Way of the Warrior

by Suzanne Brockmann

  in the Deep Six series

  Hell or High Water

  On sale July 2015

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I’d like to take a moment to thank all those involved with this, the project of my heart…

  First up are the fabulous authors who so graciously donated their time and talent. Thank you all a million times over for sharing your amazing stories with me and with the world.

  Next is my publisher, Dominique Raccah, and the wonderful staff at Sourcebooks. Thank you so much, not only for embracing the idea of a charity anthology, but for taking it on and making it your own.

  I can’t forget the awesome Deb Werksman, my editor. Deb, none of this would have been possible without your tireless efforts during every step of the process. And for that, I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Simply put, you rock!

  And, finally, there’s my agent, the amazing Nicole Resciniti. Nic, my humblest thanks. You helped me realize a lifelong dream.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Julie Ann Walker is the USA Today and New York Times bestselling author of the Black Knights Inc. and Deep Six romantic suspense series. She has won the Book Buyers Best Award and has been nominated for the National Readers Choice Award and the Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA award. Julie is prone to spouting movie quotes and song lyrics. She’ll never say no to sharing a glass of wine or going for a long walk. She prefers impromptu travel over the scheduled kind, and she takes her coffee with milk. You can find her on her bicycle along the lakeshore in Chicago or blasting away at her keyboard, trying to wrangle her capricious imagination into submission. For more information, please visit www.julieannwalker.com or follow her on Facebook, www.facebook.com/jawalkerauthor and/or Twitter @JAWalkerAuthor.

  IN PLAIN SIGHT

  An Elite Force Novella

  CATHERINE MANN

  CHAPTER 1

  “This is 9-1-1. What is your emergency?” a masculine voice rasped through the cell phone receiver.

  “Help me, please,” Stacy Currie hissed between her clenched teeth, terrified of revealing her hiding place in the laundry room but needing to ramble out as much information as possible. Her life depended on it. “I live at 21 Goldenrod Lane. My ex-husband is trying to break into my house. I have a restraining order. He’s going to kill me.”

  Even now, she could hear the rattling of the front door knob, the thud of footsteps on her porch when no one had reason to visit this late at night. Jared’s footsteps. Jared, the walking nightmare she’d married. Her husband who’d abused her for four years. Her ex-husband who stalked her still.

  “Ma’am, where are you in your home?” the male emergency dispatcher asked with a studied calm that struck a familiar chord inside her.

  Her heart hitched. It couldn’t be… Pain must be making her imagination play tricks with her mind. The man on the phone couldn’t possibly be him, the strongest man she’d ever known. The man she should have married.

  She had to think clearly, focus. “I’m in my laundry room, under the utility sink. There’s a curtain around it.”

  Thank God she’d woken up, unable to go back to sleep. Restless, she’d gone in search of a midnight snack and caught a glimpse of her ex creeping through her garden, daffodils and bluebells crushed under his boots. She’d snatched up her cell phone and ducked into the laundry room to hide while she called for help. She clutched her knees tightly to her chest, the scent of fabric softener and bleach lingering in the air. “Are you still there?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I’m here. Is the intruder still outside or has he entered the house?” the dispatcher asked, his voice gravelly and hoarse.

  She listened closer to the tones and realized it wasn’t Gavin, the man she should have married, on the line after all. Gavin’s voice had been deep but smooth, sweeping away her inhibitions and virginity—before she’d ruined her life by issuing ultimatums that had driven a wedge between them. A decade ago, Gavin had left their small Kentucky town and enlisted in the Air Force, his burly presence and reassuring strength gone from her world.

  “He’s still outside. He’s trying to jimmy the locks. There’s no glass to break.” When she’d moved across town after her divorce two years ago, she’d bought a solid wood door, triple locks, and grilles for the windows, turning her cottage into a fortress. She’d quit her job as an LPN and supported herself by freelance writing medical articles. “You have to send help quickly. He’s tried to kill me before.”

