Lock, Stock and Secret Baby

by Cassie Miles

  From the instant he heard the alarm until now couldn’t have been more than four minutes. He eased open the bathroom door and took a step. “Stay here.”

  “While you risk your life?” She latched on to his arm, preventing him from leaving. “No.”

  He peered through the dim light from the window at her upturned face. He could have given her a long-winded rationale, citing his experience and the need for action, could have told her that victory never went to the faint-hearted. But only one fact was important. “They killed my father.”

  She winced. Her hand dropped from his arm. “Be careful.”

  He appreciated her sensibility. She’d been raised on military bases and knew what it meant to be a warrior.

  He slipped through the bathroom door. The most likely place for an ambush was the hallway outside the bedroom door. He had to move fast. Stay low.

  Opening the bedroom door, he poked his head into the hallway and withdrew. The wood on the doorframe splintered, but he heard nothing but the blaring alarm. The shooter must have been using a silencer.

  His instincts and training told him to attack. Dive into the hallway and roll, come up with his gun blazing.

  He felt Eve’s touch on his shoulder. What the hell? She should have stayed in the bathroom.

  “The window,” she said. “You can catch up to him outside when he tries to escape.”

  Smart. “Open the window and take a look. If you don’t see anybody, jump out.”

  While she did as he said, he fired into the hallway, engaging the shooter.

  When he saw Eve slide through the window, he ran across the bedroom and followed. His chest scraped against the narrow casement frame, but he was outside in a moment.

  He could already hear the approaching sirens. The shooter inside the house would be making his escape. From the front or the back? He scanned the cars parked on the cul-de-sac.

  Beside him, Eve said, “I don’t see the SUV that was outside my house.”

  The back of his father’s house opened onto a yard with a fence. Beyond was a strip of forest with pines and cottonwoods that separated this property from the neighboring development. If Blake had broken into this house, he would have chosen that route.

  He looked down at Eve. “I can’t drag you into the forest. Too risky.”

  “The sirens are close. As soon as they’re here—”

  “That’s when I’ll go.”

  The streetlight slanted a dramatic shadow across her face. She reached up and placed her hand on his cheek. “Please don’t get yourself killed.”

  “I never do.”

  She kissed him. Her lips pressed hard against his, taking his breath away. It felt too good to be wrong.

  When the security vehicle came into sight, she ran toward it. He took off in the opposite direction, circling the house. The porch light over the back door was off, and the lights from the street didn’t reach this far.

  He crept through the moonlight, hiding in shadow and cursing himself for being barefoot. He kept in constant motion, knowing that to stand in one place meant he’d be an easy target. He employed every caution but felt no fear. This was his element. He’d been trained in armed pursuit and capture.

  At the fence, he peered into the trees. A night wind rustled the branches. The alarm and the noise from the security team arriving at the front of the house masked the sounds of the intruder retreating.

  To his far left, he saw movement. He squeezed off a couple of shots and ducked. He saw the flash of gunfire. The intruder had gone this way.

  He jumped the fence and ran toward the place where he’d seen gunfire, dodging behind trees and taking shots when he could. Though he hadn’t been counting, he knew he was almost out of bullets.

  The pine needles, twigs and cones tore at the soles of his feet, but he was narrowing the gap, closing in on his quarry. A burst of loud gunfire told him that the man with the silencer had been joined by another shooter.

  There were at least two of them and one of him. They were armed. He was almost out of ammo. And barefoot.

  But he had backup. He heard the security guards rushing into the backyard behind him.

  Firing his last bullets, Blake charged forward.

  He emerged from the trees onto a paved street with modern, two-story houses and tidy lawns.

  The taillights of an SUV raced away. From this distance, he couldn’t tell if it was the same vehicle he’d seen at Eve’s house in Boulder.

  They turned the corner and were gone.

