had spent their teen years raised by their grandparents. But this lawyer language was new to me.