  He’d almost succeeded six months ago, even though the cops hadn’t been able to prove he was the culprit. Her side ached at the memory. She’d kept herself alive thanks to her training as a nurse, pushing her fingers into her own wound. The cops had labeled it another unsolved break-in, since she’d never actually seen his face. He always wore a mask. His anonymous texts and gifts were always untraceable but had hidden meanings she couldn’t mistake.

  “Ma’am, I’ve already dispatched a patrol car to your address. I will stay on the line until they arrive. Meanwhile, we’re going to get as much information as we can to help the police know what to expect.”

  What to expect? Anything. Everything. Evil.

  Jared had threatened her with a gun, his fists, knives, even a winter scarf pulled tightly around her neck. Her hands shook so hard she almost dropped the phone. The most she’d ever been able to achieve was a restraining order. And that he deftly ignored, terrorizing her without getting caught. At one point, out of desperation, she’d tried relocating to a different state, and he’d found her within two weeks. If she couldn’t hide, at least she could be safe in her home.

  “Ma’am? Talk to me. Tell me what you hear.”

  “Yes, I’m…just having…trouble…breathing…” Her toes curled against the tile floor, a gust from the air conditioner rustling the sink curtain against her bare legs.

  “When you speak, that will help you breathe. Keep talking to me.”

  “Okay…Okay…Okay…” She sucked in a shuddering breath. Would she ever be able to smell detergent again without having a panic attack? A thud reverberated and sent a jolt of fear through her. “He’s ramming his shoulder against the front door.”

  “That’s important to know, ma’am. Keep talking. Details. It would help to have your names.”

  “His name is Jared Lewis. I’m Stacy Currie. I took back my maiden name after the divorce.”

  Silence. No answer from the other end of the line. Nothing at all from the dispatcher for three heartbeats, her pulse as loud as the pounding on the door. But no shouting. Jared never risked his voice being caught on tape. He would be masked and gloved too. The more it happened, the more reclusive she became and the more the town thought she was going off the deep end, paranoid from that first “unsolved break-in.”

  “Sir? Hello?” Had the call dropped? Bile burned her throat. She looked at her cell phone glowing with only twenty-four percent battery life. “Please don’t leave.”

  He cleared his throat. “I’m here, and you’re going to be fine. Help is on the way.”

  The back porch door crashed open. The crack of splintering wood, the slam against the wall sent icy terror spiking through her. She bit her lip until it bled, holding back a scream. Jared wasn’t just toying with her tonight. He was inside her home. The alarm squealed into the night. She’d bought this cottage with safety in mind, but even her best efforts hadn’t been enough to keep Jared out.

  “Stacy…” The dispatcher stayed calm, but she could have sworn even he had a hint of urgency bleeding through his raspy tones. “Talk to me. Breathe.”

  “He’s in the house.” Her voice shook as hard as her hands as she heard him move around the living area, then walk toward the bedrooms. “He broke down the door, and he’s looking for me.”

  “Do you have a weapon?” He stayed calm but authoritative.

  “No. The knives are in the kitchen.” She’d considered grabbin
g one, but the fear of having Jared take it from her again was too real. She had the scar on her side to prove it. Tonight, before racing into the laundry room, she’d shoved the knife block under the kitchen sink.

  “Do you have anything aerosol close by? Cleaning supplies?”

  She pushed the curtain around the sink aside and studied the small room, lit only by the moonlight streaming through a small high window. “Yes. I have wasp spray.”

  And an iron. But what if he took it from her? Or God forbid, he took the iron and tormented her, slowly, taking his time to burn her as he’d done once before.

  “Get the spray. Now. If he finds you, aim straight for his eyes and run. We need to keep him away from you for just a little while longer. The police are close, Stacy. Hang on. Where is he now?”