  AFTER THE SECURITY company personnel repaired the lock on the back door and the uniformed police officers left, Blake sat across the kitchen table from the homicide detective who had investigated his father’s murder. Detective Joseph Gable propped his chin in his hand as though his neck was too tired to hold up his head. His tan suit was rumpled and had a grease stain on the left lapel. His eyelids drooped. The worry lines across his forehead had deepened to furrows. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. Homicide was a rough beat.

  Eve placed two mugs on the table: coffee for Detective Gable and some kind of herbal tea for him. She’d made a fuss over the scratches on his feet. Even though none of his injuries were deep enough to require stitches, she’d cleaned his feet, applied antiseptic and bandages. He didn’t need pampering but didn’t mind having her play nurse.

  She spoke to the detective. “Would you like anything to eat? I can zap some leftovers.”

  “I’d like some answers.” He turned toward Blake. “Where did you get the Sig?”

  “General Stephen Walsh,” he replied. “After Eve was attacked at her house, I though I might need firepower.”

  “Do you have other weapons?”

  Blake didn’t think the homicide detective would be amused by his display of knife skills or any reference to the fact that he knew thirty-seven ways of killing a man with his bare hands. “I’ll be seeing the general tomorrow, after which I expect to be fully armed.”

  “And dangerous,” the detective said. “It’s not your job to go after the bad guys. That little shoot-out of yours could have resulted in tragedy.”

  Eve stepped up to defend him. “We were attacked. Not the other way around.”

  The detective held up his hand to forestall further comment. “Tell me what you know. I’ll take it from here.”

  As far as Blake was concerned, the police had already had their chance to investigate, and they had failed. He wasn’t about to stand down. “Did you find evidence at Eve’s house?”

  “We got fingerprints. Yours. Eve’s, of course. And—”

  “Wait a minute,” she interrupted. “I didn’t give you my fingerprints. Why am I on file?”

  Blake grinned. “Something you’re not telling me? Are you in ViCAP? Or CODIS?”

  “Explain what those letters stand for, and I’ll tell you.”

  “Violent Criminal Apprehension Program is a databank that includes fingerprints. CODIS stands for Combined DNA Index System.”

  “A list of DNA for criminals,” she said thoughtfully.

  “It was started to track sex offenders,” Gable said, “but it’s a much wider scope. Don’t worry, you’re not in either of those databases. We had a match for your prints because of your work at Sun Wave, handling government contracts in sensitive locations.”

  “Any other prints at my house?”

  “Two other people you work with.” His bloodshot eyes glared in her direction. “We found no sign of a break-in.”

  “Which I already explained,” she said. “I was feeding the alley cats and left the door open. It wasn’t smart, but I really didn’t expect to be attacked.”

  “Can you tell me why these guys came after you? And how do they connect to the murder of Ray Jantzen?”

  She leaned against the counter. Though she was still wearing her Wonder Woman pajama bottoms, she’d covered her Harry Potter T-shirt with a gray hoodie. With her face washed clean of makeup and her blond hair tousled, she looked younger than twenty-
five. “I’m sure Blake has already mentioned the Prentice-Jantzen study.”

  The detective nodded. “Go on.”

  “Well, that’s the connection,” she said. “Have you spoken to Dr. Prentice? What did he tell you?”

  “Why do you think he’s after you?”

  Blake suppressed a grin. Answering a question with another question might throw off the average witness, but Gable didn’t know Eve. She had a mathematician’s logic and focus.

  “Ask Dr. Prentice,” she said. “You need to look at his phone records to see who he’s contacted, and you should check his bank accounts for large deposits to known criminals. Like hitmen.”

  “Give me a reason,” the detective said. “And I’ll get a warrant.”

  Blake saw the reluctance in her eyes. She didn’t want to explain the strange circumstances of her pregnancy, and he didn’t blame her. Not only was her story unbelievable, but it violated her privacy.

  “Believe me,” she said. “If there was anything I could say to help you find the murderer, I’d tell you in a heartbeat.”

