by Kris Norris
She straightened, plastic bag in hand, when the door at the side of the kitchen opened. A swirl of cold air rushed past her legs, the incessant beeping of the alarm stopping her cold.
It wasn’t Sam. She knew it wasn’t. He would have deactivated the alarm from his damn phone. Would have wanted the element of surprise. He wouldn’t have given her a chance to prepare before the inevitable confrontation. Wasn’t that how soldiers won battles? By out-thinking their opponent? Letting her believe she’d been quick enough, had successfully avoided him, only to jump out and prove her wrong?
The hairs on her neck prickled. A footstep sounded behind her. She recognized it. Whether outright or on some cellular level, she wasn’t sure, but she knew she’d heard that same hollow tone before.
Following her in her office building.
Walking across the parking garage while she’d huddled behind the cars.
Pacing her living room floor before turning to kick her in the ribs.
She almost laughed. How had she not figured it all out? The way he’d let her get just far enough ahead that night to make her think she’d be safe. How he’d managed to stalk her without her noticing. Even the shape of his body beneath the black wardrobe. They’d all been clues he’d left for her. Ones she’d been too blind to see until just now. Until it was too late.
Bridgette took a deep breath, letting it slowly hiss out through her teeth. She waited for panic to set in, but all she felt was a numbing calm. As if her life had finally come full circle. “Hello, Brock.”
The footsteps stopped. He was on the other side of the island. She didn’t need to turn around to pinpoint his location. She knew by the squeaky wooden plank he’d just stepped on. The one her grandmother had always begged her grandfather to fix. Bridgette saw it all clearly in her mind. He’d be dressed similar to the night in her office building, only no mask. He wouldn’t want to chance someone might spot a masked man going into her house. Brock wasn’t stupid.
He’d have a gun. He wouldn’t want to leave anything to chance, this time. Wouldn’t want to risk cutting himself or having to wrestle with her. He’d want the kill to be clean. Efficient. Too bad she didn’t plan on making it easy for him.
A raspy chuckle sounded behind her. “How did you know it was me?”
She shrugged, making a point of grabbing the files before slowly turning to face him. He hadn’t changed. Not really. Same pretty face. Square jaw. There were a few more lines around his eyes, but they were the same deep blue. The man was stunning. A monster, but definitely one of the most beautiful ones she’d ever encountered. The kind that got away with anything because he didn’t look dangerous. Had enough money to buy any version of the truth he wanted.
She held her head high. “I just knew.”
He smiled. A smug, vicious grin that beaded her skin with goosebumps. He was holding that large black gun with a suppressor. Sam would know what kind of handgun it was simply by looking at it. He’d know how many rounds the clip held, what the muzzle velocity was. Exactly where to hit a person to either maim or kill. Sam’s gun had looked like an extension of his arm. As if he’d been born with the long cylindrical object fused to his hand. He hadn’t thought about how to hold it, how to move with it primed and ready. He’d just done it. Naturally. Same with that massive knife he’d pulled out of some hidden holster.
Brock was nothing like Sam. Brock gripped the handle as if he expected the gun to jump out of his hand. Just standing there, she could tell he wasn’t accustomed to the weight. To the feel of the metal grip against his palm. She had no doubt he’d killed before. Would kill, again. But he wasn’t good at it. Whatever skill he’d acquired—he’d had to work for. He was nothing more than a bully with a lethal toy.
Brock leaned against the counter. He was enjoying this. He thought he had the upper hand. That he was in control. He wasn’t. Not in the way he imagined.
He nodded at her. “You look good. Much better than the last time I saw you.” Another cruel smile. “Do you remember?”
She relaxed her shoulders. She needed to be primed but calm. Needed to think five steps ahead while keeping him talking. Making him think the situation was going exactly the way he’d envisioned. She wasn’t convinced she’d walk away from this alive. But she’d make damn sure he burned for his crime. “I hadn’t, until today. Funny how it all came back, now. Like an act of providence.”