  “I think he’s walking down the hall toward my room, but it’s a small cottage, only two bedrooms and everything’s so open if I go to the front door he’ll see me. The back door leads to my garage, and I don’t want to be trapped in there by him.” She scrambled from under the sink and walked softly in the small, dark utility room, groping along the shelf over the washer until her fingers wrapped around the can of bug spray for ants, roaches, spiders. Appropriate. “He’ll check the kitchen next when he realizes I’m not asleep.”

  “Help will arrive before then.” He sounded so certain she almost believed him.

  She scrambled back under the sink, phone in one hand and can in the other. “How are you telling the cops? You’re talking to me.”

  “There’s another dispatcher on the line. She’s listening and relaying everything to the police. Two units are on their way, Stacy. Not just one. Now, explain the floor plan. Let us know how to find you fastest.”

  “He broke in the front door, which brings you into a combo living room and dining room. The bedrooms are to the left. The kitchen is to the right. There are three doors in the kitchen—to the garage, the pantry, the laundry room.” His footsteps grew louder. He was back in the living room. “Oh, God, he’s walking toward the kitchen. I can’t talk anymore.”

  “Don’t hang up.” The strength in his voice carried her through. “Listen to me, and be sure to breathe so I know you’re there. You’re doing great.”

  Sirens sounded in the distance, growing louder, closer. Help. Maybe this time they would catch him in the act and the nightmare would be over. She dared to whisper, “The police. I hear them.”

  “You’re doing great, Stacy. You’ve protected yourself. Just a little longer.”

  “He’s stopped.” She held her breath, listening. “He’s…I think he’s leaving. I think he’s running away. Because of the sirens.”

  How strange to be upset over that, but if the police had caught him he would be in violation of the restraining order. He would go to prison, even if only for a short time. She had security cameras, but she held little hope they would reveal anything helpful. He would have thought to cover his face. He was careful. Dangerous. She had to try harder to leave this place again. She couldn’t live this way any longer. More than just move, she would buy a whole new identity if she had to, but she couldn’t just wait for him to kill her.

  She sagged against the pipes under the sink as the police announced themselves at the front door. Tears clogged her eyes and throat. “Please, please tell them to catch him.”

  “Anastasia.” The dispatcher’s low rasp of her full name froze her. “I promise, he will never hurt you again.”

  Anastasia?

  Her full name. She sat up straighter, thunking her head on the sink, stunned for more reason than one. Only two people had ever called her Anastasia. Her mother.

  And Gavin.

  The first man she’d ever loved. The first one to break her heart.

  The voice might not sound like him, but somehow, someway, it was Gavin. And how damn ironic that just as she finally decided to cut ties to this town for good…

  Gavin Novak was back.

  • • •

  The next afternoon, Tech Sergeant Gavin Novak lounged in a hammock in the backyard of his duplex with his dog Radar on the ground beside him. He wouldn’t have long to get his thoughts together before talking to Stacy face to face. He couldn’t avoid the inevitable any longer, not after last night.

  He’d worked the graveyard shift, so his day had started late, the afternoon sun warm on his face, a breeze rustling the maple tree branches overhead. Not that he’d been able to sleep after taking that 9-1-1 call last night from Stacy Currie, the last person he’d expected to be on the other end of the line. At first, he hadn’t realized it was her. She’d been whispering so softly.

  Then she’d given her name, and he realized she didn’t recognize his voice at all. Possibly because he was just a part of her past. But then he didn’t sound the same either, not since the accident that had ended his Air Force career as a pararescueman. The helicopter crash a year ago, the flames, the crushed bones. He was a walking miracle, lucky to be alive and talking at all.

  He reached over the side of the hammock and grappled for his water bottle, always thirsty these days, his throat perpetually raw, the pain an ever-present reminder that he’d walked away from that accident when others hadn’t. He’d been partnered with Captain Jablonski that day. Jablonksi and the flight crew hadn’t stood a chance. Pinned by the wreckage, Gavin hadn’t been able to reach them, couldn’t see, couldn’t move, just heard their last gasps. His hand grazed over Radar’s soft fur before wrapping around the plastic bottle. He sucked down a long draw of ice water. He swung one leg off the side and tapped the hammock into motion.