  “I’m listening,” he said. “Start at the beginning. What happened at the funeral?”

  She shook her head and shrugged.

  Detective Gable sipped his coffee, licked his lips and waited for them to speak—standard cop procedure for getting witnesses and suspects to open up.

  Blake wasn’t interested in wasting time with a stare-down. “Here’s the deal. If we discover information you can act on, we’ll be in touch.”

  “I advise against pursuing your own investigation.”

  “There’s no law against asking questions.” He held his mug to his lips and inhaled the sweet, minty fragrance. The tea didn’t live up to the aroma; it tasted like tree bark.

  “I know your reputation, Blake. You’re Special Forces. You’ve got dozens of citations for valor and two Purple Hearts. You’re a hero, a man of action. But this is suburban Denver, and we’re not at war.”

  His father had been murdered. He couldn’t think of a more compelling reason for him to use his Special Forces training.

  “I’m warning you,” the detective continued. “No violence. Don’t go Rambo on me.”

  “I understand.”

  The detective took a final sip of coffee and stood. “You should be safe tonight. The security company left a car and two guards out front.”

  A service that Blake was paying extra for. He didn’t begrudge the money. It was worth it to get a good night’s sleep. “We’ll be fine.”

  Detective Gable looked toward Eve. “I can’t offer you protection in a safe house, but I would strongly advise you to leave town until this is over.”

  She nodded. “I appreciate your concern.”

  On this point, Blake agreed with Detective Gable. Though he valued Eve’s intelligence and enthusiasm, he didn’t want to put her in danger.

  After he showed the detective to the door and reset the alarm, he turned toward her. “Gable is right.”

  “About what?”

  He hobbled down the hallway. “You should leave town.”

  In the guest bedroom, he stretched out on the twin bed nearest the door. As soon as he was prone, his injuries caught up with him. The soles of his feet prickled. The scrape on his rib cage where he’d gone through the narrow casement window ached. Running through the forest, he’d gotten a couple of other scratches on his arm. No big deal. Nothing serious. Leaning back against the pillows, he pulled up the covers.

  To his surprise, she sat on the edge of the bed beside him, closer than necessary.

  “I already considered going somewhere else,” she said. “It’s not feasible. For the next seven months while I’m pregnant, I’m in jeopardy. And what happens after I give birth? Prentice might come after my child. I can’t spend the rest of my life on the run.”

  The lamplight shone on her cheekbones and chin. He studied her face—her wide, expressive mouth and the cute little bump on her nose. Messy wisps of wheat-blond hair fell across her rosy cheeks. Her lightly tanned complexion highlighted the startling blue of her eyes. All together, she was a fine-looking woman.

  “Latimer was right,” he said. “You’re glowing.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale. Not grounded in science.”

  He took her hand, laced his fingers with hers. Sister or not, he wanted to kiss her. “You’re beautiful, Eve. Golden and warm.”

  She gave a tug on his hand but didn’t pull away. “There’s something about me that you should know.”

  “You can tell me anything.”

  She turned her head away as though she couldn’t bear to look him in the eye. “I’m a virgin.”

  Oh, hell.

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning at Fitzsimons, Eve fidgeted in an uncomfortable chair along the wall in General Walsh’s outer office. Her gaze went to a clock on the secretary’s desk, watching as the minutes ticked by. She crossed her legs and swung her ankle in tight circles.

  “Nervous?” Blake asked.

  “I’m fine.”

  After last night when she’d told him she was a virgin, he’d been more cautious around her, treating her like a fragile piece of glass. But she’d wanted him to know because they kept bumping into each other…with their lips. It seemed impossible to avoid his embrace. Inevitable that they would soon make love.

