Deathwatch

by Dana Marton

  His hands came right up. “Take it easy, sweetheart.”

  The voice—deep, relaxed, and sexy—wasn’t what she expected from the country’s most dangerous hit man.

  A shaft of moonlight glazed his body with silver glow, outlining an impressive amount of muscles. He seemed unarmed. And mostly undressed. Was she dreaming? She’d dreamed of him finding her so many times….

  But no, this wasn’t a dream. This time, the fear and the rush of blood in her ears were all too real.

  “I want to see your weapon,” she demanded when she found her voice. “Throw it down.” Where the hell was his gun? Or his shirt, for that matter?

  “I’m unarmed.”

  Right. His weapon was probably behind his back, tucked into his waistband.

  “Don’t move.” She’d been holding the gun with both hands, but now reached for the phone on the nightstand with her left. She had 911 on speed dial. She pushed the button, but didn’t try to pick up the phone. She couldn’t afford to be distracted. The call itself should bring some kind of emergency response to the address.

  She had this all thought out, had imagined it a million times.

  “You might be the better shot, but I have my gun out and aimed,” she warned, even knowing that words would never hold back a man like him.

  She braced herself. She couldn’t hesitate. She had to shoot the second he moved.

  But instead of launching an attack, he tilted his head and looked her over. Took his time. “You belong to Doug?”

  Her frenetic mind struggled to make sense of the question. “No.”

  “I don’t suppose I could talk you into putting that gun down?”

  “Doug who?”

  “My brother. I’m Murph. He probably told you about me. This is my house.”

  “No it’s not. I’m renting it.” For the next three months still. She never stayed in one place long, no matter how much she wanted to stop running.

  “From?”

  “Doug Dolan.” That Doug? Her frenetic mind made the connection at last.

  The man in her bedroom looked like he was swearing under his breath. “Doug’s my brother. I didn’t know he rented out the house. Technically, it’s not his to rent.” His impressive shoulders rose as he filled his lungs. “I’m going to reach out very slowly and turn on the light. All right?”

  She hesitated only a moment before nodding. “The better I see, the better I can shoot you if you try anything.”

  She squinted her eyes so the light wouldn’t blind her, but she had to blink a few times anyway when he flipped the switch and light flooded the sparsely-furnished room. The old pine dresser, armchair and the bed with the nightstand had come with the house.

  She looked at nothing but the intruder. Wrong height—this one was several inches taller than Asael. Wrong shape—his shoulders were much wider. Wrong chin—although that could be faked with a facial prosthetic. But the overall body couldn’t. As good as Asael was, he couldn’t have grown over the past year and a half. Which meant she had the wrong guy at the end of her gun.

  But still. He might not be the killer she was running from, but he was the man who’d broken into her house, into her bedroom, half-naked in the middle of the night. She kept the gun steady.

  His dark eyebrows drew together. “I was deployed overseas. I got back stateside a couple of hours ago.”

  His camouflage pants and the dog tags hanging from his neck backed up his story, but she was still shaking inside and not ready to lower her weapon as fast as that. “I want to see your I.D.”

  “Out in my bag by the front door.” He paused as he watched her. “How long have you been living here?”

  “Almost six weeks.” Which meant she had almost three more months left on her short-term lease. Then she would move again.

  She’d been scouting out places already, a small lake community down in Maryland in particular, but hadn’t found a house yet. She didn’t like apartments. She couldn’t be stuck up on the third floor of a building. She needed multiple emergency exits.

  He stepped back. “I’m going to back away now and get you that I.D.”

  “Turn around first. Slowly.”

  He raised an eyebrow, but complied. Okay. He had no weapons on him that she could see. The rippling muscles in his back distracted her a little. When her gaze slipped below his belt, she yanked it back up.

  He had major scars, fresh ones on his left shoulder and side. And when he’d turned, his left arm didn’t quite move in sync with the rest of his body.

