by Kris Norris
Blade whined, again, and she reached for the door, opening it wide enough they could both get through. He got them inside then obediently headed left when she called out the command. Thankfully, she’d been to the Bainbridge Foundation several times before she’d lost her sight—misplaced it. She needed to remember she wasn’t truly blind. That it was all in her head. A by-product of trauma and god knew what else because the doctors didn’t have any answers, other than what everyone kept saying under their breath—that she was mentally unstable. Or, as she preferred—batshit crazy.
Whatever the reason, her previous visits to the building meant she was familiar with the layout. It was the only reason she’d agreed to come tonight. To put both her and Blade through more training while Carl enjoyed the auction—her backup if things went sideways. Not that she needed him. If Blade got spooked, she already knew how to navigate the floor plan. And she always had her foldable cane. Because she never knew when her own demons would strike—when she’d get lost in flashes of that night. The one she couldn’t remember. That seemed as lost as her damn vision. No sense being unprepared if Blade suffered something similar.
God, what a pair they made. A washed-up cop, and an ex-soldier dog. Though, she liked to think that together, they were nearly whole.
Blade took her right around a large statute then angled her toward the corner. He kept his pace steady, gently pulling her along. She smiled to herself. They were definitely getting the hang of working together. She’d learned to trust that he wouldn’t crack her head on an overhanging branch or sign, and he’d come to understand she wasn’t going to abandon him. That they were partners.
The announcer’s voice echoed through the open space as she neared the next corner. She’d cleared her mind enough to count her steps, this time, and if she’d oriented herself correctly coming in, she was only a few away from another short wall that ended at the grand staircase. She remembered being awed by the grandeur of it the first time she’d attended a police function at the foundation. It had reminded her of southern estates like in Gone with the Wind. Incredibly wide and curving gently off to the right, it wasn’t hard to imagine elegantly dressed women making a dramatic entrance down the steps.
Of course for her, not falling when she entered a room was considered dramatic. An unnoticed threshold or change of flooring was enough to trip her up—land her face first on the ground. And in her dress, that wasn’t something she wanted to experience.
“Blade, left.”
The dog took one step then stopped, angling in front of her. Addy frowned. It wasn’t like Blade to disobey her.
She straightened, adjusted her grip on his harness then stated the command, again. “Blade, left.”
The dog refused to move, pressing against her legs when she tried to walk forward. Maybe she was still too far away from the corner—had miscounted her steps—and he’d gotten confused. Fine, she’d adjust.
“Blade. Forward.”
Nothing. If anything, he pushed her back a few feet. Addison took a deep breath. This was what Carl had called intentional disobedience. Though, it was generally something guide dogs did to overcome a dangerous situation their handler had missed. Like not hearing a car at a crosswalk and telling the dog to enter it. But… She was in the middle of the building. Even if she was slightly off, there wasn’t anything dangerous. A wall to her left and a large hallway with open areas like the one she’d just traversed to her right.
The main entrance was opposite the staircase with the auction room through a set of French doors at the end of the enormous foyer. Even if there were people hanging about, Blade should navigate her around them, not refuse to let her pass.
Then, he growled, low and throaty. Not happy sounds like when he’d been on top of the guy with the sexy, raspy voice in the garden. This was pure aggression. The kind a predator made just before it struck.
The hair rose along the back of her neck. After a dozen years on the force, she’d learned to trust her instincts, as well as those of her partner. And everything about Blade told her there was a threat she couldn’t see, but one he’d already assessed and was actively attempting to address.
Addy stilled, quieting her breathing in the hopes of hearing…something. Anything to give her a clue as to what was going on or what direction the danger would strike. Voices from the auction still echoed in the background, but there was another sound. Hushed but familiar. Like…
Footsteps. Faster than a walk. The kind of pace police used when positioning themselves to strike.
The realization had her tightening on Blade’s harness. She urged the dog back when what sounded like a can clicked across the floor way off to her left.
Grenade.