  All night long, she’d dreamed of him. On some level, she’d known that she wasn’t actually on a tropical beach with palm trees and a tranquil azure sea. She hadn’t really been watching Blake rise from the waves, shake the water from his hair and come toward her. In dreams, her senses had been fooled. She had smelled the salty tang of the surf. Her toes had dug into warm sand. When dream Blake had yanked her into his arms, her lips had tingled and she had tasted his kisses. With her willing hands, she had sculpted his taut biceps, his chest, his abdomen and his thighs. The springy black hair on his chest had tickled her nose as she had trailed kisses down to his belly button.

  Her subconscious mind had been sending her a message, telling her loud and clear that Blake was the man she’d been waiting for. She was meant to be with him. Finally, to make love. No longer to be a virgin.

  Sitting next to him in this bland office was pure torture. She folded her arms below her breasts to avoid accidentally touching him. When she suddenly gasped, she realized that she hadn’t been breathing. To keep from inhaling his scent?

  If the general’s civilian secretary hadn’t been sitting behind her desk and tapping away on her computer, Eve might have given in to her desires and thrown herself on Blake.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” she lied.

  “Worried about your lunch with Vargas?”

  That thought hadn’t crossed her mind. “Maybe I’m a little bit tense.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Your arms are wrapped tight. Looks like you’re wearing an invisible straitjacket.”

  “You think I’m crazy?”

  “A little bit.”

  She turned her head and dared to look at him. He wasn’t wearing camouflage battle fatigues but might as well have been. His cargo pants covered his ankle holster, and she was pretty sure he had other weapons stashed in the pockets. A white T-shirt molded to his chest, and his loose, untucked, black-and-gray patterned shirt hid the knife sheath on his belt.

  Her gaze lifted to his perfect face and sank into his dark, chocolate eyes. Purely delicious! Did it really matter if their DNA matched?

  She looked away. They’d find out soon. This morning, before she had brushed her teeth or took a shower, she’d powered up her computer to see if MonkeyMan had responded. There was his e-mail with her DNA profile attached. All they needed now was Blake’s record.

  When the general opened the door to his office, she bounded to her feet so abruptly that she almost stumbled. “Good morning, sir.”

  “No need for formality.” He gestured to his casual slacks and collared golf shirt with a Torrey Pines logo. “Today,
I’m just another old duffer. Do either of you golf?”

  “Not for a while,” Blake said as he shook the white-haired man’s hand. “There’s a hell of a fine course in Dubai, but most of the Middle East is a giant sand trap.”

  “Your dad was lousy off the tee but made up for it on the greens. He could sink a sixty-foot putt. No sweat. He used to say that golf was half skill and half psychology.”

  “And what do you say?” Blake asked.

  “It’s all about the objective. Get the ball in the hole.”

  Their small talk was driving Eve crazy. She understood that a certain amount of chat was needed to build trust, and men liked to bond over sports, but she was burning with anxiety. “Speaking of objectives,” she said. “Were you able to access Blake’s DNA records?”

  While the general conferred with his secretary, Blake nudged her shoulder. “Calm down.”

  Don’t tell me to calm down, Mr. Perfect. Dream Blake would have understood her urgency. He would have been as desperate as she was to get those records.

  “Not yet,” the general said. “My request has been initiated. It’ll take a while to get results.”

  She forced a smile. “Would it help if you said it was a matter of life and death?”

  “Not at all, kiddo. This is the army.”

  “In the meantime,” Blake said, “I’d like to see the clinic where my dad worked.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The general escorted them into the hallway and down the corridor. As soon as they stepped outside, he said, “I put together the equipment you requested, Blake. And I managed to wrangle up a vehicle worthy of a superspy.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The general paused, looked up at the blue Colorado sky and ran his hand over his close-cropped white hair. “I promised not to ask questions. To tell the truth, I don’t really want to know what you’re up to. But I’m not a complete lamebrain.”

  “No, sir,” Blake said.

  “Here’s what I think. You don’t believe the police theory that your father was killed by a burglar. You think his murder was premeditated, and you’re going after the man who did it.” The general shot him a glare. “Don’t answer that.”