Rules in Blackmail

by Nichole Severn

  Sullivan straightened. “Across the world?”

  Her smile didn’t last long. “Guess I left that part out, didn’t I?” Lowering her fork back to the plastic dish, she wiped her fingers across her mouth. “Vincent wasn’t totally wrong about my moving to Anchorage.” Alarm flooded her features. “I mean, I didn’t move here in some sick attempt to get you to forgive me for what happened to Marrok. I came here because I started noticing things missing from my quarters back in Afghanistan. At first, it was little things. One of my hair ties, some pieces of clothing.” She set her food on the edge of the small round kitchen table a few feet away and crossed her arms under her breasts. “Then my service weapon was stolen. A .40 Smith & Wesson. I asked to be put on leave for personal reasons and came to find you. And to blackmail you if you wouldn’t help.”

  “Your stalker tracked you down in Afghanistan, then followed you to the States?” Sullivan made a mental note to check Menas’s travel records, phone records, credit cards, anything that could put him in the Middle East the same time as Jane. Would’ve been good information to know from the start, but they hadn’t exactly gotten the chance to dive deeper into Menas’s life before it’d literally gone up in flames.

  “I can’t think of anyone who would hate me this much. Aside from you.” Jane crossed her arms over her chest once again, the strength in her forearms apparent. The apprehension clouding those beautiful eyes singed him right down to the core. “Hey, maybe you’re the one stalking me.”

  “I tried hating you.” Sullivan noted the flash of sadness across her features and locked his jaw tight. “Didn’t stick after you saved my life back at the cabin. Then ran into a wall of flames to save my private investigator.”

  Her features brightened as she picked up her forgotten dinner. “Then since you’re not here to turn me into the police and I’m not telling you how I broke into your office or uncovered your real name, why are you still here, Sullivan?”

  “You’re not safe here. This guy knows you. He knows things he shouldn’t—”

  “Doesn’t seem like I’m safe anywhere right now. At your cabin, on the move. I might as well find a small bit of comfort in my own house as long as I can.” Yellow lighting reflected off the line of water welling in her lower lash line. Her shoulders sagged as she tossed her meal back onto the table. “It doesn’t matter where I go. Whoever wants me dead is going to find me.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it.” The darkness in her beauty compelled him to close the small amount of space between them and he stepped into her. Sullivan framed her sharp features with calloused hands, those troubled eyes of hers widening. His blood pumped hard through his veins as he breathed her in. His last memory of his brother pulsed at the back of his mind. But right then, all he could think about was chasing the shadows from Jane’s gaze. Stupid really.

  “We should get some sleep.” Jane pulled back, mere centimeters between them, breathing heavy. “You’re welcome to take the couch and anything in the fridge.”

  He clamped his grip around her arms, not willing to let her leave yet. She was soft but strong, the kind of woman who could hold her own in a fight. “Even the cookie dough?”

  “Sure. I guess you deserve it.” Her lips curled into a smile. “But I’m still not telling you how I broke into your office.”

  Sullivan used every ounce of control left in his body to take a step back. Damn, he was a sucker for pain. Getting involved with a client—with Jane at all—was possibly the worst idea he’d ever had. But the sight of her when she’d opened the door had unleashed everything he’d tried to bury since he’d pulled his gun on her two nights ago. Desire. Hope. Life. “Give me a clue?”

  “All right. I’ll give you one clue, but that’s all you get.” She hooked her hands behind his neck and pulled herself into him. Shifting her weight to her toes, Jane raised her mouth to his ear, her exhale tickling his already sensitized skin. “It wasn’t as hard as you might think.”

  * * *

  JANE ENTERED HER bedroom with slow, determined steps and shut the door behind her. But no amount of space from Sullivan eased her racing heart. Had she really imagined kissing him?

  She leaned against the door and thunked her head a little harder than she intended. Pain radiated across the back of her head and down her neck, but still didn’t dislodge the rampant desire flooding her veins. Offering Sullivan her couch for the night probably wasn’t the best idea. It’d been at least ten minutes since he’d taken her face in his hands, but the heat in her lower abdomen still hadn’t cooled.