“A deadly one.” He wet his lips. “God, you really are pretty. You’ve lost some weight. Look—harder, maybe. But gorgeous. And you’re a lawyer. A fucking assistant US Attorney. Now, that, I didn’t see coming.”
“Really? I thought you would have expected it. After all, you pushed me down that path. Made me what I am.”
His smile broadened. “Did I? Guess it’s true what they say about self-fulfilling prophecies. Here, I’d been afraid you’d find a way to take me down, and my very actions are what put you in that exact position. Gave you the knowledge to seek revenge.”
“I believe the word you’re searching for is justice.”
“However you want to look at it, baby.” He sighed. “It’s a fucking shame I didn’t come here to get reacquainted. Where’s your bodyguard?”
“Gone.”
“That was stupid, Bridgette. He was good. I knew as soon as I broke in here and caught a glimpse of him that he wasn’t the kind of man I’d choose to fight. He’s why I left. Why I switched to a long-range rifle. I didn’t want to get anywhere near that cowboy. You should have kept him close.”
“And you should have made sure you killed me the first time. Big mistake on your part.”
She swung her arm, launching the file folder at his head. He hadn’t expected it. Had let his guard down, and the papers fluttered loose, covering his face. as the edge of the folder caught him in the temple, slicing a line across his skin.
She ran, darting through the doorway and into the hall. She grabbed the small bookshelf beside the opening, tumbling it across the entranceway. The wood crashed to the floor, half the books and trinkets spilling onto the hardwood.
Brock yelled her name, the sound followed by a series of dull pops. Pain blossomed through her shoulder, knocking her into the far wall. She hit hard, then tumbled onto her knees. Her vision blurred as the room swam for a few moments before mostly clearing. She pushed to her feet and managed to scramble to the stairs, taking them two at a time. More soft pops pelted the wall above her, and she ducked low, hoping to give him a smaller target.
Wood crashed in the distance as she raced down the hallway and into her bedroom, locking the door behind her. She knew it wouldn’t hold him, but it might slow him down. Give her a chance to make her next move.
She darted to the window, breathing against the burning numbness settling in her left shoulder and down her arm. It felt heavy. Thick. And it took all her concentration to force that hand to grip the window and shove it open.
Footsteps pounded up the stairs, that hollow noise skittering down her spine. Like rats running between the floorboards.
She kicked out the screen then jumped through, sliding down the roofline as her door burst open, bouncing off the wall. She didn’t try to catch herself, following the broken mesh over the side of the gutters and down to the ground.
There was a moment of silence as she seemed to hover in the air. She’d heard soldiers talk about how everything slowed down in battle. As if they were moving at half speed. This must be what it felt like. Hanging there, watching the ground inch toward her, as the snowflakes hung in mid-air.
Then, it was rushing back. Triple time. The snow-covered ground raced up and smashed into her with crushing force. The air left her lungs on a whoosh as black dots danced across her vision. Pain flooded her system, the intensity preventing her from fading. She blinked, staring up at the roofline, then laughed.
So much for your clean, efficient kill, you fucking bastard. Bet your DNA is all over the house, now.
She smiled. Score one for the good guys. Brock would never cle
an everything up before Sam got there. And she knew he’d make sure Brock got what he deserved.
More footsteps. Breaking through the snow. Following the path around the house. He was taking the long route. Probably forgot there was a shed attached to that side. He’d have to detour around it. Jump that fence since she was sure the gate wouldn’t open without being shoveled, first.
She used her right hand to drag herself onto her stomach then pulled her knees underneath her. Blood stained the snow. Bright. Red. Like a giant bullseye of where she’d landed.
Good. More evidence to convict Brock’s ass. She hoped he choked on her blood.