It registered inside her head before the word actually took shape. Her training kicked in. Had her crouching and curling over Blade, his head pressed against her stomach, her back to the threat. She covered her ears just as a couple of blasts rocked through the building, shouts and screams quickly following.
It took a few moments to orient herself, thankful the wall had provided decent protection. That, or she’d just gotten insanely lucky with the heart of the explosion far enough away it only had minor effects. Blade whimpered, the loud noise obviously far more damaging to him.
A series of dull pops had her moving. Even with her ears ringing slightly and her head a bit fuzzy, she recognized the sound—AK47s. Which meant things were quickly turning deadly.
Addy pushed onto trembling legs, half carrying Blade against the wall. It would take him longer to get his balance back, and they needed to not be sitting anywhere obvious while that happened.
More footsteps.
The huge area echoed the sound, making it hard to pinpoint. She flicked her cane open when someone pounded around the corner, the click of boots on the inlaid floors stopping next to her. A hand settled in her hair, shoving her to her knees then yanking back her head.
“Yeah, you’re the one.”
A deep voice followed by another click. Had it been a camera? The release of a safety? She grabbed the man’s hand and tilted her head forward in an effort to wrench his wrist when Blade leaped out of her lap. The guy released her and took two hurried steps back. She heard the snarl, the scream. The distinct muffled growl of Blade’s mouth locked around flesh.
He was in full attack mode.
She pushed to her feet, twisting to face them, when there was a single trigger pull. Blade whimpered, all other sounds cutting off. Her stomach roiled, then she was moving—narrowing in on that last tangible noise. Two steps and a swing of her cane. Upwards and away, just like a batter. She didn’t have a plan. Didn’t have anything other than her instincts honed from years of training. But she’d be damned if she went down without a fight—limited or not.
She connected, the firm hit reverberating down the shaft and into her hands. Good. She hoped she’d broken the fucker’s arm. A quick pivot and another swing connected with what felt like the guy’s chin. It was high above her, and the smack was definitely on flesh, not clothing.
The air moved and fingers settled on her shoulder, scratching at her skin. Perfect. She used his hand as a focal point, spun and grabbed his arm, using her other as a bridge across his elbow. She didn’t need to see him—had practiced these moves endlessly for the past twelve years. They were ingrained. No different from brushing her teeth or washing her hair. She pulled his body on a diagonal to keep him off-balance as she rolled his entire arm forward, sweeping the pressure from his elbow up to his shoulder, getting the lock she needed.
The guy screamed as his bone rotated inside the joint, dropping him to his knees. She followed him down, increasing the pressure until it popped out.
She let go, reaching for where she thought his belt would be. No way he was only packing the assault rifle. The bastard was sure to have a pistol stashed somewhere. Her fingers landed a bit high, more on his ribs. Fucker was wearing body armor. Definitely not a good sign. She smoothed her hand down, quickly finding a t
high holster. Another flick of her wrist and she had his weapon.
The guy flailed beneath her—trying to get his feet under him—muttering an endless string of curses. She raised her hand and brought the pistol’s grip down across the back of his neck. Missed the first time, low, but the second one connected. So, did the third. The bastard stilled.
Her chest heaved, the gun cool against her palm. A shiver shook through her, a weak whimper grounding her. She flipped the gun around, brushing her fingers along the barrel. It was full size, the brand’s letters embossed on the stock. It was hard to decipher—possibly a Sig Sauger. Safety felt wrong for a Glock, and it weighed a bit more than her Beretta had. She guessed a forty-five, especially if these guys wanted casualties that didn’t get back up. Which meant more of a kickback, and she’d have to compensate.
She searched the guy’s belt, removing what felt like a radio then scooted to her right, sweeping her hand across the floor until she located Blade. He licked her wrist, followed by a single thump of his tail.
“Hold on, buddy. There’s bound to be help on the way.”