  But she couldn’t go down that path. Her life depended on her keeping her emotional distance. She exhaled his clean scent from her system and immediately felt better. Swiping the hair out of her face, Jane wrenched the bifold door of her closet back and punched in the six-digit code to her firearm safe. She’d meant every word when she’d told Sullivan that her stalker would find her.

  Because she intended to let him.

  It’d been the reason she returned home. Whoever was doing this to her had already shown a willingness to harm bystanders. She only hoped Sullivan had the resources and the manpower to protect her neighbors and to get the job done since she’d vastly underestimated the man coming after her. They both had. But not anymore.

  No place was more comfortable and familiar to her than her own home. Yes, her stalker had broken in. Had probably searched the place. But she was the one who lived there and knew every detail of her town house.

  It was much better than trying to lay a trap somewhere new.

  Wrapping her fingers around the .40 Smith & Wesson—similar to the one her stalker had stolen in Afghanistan—she dropped the magazine out, then slammed it back into place. The drill had been burned into her muscle memory for years. She could strip down and reassemble any weapon in the US military arsenal, but her own personal firearm would have to do for tonight. The steel warmed in her hand. It’d been a long time since she’d had to shoot first and ask questions later, but tonight was about survival.

  Not the fact that Sullivan Bishop was downstairs on her couch.

  “Keep it together a little while longer, Reise.” Jane placed the gun under her pillow, brushed her teeth and climbed into bed. The cold sheets raised goose bumps along her arms. Nothing like Sullivan’s hot, hair-raising touch. Her mind raced with different ways she could make that particular fantasy come true. All she had to do was go down to her living room.

  Nope. Not going there. Tossing onto her side, Jane stared into the lens of the small camera she’d installed a few minutes before Sullivan pounded on her front door. Her stalker had already broken in once. Wouldn’t happen again. Stay awake. Finish this once and for all. Get on with her life. And Sullivan...

  She shoved her nose into her T-shirt and inhaled deep, clinging to the remnants of his scent on her clothing. They could cross that road when there wasn’t blackmail and a life-threatening stalker hanging over their heads.

  Visions of his magnetic blue eyes danced across the back of her eyelids. Exhaustion pulled at her, her body aching for sweet relief. It’d been more than twenty-four hours since she’d had the chance to lie down, but she couldn’t give in to sleep yet. The camera would catch her stalker on video—give them concrete evidence Christopher Menas was behind this—but the gun under her pillow would put an end to this sick game.

  * * *

  DEAFENING SILENCE WOKE HER.

  Jane rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands. Crap, she’d fallen asleep. Reaching for the S&W tucked under her pillow, she sat up straight. Fog clouded her brain, but not so much as to not realize what was missing. Where was her gun? She spun for the lamp on the nightstand and twisted the knob, checking the rest of the bed.

  A crisp white piece of paper lay beside an all-too-familiar .40 S&W handgun on the pillow. She’d recognize that gun anywhere. Her stolen service weapon.

  Her heart hiccup
ed.

  Five words in block letters. “You’re going to need this.”

  He’d been here. In her house. Maybe even touched her.

  She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Covering her mouth with the back of her arm, Jane fought the bile climbing up her throat. This was what she’d wanted, why she’d come home, but the reality gutted her from the inside. How had her stalker gotten past Sullivan? Snapping her attention toward the cracked bedroom door, Jane wrapped her hand around the gun and threw off the sheets. “Sullivan.”

  If something had happened to him, she’d never forgive herself for dragging him into this mess.

  The soft echo of the front door closing propelled her out of bed. The intruder was still close by. Grip tight on the gun, Jane ripped out of her room and ran after the shadow disappearing through the front door. He wouldn’t slip away this time.