The ground tilted beneath her as she staggered forward, tripping over her own feet. Each step felt harder. Slower. Until she realized she wasn’t moving. She’d reached the side of the house fronting the street and had slumped against the siding. She tried to straighten, but her hand slipped on a window, leaving a bloody streak across the glass as she tumbled forward. Snow stung her exposed flesh, the icy drops trailing down her skin. But it faded, feeling almost warm as it settled around her neck.
The snow crunched beside her as a shadow blocked out the muted light, but it didn’t matter. She’d won.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“This is taking too damn long.”
Sam slammed his hand on his thigh as he watched the dot hover over the same spot on the map. Bridgette had been at her house nearly ten minutes, and he knew she’d be keeping track of the time. Rushing to leave on the chance he’d figured out her plan and was on his way.
He’d nearly jumped out of his seat when his phone had buzzed, signaling an alarm as she’d entered through the front. She’d reset the panel, but knowing she was already there—was preparing to run—had made him acutely aware of every passing second. And how they didn’t have any left to spare.
Ice sighed. “Going as fast as I can, buddy, without crashing. Snow’s thick. But we’re close. Another five minutes.”
“That’s four minutes too long. She’ll be gone. That’s assuming Brock wasn’t waiting for her.”
His stomach clenched at the thought as the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. His skin felt tight, as if it didn’t quite fit, and there was a light sheen of sweat dotting his flesh.
He hated feeling like this. Being afraid. He’d never balked at a mission. Never lost his cool. And, yet, there he was, sweating like a pig, imagining every sick thing Brock could do to her if he didn’t get there in time.
Ice nodded, expression flat. “You think he was the sniper that got away. That the other guy we found was just lucky on our part.”
“Or part of Brock’s plan to make us think it was over. That she was safe.”
His phone sounded, again. Kitchen door bypass.
“Shit. Someone’s there.”
Ice fishtailed his truck around a corner, doing his best to keep up the speed. “How do you know?”
“The alarm for the kitchen door just went off. Only, whoever opened it, tried to bypass the code. I rigged it to beep then turn off so any intruder would think they’d disarmed it.”
Ice hit the accelerator. “Just a few more minutes.”
Sam didn’t reply. They both knew Bridgette could be dead and Brock long gone in a few more minutes. Instead, Sam checked his gear, needing to do something besides scream silently inside his head. Ka-Bar, right holster. His M9 in the left. He removed it, checked the magazine. One in the chamber, another fourteen in the clip. He had two more clips in his pockets, and a Glock 19 strapped to his ankle. More firepower than he would need, and yet, it might not be enough to save her.
He glanced at the clock. Two minutes. He could infiltrate a compound, kill the guards, extradite a prisoner, and be out in that amount of time. And Bridgette was alone. With that sick son of a bitch.
It was Brock. Somehow, Sam knew. Felt it. Sixth sense or just logic, it didn’t matter. It settled with unforgiving certainty in his chest. He could picture it. Visualize a dozen different ways it could play out. But they all ended the same. Bridgette dead.
Ice rounded another corner, closing in on her street. Three more minutes, maybe less. A large black truck was parked on the side of the road, half hidden behind a bunch of scrubby bushes.
Brock’s truck. The taillights looked the same as what Sam had watched disappear over the rise at Hank’s ranch. Brock was smart. He’d ensured he and Stevens’ men had the same make. Same model. Same damn tire tread.
Sam glanced at Ice. “See the truck.”
Ice’s lips were pursed into a grim line. “Looks the same as the one the sheriff found. Betting that’s Brock’s.”
“No reason for a local to park it there. You ready?”
“Been ready since I had to change my tire.” He gave a hint of a smile. “She’s smart and resourceful. She won’t be an easy target.”
“She’ll give him a beating. No doubt. Hard to outrun bullets, though.”
More alarms flashed on his phone. Motions up the stairs then down the hallway, ending with the contact alarm on her bedroom window. There were a few moments of silence before another round lit up.
“There’s something going down. I’m getting multiple alarms. Windows. Doors. Now, a motion by the side gate.”
