Heroes in Uniform: Soldiers, SEALs, Spies, Rangers and Cops: Sexy Hot Contemporary Alpha Heroes From NY Times and USA Today Bestselling Authors

by Sharon Hamilton

  A night watchman?

  A flashlight beam swung back and forth, back and forth in a determined arc. Swept across the unlocked door and then in her direction. For one heart-pounding moment, the light tracked across her midsection, but then moved on.

  Why hadn’t the guard seen me?

  The light had been directly on her. She glanced down at her stomach, recalling where the light had hit her body.

  Grey mottled with specks of black had blossomed across not only her midsection, but all of her torso, making her nearly invisible against the cinder block wall.

  Wrong.

  I am so so wrong, she thought again.

  She raised her hand and stared at it. She couldn't understand the color of her skin any more now than she could the earlier forest hues which had covered her flesh.

  She focused on her hand until slowly, the mottled color faded away leaving behind the tones of normal human skin. But almost immediately after that, the odd vibrant colors from the night before reappeared, painting everything around her with a bold impressionistic brush.

  She didn't understand the colors.

  On her skin.

  In her vision.

  They weren't right. I'm not right, she remembered.

  She was sick. Only a sick person would hurt . . .

  The memories pounded at her brain again, creating a crater of pain in the center of her skull.

  So much blood on the floor and walls.

  All over her and the pieces of Dr. Wells.

  Soft wet pieces beneath her fingers.

  Control, she urged and leaned back against the wall to stabilize herself. Her fingertips sank into the cinder block, grounding her as she tried to focus.

  Focus. Focus. Focus.

  She repeated the word like a mantra until the reminders of blood and death receded, replaced by scattered recollections of people and pictures and music.

  Music, she thought, imagining the black and white of notes on the page. The rough bite of metal strings beneath her fingers. Smooth wood and cold varnish.

  I love music, she recalled and with that came the picture of a building in her mind's eye.

  A building filled with welcome.

  She had to get to that structure.

  The music would be there. Music and happiness.

  Retracting her fingers from the cinder block, she carefully kept to the outside wall, following it around the edge of the building until she came to some lockers. Slightly rusty and battered, they nevertheless might hold what she needed.

  She quickly found a grey t-shirt in one open compartment and slipped it on. It hung on her, overly large on her slender body. A musty smell clung to the thin cotton.

  All the other lockers had locks dangling from their handles, protecting their contents.

  With a sharp twist of one lock, however, it sprang free and inside she found a pair of men's jeans and shoes. Both were immense. She effortlessly opened the other combination locks, the metal bending like putty beneath her fingers.

  Within a short time she scrounged together more clothes and a pair of sneakers she could wear. Dressed, she hurried toward the open back door, ever vigilant for the presence of others. She listened for a hint of any approach, the sounds of the night exceptionally loud.

  Only no one came.

  At the exit, she paused, hesitant. She felt surprisingly strong and energized, but still unfocused. Her vision drifted from the surreal colors which came unbidden to those familiar hues of reality.

  A reality which she had struggled to maintain since escaping the lab. A reality which seemed to elude her more often than she wanted.

  As she escaped into the night, she knew she still had some distance to go until she reached anything familiar. Until she got to the building with the music, certain that once she got there, things would make more sense. Maybe even go back to normal, but more importantly . . .

  Instinctively she knew that once she got there she would be safe.

  Sins of the Flesh: Chapter Four

  Mick stared at the bright yellow police tape and evidence seal on the door of Caterina’s town home which was located a block off trendy South Street. No matter how much Edwards wanted to avoid police involvement, they were clearly already on the job. He would have to hurry and locate her in order to curtail any further investigation. He wouldn’t try to guess why Edwards didn’t want the police poking around. His job wasn’t to question; only to acquire his target.

  Or so Mick told himself, hating that the scruples he still possessed insisted that he had to find out why Edwards wanted Caterina so badly before turning her over.

  As he examined the evidence seal, he realized that someone had carefully slit it open. The razor-fine cut wouldn’t be visible to a casual observer, but upon a more thorough examination someone would discover the break-in.