  Freezing November air slammed against her, but she pumped her legs hard without missing a beat. No more games. No more fear. Gravel cut into her bare feet as she chased after the figure up ahead. He passed under a streetlamp, heading south. Thick black jacket, Huskies ball cap, short brown hair. She was too far away to get much else and ground her back molars as she pushed herself harder. Her stalker ducked into a short alley between two single-family houses, but he wouldn’t lose her that easily. “Christopher!”

  The breath that heaved in and out of her lungs crystallized into large, white puffs in front of her mouth as she slowed. Her skin tingled with the sudden change in temperature, but Jane wasn’t going back to her town house. Not yet. She pressed herself into the wall outside the alleyway. She’d memorized this neighborhood and every escape route the day she’d moved in. Her stalker obviously hadn’t taken the same precautions. The alley ended at the back of a Chinese restaurant with no other access unless he broke into the large factory directly north of there. There was nowhere for him to run.

  Jane angled her head around the corner, but moonlight and streetlamps cut off at the top of the houses. She couldn’t see anything. Surveying the rest of the street, she took a deep breath. Hints of spicy aftershave hung on the air, pulling at memories of first love, suspicions, then terror. She remembered that aftershave from college, from Christopher’s skin. But why come after her now? It didn’t make sense.

  With another look down the alley, her instincts screamed for her to go back home. No sign of the man who’d run from her. Something wasn’t right, like Christopher had lured her to this point for a reason. But why?

  “Jane!” Sullivan pounded up the street toward her.

  The tension running down her spine lessened. He’d chew her out for running after a crazed stalker on her own, but a small part of her was relieved he’d followed her. And he wasn’t hurt.

  Lowering her weapon, Jane relaxed in defeat and sunk her weight against the house. She glanced one last time into the alley. Christopher was still just playing games with her. Trying to keep her scared, confused. Vulnerable. And it’d worked. He’d lured her out of the house. She shook her head as though she could rewind the past few minutes. She’d let emotion get in the way of catching the man responsible for turning her world upside down. How could she have been so stupid? Shoving off from the wall, she stepped toward the road to head Sullivan off. “Over here—”

  “Hello, Janey.” A hand clamped around her mouth, then another around her waist, pulling her against a wall of muscle.

  Jane struggled against her attacker’s grip as he dragged her into the depths of the alleyway, darkness closing around her.

  Chapter Seven

  Sullivan was either going to kill Jane for running out the door with a loaded gun by herself or kiss her. He’d decide when he found her. He stumbled out the front door, gun in hand, but the world tilted on its axis. He hit the ground hard. Whatever drug he’d been injected with still hadn’t cleared his system. The intruder had come through the front door. No forced entry—like they’d had a key. Every second played in his mind on slow repeat. Sullivan had shot up from the couch, clicked off the safety on his weapon and took a single step forward. But whoever had broken in had been two steps ahead of him. The syringe had emptied into his neck before he’d even had a chance to counter. He’d crumpled right there on the floor. Paralyzed but alert. His mind had gone to a dark place while he’d watched Jane run out the door and he lay there. Useless.

  What the hell had he been shot up with? A mild paralyzer?

  Menas had come into Jane’s home, had terrorized her for the last three months. The bastard was going to find out exactly what kind of monster Sullivan had kept locked up the past decade.

  Adrenaline pumped hard through his veins as he burst through the foot of snow in Jane’s front yard, only the sound of his breathing loud in his ears. A cramp shot up his right calf muscle, curling his toes inside his boots, but he pushed through. Pain, exhaustion and stiffness clawed at him from the inside, his vision blurry, but he wouldn’t stop until he found Jane alive.

  There were no other options.

  Shuffling down one of the alleys to his left claimed his attention. The man behind these mind games wasn’t an idiot. He’d known Sullivan would be there to protect his target and had drugged him to keep him out of the fight. Wasn’t happening. Sullivan fanned his grip around the gun, index finger planted beside the trigger. Anticipation vibrated down his spine. This was what he did best, what he enjoyed doing. For his country. For his clients. For Jane.