  Since he, supposedly, was fresh home from war, she guessed a hand grenade or maybe even a bomb. Or he could be lying, fresh out of prison, the scars reminders of a nasty cafeteria fight.

  “All right. Let's see that I.D.” She slid out of bed to follow him. No way was she going to let him out of her sight.

  He flicked on lights as he went. She noted the trail of clothes on the hardwood floor in the hallway, then the duffel bag that stood where he’d said it would be, next to the small hall table that held her keys and the junk mail. He reached into the bag, rifled around for a few seconds and pulled out a beat-up wallet, held it open for her.

  She inched closer, tightening her fingers on the gun. He sure took up a lot of space. Seemed even bigger up close and personal. She inspected his driver’s license and military I.D. The picture matched, a younger version, but definitely him. Murphy Dolan, the address the same as where she was living.

  He wasn’t the hit man who was hunting her, and it didn't look like he was some serial killer slash rapist fresh out of prison either.

  She backed into the kitchen, collapsed into the nearest chair, then set the gun on the table as her hands began shaking. “I’m sorry. You scared me.”

  “No harm done. You didn’t shoot.” His masculine lips twisted into a wry smile.

  “I could have.” Her stomach clenched. She could have killed an innocent man.

  “Chances were slim. You're not a professional, and you don't look like some gung ho hothead. Professionals shoot before the target has time to think about it. Hothead amateurs shoot before they have time to think. You took the time to scream before you went for the gun, then you gave me time to explain myself.”

  He crooked a dark eyebrow. “On the other hand, if I meant to harm you, you’d be dead. Something to remember for when you're in trouble for real. Don’t give ‘em a chance to get you.”

  He might have said more, but the sound of sirens cut him off, a police cruiser flying up the street.

  Cold sweat beaded on her back. She shouldn’t have rushed to make that 911 call. No cops was her motto, pretty much. Her fake driver’s license, obtained when she’d lived in a college dorm for two months, posing as a student, was okay for everyday use, but it might not stand up to scrutiny.

  “I did rent this place. From your brother. I swear.” Not that she had an official rental agreement.

  She’d met Doug at Finnegan’s, Broslin’s pretty little Irish pub, while scouting the town. Her need for an available place had come up, he offered, and she took the house. The price was right and Doug wasn’t the type to insist on credit checks and references, or formal contracts for that matter.

  She gathered herself and straightened her spine. “I just got a new job in town. I’m definitely going to need to keep this place.”

  “We’ll talk about that in a minute.” Murphy Dolan stepped into his boots. “I’ll be right back.” Then he walked outside, all muscle and power like some medieval warrior, heaven help her.

  She slumped back in the chair as the door closed behind him. Without a rental agreement, if Doug couldn’t be found or decided not to back up her story, she was nothing but a squatter. She could be arrested for breaking and entering. And if the police ran a background check on her…God, she’d be so busted.

  She dug into the fruit bowl on the table and pulled a small foil packet of chocolate from the bottom. She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth. One, if eating chocolate at two o'clock in t
he morning was wrong, she didn’t want to be right. Two, emergencies were emergencies, right?

  ‘Keep hiding, stay alive,’ had been working for her pretty well so far. The FBI was hunting Asael. Someday either the agents or one of the hit man’s enemies would catch up with him. A professional assassin had to have a few. Then she could return home to her family. All she had to do was keep running until then, trust no one and let no one find out her secret.

  The last of the chocolate melted on her tongue as she pushed to her feet and moved to the window to watch the two men outside. She stood still, even as her instincts screamed to pack fast and run now, disappear out the back while the men out front were distracted.

  * * *

  “Hey.” Murph stepped off the porch and nodded at his boss, the Broslin Creek police captain, as the man got out of his cruiser at the top of the driveway.

  Ethan Bing hurried up the snowy brick path for a handshake and a good thumping on Murph’s back. “When did you get home?” His gaze dipped to the scars on Murph’s shoulder. “You all right?”