  His career credo during his Air Force days as a pararescueman had been “These things we do that others may live,” and he’d embraced that mission. He’d expected to die in the line of duty. Finding a way to face growing old without that mission had knocked the props out from under him. He took another long gulp of water. God, he missed being a pararescueman—also known as a parajumper, or a PJ.

  The job fielding emergency calls had been a godsend, considering he wasn’t good for much of anything since that crash had rattled his brains and damn near crushed his larynx. Ironic really. He’d always been known as the least chatty PJ in their squadron, and he’d almost lost the ability to speak altogether. Yet now his world revolved around words. He’d been a damn good medic in his unit. From antiterrorism missions in the Gulf of Aden in the Middle East to earthquake relief in the Bahamas, he was the one everybody requested in a medical crisis. At least he’d found a way to put some of his emergency responder skills to work. Even if he was going damn near stir-crazy, aching to be in the fight rather than just listening.

  Listening last night had taken that frustration to a deep, dark level.

  And the cops hadn’t even caught the bastard.

  Gavin had done some nosing around after the incident. The police hadn’t been able to pin anything on Jared Lewis other than some harassing texts. There was a restraining order. And Stacy’s insistence that he’d tried to break into her house before. For now, Gavin could only make sure she was safe, so he’d called in some favors locally to have her watched until she made it to his house this afternoon. And more favors long distance to help over the next few days. It had been all Gavin could do not to rush right over to her last night, but he knew his time was better spent coming up with a strategy.

  Every day this month since he’d moved back to Kentucky to pick up the pieces of his life as a civilian, he’d been tempted to phone her. And every day he’d made an excuse to wait.

  After what happened last night, there could be no more waiting.

  He heard the car stop outside his home. Stacy Currie. He’d known his Anastasia wouldn’t waste time coming to see him once she knew he’d returned. She’d always been braver than him. Since he’d heard her gasp of recognition on the phone last night, he’d known the confrontation would be inevitable. He’d considered going to
her place, but being near her again would be difficult enough. He needed the edge of being on his home turf, so once the police had left her house and reassured him she was safely secured, he’d texted her his address, noted he’d be awake by two, and left it at that. Would she come alone? Or with an escort?

  Where was her ex now? The cops said they’d followed a car racing away from Stacy’s house to outside the city limits. The cowardly jerk would likely lay low for a while. Gavin intended to use that time to his advantage to prepare.

  Radar lifted his head, nudging Gavin’s hand. The car door slammed closed.

  Gavin scratched his dog’s ears. “It’s okay, boy. She’s…a friend.” He took another swallow of water and called out, “I’m in the backyard.”

  The soft tread of her steps rustled in time with the branches. One set of steps. She’d come alone.

  His duplex was on the edge of town, with minimal traffic. His backyard was enclosed with a tall, wooden privacy fence. The gate squeaked open in the quiet afternoon. His gut knotted. He nudged his sunglasses up along the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed as he just breathed in the moment. Was it memory or reality that led him to catch a whiff of her—like strawberries. She’d favored the scent for lotion and shampoo when they’d been together before.

  “Gavin?”

  That voice was unmistakable now that she wasn’t whispering, a hint deeper than when they’d been teenagers. Today, the melodic tones weren’t filled with terror.

  He gestured to the Adirondack chair beside his hammock. “Have a seat. You’ll pardon me if I don’t get up. It was a late night at work.”

  “Of course.” She walked closer, the sound of her steps on the thick carpet of grass echoing his heartbeat. Of course she’d come. She’d always had a steely will encased in a five-foot-one body, like a delicate butterfly that withstood the fiercest wind. “I got your text.”

  “I should have sent it sooner.”