Ice nodded, still barreling through the streets. If there’d been any speed traps, Sam doubted the cop could have kept up. “I know how much she means to you. How desperate you are to get to her, but… Don’t go barging in there half-cocked with no plan. You can’t help Bridgette if you let yourself get shot by some pansy-ass rich boy.”
Alarm. Front door.
Sam clenched his teeth. “Completely focused.”
To his credit, Ice didn’t roll his eyes. He knew Sam was riding the edge. “Any chance he could turn this into a hostage situation if he knows we’re coming?”
“He doesn’t strike me as the type. He needs this to be anonymous. Have Stevens take the hit for killing her. Brock wouldn’t do anything that could draw attention to himself. Though, I can see the bastard using her as a shield if he gets caught in there. Until he got the upper hand. Then, he’d plan on killing everyone. No loose ends, this time.” Sam stared at his buddy. “But I only need one inch of him visible to take a shot.”
Ice nodded, again, swerving around another corner then homing in on house. Trees and snow rushed past the windows, blurring into a wash of muted colors. He fishtailed it into her driveway, following Sam out while the chassis was still rocking to a full stop. Sam fanned to the right as Ice panned left, carefully stalking their way to the door. A bloody trail led toward the backyard, the front door slightly askew.
Sam focused on the mission. On silently pushing open the door then clearing the main room. On anything other than the possibility it was Bridgette’s blood on the floor. Each drop bringing her closer to death.
Ice shadowed him. They moved seamlessly together. A well-oiled machine. A few hand signals, and they’d cleared the next section, quickly bearing down on the kitchen. The odd smudged boot print marred the floor, the tread larger than Bridgette’s.
The remains of one of her bookcases was scattered across the hardwood, surrounded by broken bits of pottery and chunks of wood. A few threads of fabric had gotten caught on the sharp edges, as if it had been used to block the entrance. Though, it obviously hadn’t done much more than slow the other person down as they’d kicked their way through.
Good girl. Make him work. Keep him off-kilter. Get him angry because he can’t think straight when he’s angry.
More blood.
Two distinct trails. One leading upstairs. The second back into the kitchen. There was a splatter on the far wall, half a bloody handprint on the floor. She’d been hit. But she’d managed to get away. That meant there was still time. Ice motioned to the entrance, carefully stepping over the debris.
“You’ll fucking pay for making me chase you, baby.”
They froze as the deep male voice echoed through the house. They were in the kitchen.
“I w
as going to make this painless, for old time’s sake. One tap to the head. But, now…now, I’m going to take my time while I watch you bleed out.”
Ice palmed Sam’s shoulder when he went to step through, shaking his head at him. Sam resisted the urge to knock off his buddy’s hand. Ice was right. Barreling in blind wouldn’t help her.
He made a series of signals then quickly backtracked, disappearing around a corner. He was going outside—heading for the kitchen door.
Sam inched forward as he drew his knife, using the blade as a mirror to get a better look inside the room. Brock had Bridgette pinned against the wall on the far side of the kitchen, close to the other door. It was in a bit of a nook. Sam couldn’t see much of her from this angle other than her left arm. The one dripping blood onto the floor.
He clenched his jaw to stop from acting impulsively. He didn’t have a clear shot at Brock from this angle. Whether the guy had planned it that way or had gotten lucky by choosing the spot closest to the back door, Sam didn’t know. But as it was, he’d have to shoot through Bridgette to hit Brock. No way Sam would do that. She’d already been compromised. But it also meant he had little chance of sneaking up on the bastard.
He scanned the room. Brock had left his Glock on the island. Big sucker. Probably a twenty-three. Suppressor screwed into the threaded barrel. It packed a hell of a bunch.
The fucker had to have a knife. Probably trying to recreate that first night. The ultimate payback in Brock’s mind. Terrorize her before he killed her.
Asshole would pay.