  They were about the same height, used to be same body-type, too, but Murph had bulked up in the army, while Bing had lost weight. His face looked haggard, the smile on his face—as sincere as it was—didn’t reach his shadowed eyes. Bleak darkness clung to him, as it clung to soldiers after the bloodiest battles.

  “Just got back. What’s going on with you? You sick?” The raw pain that flashed through his friend’s face took Murph aback. Worry clawed up his spine. “Everything okay at the station? With the family?”

  Bing dropped his eyes and shook his head, cleared his throat. “Stacy was killed.” The words came out in a hard, brittle tone. “Three weeks ago.”

  “Jesus.” Shock plowed into Murph like a blast from a hand grenade. He’d met Bing’s wife a couple of times, although she rarely came to the station. She was an overworked corporate manager with little extra time.“What the hell happened?”

  “Home invasion gone wrong.” Bing’s jaw tightened as his gaze came up at last, dark and desperate. “I was out on a call.”

  “Any leads?”

  Bing shook his head, misery and guilt etched on his face.

  Probably why he took the night shift, Murph thought. As captain, he didn’t have to. But maybe just now it was easier to keep busy than being home alone at night.

  “What can I do?”

  “We’re already doing everything that can be done. Followed every damn lead. Got nowhere. It’s as if the bastard disappeared into thin air. Still turning over every rock we can think of….” Bing glanced toward the house. “What can I do for you here?”

  “Nothing. Sorry about that. My brother rented the place out. I scared the tenant.”

  “Doug didn’t know you were coming home?”

  “I wasn’t sure until the last minute,” Murph said, just as his tenant stepped outside behind him.

  Bing glanced toward her. “Kate. I didn't know you lived here.”

  “Captain Bing.” She wrapped her slim arms around herself against the cold, staying in the shadows of the front porch. “I’m sorry about the call. I’m okay.”

  She had a slight accent Murph couldn’t place and didn’t think long about. There were other things to be noticed about her. Her long legs and class A boobs sure drew a man’s eyes. So did her skimpy nightgown.

  In the cold, night air, her nipples puckered, visible under the material even in the semi-darkness of the porch. Her scars didn’t show out here, but he’d seen them under the harsh kitchen lights. She had as many as he did, although, hers were older, pale white. She radiated nerves, shifting from one foot to the other.

  Bing didn’t seem to notice that, or her state of undress. He glanced back to Murph to see what he wanted done.

  “We’re good,” Murph said as she pulled back into the house. “How do you know her?”

  “New waitress at the diner. Nice young woman.”

  Murph decided not to mention the gun she'd held on him. “I’ll stop by the station tomorrow. I want to catch up.”

  The radio went off in the cruiser, someone reporting suspicious activity in the main parking lot at Broslin Square, and the Captain turned back that way for a second as he listened. “Whole county's on high alert. The Tractor Trio Gang.”

  “Tractor what?” Okay, he was definitely back in Broslin.

  Bing rolled his eyes. “They pick out a bank, then drive a stolen tractor or other farm machinery through the glass in the front. While everyone screams and runs, they grab the money then disappear in a getaway car. Two men, one woman, farm animal masks. The woman drives the tractor.”

  Murph rubbed a hand over his face as he tried to picture all that. A farm-themed robbery. He looked at Bing. “Honestly? That almost sounds good. I missed this.”

  The everyday, crazy quirkiness of police work was so blessedly normal compared to what his life had been overseas, leading good men deep into enemy territory to ferret out insurgents—no backup, no quick way out, staring death in the face every day and hoping you wouldn’t blink.

  Bing backed toward his cruiser. “You’re welcome to jump right back into the fray. I’m glad you’re home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Get some rest.” With a nod, he got into his car then drove away.

  Murph looked after him, sympathy filling his chest.

  Stacy’s dead.