  What was it about her that he couldn’t seem to hate? After everything she put him through—was still putting him through—she deserved it. But he couldn’t hate her. Not such a strong, intelligent, vulnerable woman. She needed his help. She needed him. And nothing would stop him from getting to her.

  Back pressed to one of the houses, Sullivan checked the alleyway. No sign of movement, but that didn’t mean anything. Her stalker might’ve knocked Jane unconscious or—No. Sullivan wouldn’t go there. Shoulders pulled back, gun up, he kept low and moved fast. His right foot dragged behind slightly, the last of the paralysis taking its sweet time leaving his system. Would’ve been easy to finish the job back at the town house with Sullivan unable to fight back, but apparently Jane’s stalker didn’t want him dead. Which he fully intended to take advantage of.

  But where was Jane? Sullivan held his weapon steady, closing in on the alleyway one slow step at a time. “I’ll give you three seconds to show your face before I start shooting. There’s nowhere left to run. We know who you are and why you’re doing this. And I’ll hunt you down as long as it takes to put you behind bars.”

  Another round of shuffling said he was in the right place, and he swung the gun to his right. Pain shot up his neck and spidered throughout the base of his skull. He fought to stay upright and keep his weapon level.

  But a wall of flesh slammed into him.

  He hit the side of the building, the air knocked from his lungs. The gun slid across the pavement as blow after blow rained down on him from the shadow armed with a metal pipe. Sullivan held his forearm out to block the hits. Heart thundering in his ears, he swept one leg out and unbalanced his attacker.

  The man went down, landing on his left arm. The crack of bone filled the few short seconds of silence just before deep groans reverberated off the walls, but it didn’t keep his attacker down for long. A glint of metal flashed. The man had traded his pipe for a knife.

  Sullivan pushed to his feet, pulling out his own knife, which he kept strapped to his ankle, and flipped the blade outward. He swung it parallel to his wrist and moved in, legs spread, torso angled to make himself a smaller target. His attacker did the same, and Sullivan hesitated.

  Christopher Menas didn’t have military training according to his records, yet this man almost mirrored Sullivan in his movements. The first swipe came fast, but Sullivan blocked it and shoved his attacker’s arm down, striking out with a fist to the man’s face. Shadows played across his attacke
r’s black ski mask as Sullivan countered, slicing the blade across the man’s chest.

  Another groan filled the alleyway, but the injury didn’t slow his opponent. He charged at full speed.

  Sullivan kicked out, slamming his boot into the man’s kneecap to keep from getting tackled. He barely registered the remnants of the drug in his system, but another swipe from his attacker’s blade landed home. Stinging pain lanced through his biceps, but disappeared as his body’s fight-or-flight response surged through his blood again.

  No more games. Jane could be anywhere by now. Could be hurt.

  He lunged forward, shoulders low, and hiked his attacker over his shoulder and into the alleyway wall. Hard. An elbow slammed into his spine. Two times. Three. Sullivan’s knees buckled, and he forced all of his momentum into rolling his attacker over his head. With one foot planted in the man’s stomach, he tossed the masked assailant as far as he could, using his attacker’s momentum to roll himself on top.

  Only his attacker had the same idea.

  Sullivan’s vision blurred as he spun, landing pinned under his opponent against the cold, wet asphalt. In the span of half a breath, his attacker plunged the blade down toward Sullivan’s sternum, but Sullivan caught his wrist a split second before the knife hit home. His muscles burned as he held the blade above his chest. Sullivan was stronger, but whoever was on top of him leveraged everything he had into putting that blade into his chest. Sweat dripped into his eyes, the air in his lungs frozen.

  He wouldn’t lose this battle. Not when Jane’s life depended on him. Sullivan hiked his right knee into his attacker’s rib cage, dislodging the man’s hold on him. He slipped out from under the knife and shot to his feet. He wrapped his hand around his opponent’s neck, flipped him over and planted his knee into the man’s spine. Moonlight glinted off his blade as he placed it at his attacker’s throat.