She’d have called, herself, but her damn cell was in her purse, which was with Carl. Shit, she knew better than to go anywhere without it. Especially, now. She wasn’t the fearless cop she’d been before. Couldn’t calmly assess a situation and take appropriate actions. She was lucky she’d been able to react. If Blade hadn’t attacked…
Pain blossomed in her chest. He’d come to her defense without hesitation, and, now…
Fuckers would pay. She’d call in every damn marker she’d accumulated over her career if need be. But she wouldn’t rest until someone had captured every one of the people involved in the robbery and tossed their asses in jail.
It had to be a robbery. Some gang after the items up for auction. Though, they were insanely well equipped. The flashbangs. The body armor. The multiple weapons. Not your usual street gang. And what had the guy meant when he’d said she was the one? Did they think she was still a cop? Posed a threat? She’d been involved in enough raids the local gangs might recognize her.
“Alpha three, update.”
Addy whipped her head down. The blast of static sending a chill down her spine as the radio vibrated in her hand.
“Alpha three?”
Damn. How many more? Were they close? They’d obviously come looking for the guy she’d cracked over the head. Whose arm Blade had locked onto.
She’d have to pick Blade up—get them somewhere safe. Maybe in one of the alcoves. Cower and wait for help because she couldn’t fucking see. Couldn’t be the version of herself she’d spent thirty-two years making. The one who met danger head-on.
God, she hated this. Hated feeling powerless. Being the one waiting for help to arrive instead of riding to the rescue. All her training, and there she was, trying to figure out a place to hide until the real cavalry arrived.
Footsteps sounded high above her, moving fast, then racing down the steps. She heard a gasp, the clatter of a magazine being changed. Addy pushed to one knee, braced herself, and prayed he’d make one more sound when a flash of light jolted her back, giving her a moment of visual clarity. A single snapshot of the room. Of the smoke curling through the air, the spent canister lying on the floor in the distance. Of the man limp at her feet, and the other guy charging toward her, one hand on the trigger guard as he cupped the new magazine beneath the stock.
Then, it was gone, nothing but the magazine slotting into place filling the void, followed by the harsh cock of the gun as he loaded a round into the chamber.
She adjusted her angle then fired three quick shots. The guy’s grunt signaled she’d hit him. The thud meant he’d been knocked down. But if he had body armor like the other bastard…
She blinked, willing herself to break through the darkness, again, but it didn’t work. Instead, she sat there, waiting. She couldn’t charge over. Couldn’t go for the head shot if he sat up—not unless he said something. Gave her a way to orient herself. Even then, it was a long shot. As it was, she had no way of knowing if she’d killed him or simply knocked the wind out of his lungs. Subdued him for a few precious minutes. Ones she could have used to secure him. Would have in her previous life.
Was that a cough?
But if she tried for a head shot without knowing for sure—without another glimpse of her surroundings—she could hit someone else. A civilian—like her. And that wasn’t a risk she could take. She wouldn’t knowingly trade her life for someone else’s.
Had his hand just squeaked across the floor?
She strained to hear anything concrete, when a voice called out behind her.
“Get down.”
Chapter 3
Blind. How the hell had he missed she was blind?
Rigs muttered to himself as he turned and continued his sweep. Of all the insensitive, asinine things to say… He’d see her later? God, he was as bad as the people who gawked at him or liked to joke that he had a little “something” on his face.
Those comments either ended with him giving the asshole his patented death glare, or with the person on their ass after a quick move knocked them down.
And here, Rigs had gone and done the same thing. All because he’d been too busy catching his breath. Fantasizing about holding her, again. Feeling that silky skin pressed against him. Tasting it to see if it was as creamy as it looked. He’d been so damn preoccupied, he hadn’t even bothered to ask her what her name was.
He gave himself a mental shake. He really hated being the asshole.
A gust of wind twirled around him, cooling his heated skin. Maybe once he got back in, he could find her. Apologize for his behavior. See if he could buy her a coffee as compensation for his lack of tact. Anything to spend more time with her. He wasn’t sure what it all meant. If he was even ready to consider something remotely personal. But just thinking about never seeing her, again, made his stomach clench. His lungs refuse to inflate as he fought to draw in a simple breath. That had to mean something, didn’t it?