  His brain was too tired to fully comprehend it. Killed. The senselessness of the tragedy pissed him off, made him want to punch something. Bing looked like hell. No wonder. And Murph wasn’t coming back to work to help, not for a long time. He already hated the conversation they were going to have to have about that.

  He hated to feel useless, dammit. He wanted to help Bing. He had to find a way to pass the physical as soon as possible.

  He headed inside, needing to deal with other things first. What were the chances that his pinup girl tenant would be reasonable, take a refund check on the rent and leave him in peace, just pack up right now and go to a hotel?

  Probably none. With looks like that, she was probably used to getting whatever she wanted.

  Ready to introduce her to disappointment, he opened the door, but he caught movement from the corner of his eye, a dark sedan pulling away from the curb down the street.

  He paused, his senses sharpening.

  Nobody had walked up to that car while he’d been outside. Which meant whoever was driving it slowly in the opposite direction now, had been sitting behind the wheel all this time. In the middle of a cold, winter night. Why?

  He didn’t like how that happened, where the car had sat without headlights. The hesitant way it was moving away pricked his instincts honed on searching for IEDs. You saw a certain type of car, a certain time of the day, in a certain spot, and you learned that bad shit followed.

  People getting blown to bits.

  For a second he saw the blood and heard the screams, and he had to clench his jaw till it hurt to make the images stop. The car didn’t mean anything. Not here. He was back home in Broslin, not in Afghanistan.

  He needed to focus on the problems that faced him right here right now, namely the redhead who’d somehow come between him and his bed.

  He tapped the snow off his boots.

  Frankly, given the choice, he’d rather that she went to bed with him. As tired as his mind and body were, one part of him seemed to have gotten energized by the sight of her scantily clothed body.

  If he wasn’t so exhausted, he would have laughed at himself. He was no better than a sailor on shore leave. The faster he got rid of the temptation she presented the better. He was definitely putting some clothes on her before they started negotiating the terms of her lease.

  He drew a deep breath, stepped inside and locked the door behind him.

  Chapter Three

  Kate watched warily from behind the kitchen island as Murph Dolan walked through the living room, looking around as if cataloguing the place. Did he think she’d steal something? She stiffened.

/>   He was a soldier used to being in command. He was probably used to having the upper hand in any given situation. Step one was to firmly establish the fact that she was staying. “I can drop you off at a hotel, if you’d like.”

  His lips flattened. “I’m not going to a hotel.”

  “Well, I’m not going to a hotel either.” These days, every place required I.D., and she wasn’t sure hers would stand up to close inspection. Plus, the plain truth was, she didn’t have the kind of cash she would need to live in a hotel until she found another rental where they wouldn’t scrutinize her and her background overly much.

  She stuck her chin out. “I have a valid lease on this place.”

  He shot her a dark glare, then moved stiffly to the couch. Sore right hip, she thought. But even that couldn’t detract from his powerful body. He dropped to the tan cushions and rested his elbows on his knees as he watched her.

  “I didn't catch your name.”

  She hadn't given it. “Katherine Concord. Everybody calls me Kate.”

  Exhaustion drew circles under his eyes, which were the color of the finest dark chocolate.

  She could relate to his fatigue. “Can we talk about this tomorrow? I just pulled a double shift. I’m dead on my feet.”

  She needed time to think, away from him, needed a chance for her brain to settle and start fully working without a half-naked warrior staring at her. She was way too tired and frazzled to match wits with him tonight. She needed to be on her toes for that, negotiate well and give none of her secrets away.

  He watched her for a long moment. “Fine. Is my pickup still in the garage?”

  The garage held a truck. She’d thought it was Doug’s. She nodded.

  “I’ll sleep in the pickup tonight. We’ll figure things out after I have a chance to call my brother in the morning.” Murph stood and headed for his duffel bag, picked it up, but stopped to glance back before opening the door. “Where’s all my stuff?”