It meant he’d lost what was left of his mind. He didn’t have much to offer. Nightmares. Paranoia. The lack of any real social graces. And what happened if she ever wanted to have sex? Hadn’t he read somewhere that blind people used their hands to visualize a person’s face? All those long slender fingers skimming across his jaw, tracing the ugly, raised scars. Then, moving on to his chest where they were even more pronounced.
Rigs didn’t know which was worse. Seeing the disfiguring marks or actually touching them. Besides him, only doctors or nurses had ever touched them. And Ice. The man had tried really hard to stitch him up without leaving marks, but Rigs’ flesh had been ragged and torn, and he’d been damn lucky Ice had done as well as he had in the midst of a gunfight. That Ice had even risked his ass to save him.
No, the more Rigs mulled it over, the worse the idea sounded. She most likely already thought he was a jerk. Best to just leave it at that. Let her find someone else, unless she was already attached but didn’t wear a ring. He’d looked. Nothing but pretty bare fingers.
Yup. He’d definitely lost it because he’d never noticed a woman’s hands before. Or at least, not before getting her name. Before they were wrapped around his dick.
Rigs sighed, doing his best to shove all those thoughts—shove her—into a box and file it away. Mark it as dangerous goods that he’d purge, later. Any woman that messed with his head this much after a single meeting was the kind of trouble that lasted a lifetime.
Compartmentalize then forget. That was his best strategy, and he excelled at strategy. Except he doubted he could forget her. Not that easily. Not when his hands itched to touch her, again. Five seconds without her, and he was already jonesing for another chance.
Which wouldn’t happen until he’d done his damn job. She’d mentioned hearing other people, and despite the warm air, the growing moonlight, and the pretty gardens, he just didn’t believe that the guests would leave when the auction was still actively going.
&nb
sp; He crossed over to the west side, searching what he could see of the woods beyond the groomed yard. Deep shadows pocketed the forest, but he didn’t see anything that looked out of place. Still…
The hairs on his neck prickled, again. There was something about the rightness of it that was wrong. He stood staring for a few minutes, trying to sort through what was bothering him, when it clicked. No guards. There were supposed to be guards walking the back perimeter, and even if they’d stopped to chat, he should have seen some evidence of them, by now. They weren’t trying to be stealthy. The entire point of having them patrol the estate was visibility. A deterrent to anyone who might think about trying to breech the security. Cameras, alarms—they weren’t that difficult to bypass. But armed men… Bullets—the prospect of getting shot—a far better motivator to leave the place alone.
Rigs cursed, slipping his cell out of his pocket. He hit Midnight’s number, frowning when nothing happened. The stupid phone was nearly fully charged. He’d double checked before he’d left. He tried, again, but the line wouldn’t connect, despite having full reception.
Shit. Someone was jamming the signals. Preventing anyone from calling out. Calling for help. Something was going down. And it had to be soon.
He took off, winding his way back as quickly as he could while still being vigilant. Constantly scanning his surroundings. He was essentially going in blind—no intel on numbers or intent. Though, he suspected robbery was the prime incentive. Still, had they killed the guards or merely subdued them? Were they armed or planning on using stealth? Racing in with nothing but his gut feeling, a non-working cell, and the fact he couldn’t see the guards could get him or others killed. He knew firsthand that even the most strategically planned ops could go sideways. His face was testimony to that. Which meant he needed to be smart.
He paused at the corner—the same one where he’d crashed into her. Where a piece of the old Kent had been resurrected—and stopped. Were those mumbled voices? He pressed his back against the wall then peeked around the corner. Two figures stood next to the door, dressed in black. The glow from the interior of the building gave a muted outline of their silhouettes. Black masks, ear protection, and goggles covered their heads. The raised panels on their torsos hinted at body armor, and there was no missing their weapons—AK47s held shoulder high, an extra pistol on their thighs. And Rigs knew they’d have more magazines stashed in pockets.