  With a quick look down the street to make sure no one was watching, he easily turned the knob, slipped beneath the caution tape, and entered the town house.

  He stopped short at the mess within.

  Someone had knocked over bookshelves, tables and chairs, and knifed open the sofa and cushions. In the upstairs bedrooms, drawers and closets had been rifled, the contents strewn carelessly on the polished wood floors. The linens tossed and the mattresses slashed.

  The deception with the evidence seal and the devastation in the home were not the kind of action he expected from an everyday burglar. Damage of this nature was intended to deliver a personal message. A message that warned about either evening a score or scaring someone off.

  I'd put my money on the latter, he thought as he glanced out through the front windows to check the street outside before exiting into the night.

  At a brisk pace, shoulders hunched and head tucked down to conceal his face, he walked toward South Street where it would be more populated and he could get lost in the crowd just in case anyone was tracking him.

  As he considered the wreckage of Caterina’s home, it was clear that someone didn't want her to stay there, not that she would anyway if she had a lick of sense remaining in what was left of her tumor-laden gene-invaded brain.

  A common criminal would avoid any places they regularly visited, knowing that the police would look for them there first. But someone like Caterina might head to familiar things where she likely felt safe and would know where to hide. Maybe even to people she could trust, like her best friend Elizabeth Rogers.

  He contemplated immediately heading back to the Rogers residence, but didn’t believe Rogers was covering for her friend. She had let him into her home too quickly and there had been nothing suspicious in her manner, only concern.

  If Rogers was not hiding her friend and Caterina had already come by her home and seen the destruction, she would either head toward Rogers or another safe haven.

  The Rogers home was a far walk from Caterina’s townhouse while his second targets were closer – the Kimmel Center and nearby Music Academy.

  At the corner, he turned onto South and walked toward Broad, all the time keeping an eye out for either a tail or anyone who fit Caterina’s general physical description since she might have had the sense to try and disguise herself.

  In the shiny windows of the Whole Foods Market on South Street, he thought he caught a reflection of unusual activity behind him and paused, seemingly to peruse the sign listing their specials. Instead, he focused on the reflection of the few people walking by, trying to pinpoint what had snagged his attention.

  A minute or so passed, but whatever he had seen was long gone.

  Or maybe he had only imagined it.

  He continued onward, hurrying down past the more residential section of South Street until he hit Broad.

  It was nearly midnight, but a fair amount of vehicular traffic still traveled along the street as well as some stray pedestrians, mostly twenty something students by the University of the Arts. Heading down Broad, he crossed the street and hustled toward the Kimmel Center. The rounded arches of the center's vaulted g
lass ceiling radiated shards of light into the murkiness of the night sky.

  The marquee by the ticket office indicated there had been a performance of the philharmonic that night, but now only a few people lingered in and around the periphery of the building.

  He had calculated that Caterina might return here because she would know where to hide within the performing arts complex, but given the event that night, there would be too many people around for her to enter undetected.

  He wouldn't find his target here, but he also suspected she would not be far away.

  He continued down the section of Broad known as the Avenue of the Arts until he stood in front of the plain red brick facade of the Academy of Music.

  The building was quiet tonight. The only life was the muted glow of the gas lanterns glimmering light onto the empty sidewalks surrounding the building.

  The gated entrance near the front of the building was too conspicuous, even though the recessed stage door lay in the shadows, providing some protection from prying eyes.

  Mick had downloaded the blueprints for the building from the Internet and knew just where to go. Turning onto Locust, he proceeded to a narrow alley behind the building. The light from the street lamps illuminated the mouth of the alley, but beyond that only darkness lingered.

  He looked around.

  The cobblestoned street was empty of any pedestrians, so he slipped into the narrow alley and paused a few steps in to allow his eyes to adjust to the lack of light and to check for signs of anyone else.

  The long slender alley was also empty.

  Time for him to move in.

  He stole down the alley while hugging the wall, the ground uneven beneath his feet. The area lit only by the small beam from a flashlight he pulled from his pocket. He moved quickly, every action efficiently cautious, until he located the entrance shown on the blueprints.

  Pointing the flashlight at the door, he prepared to jimmy the lock but found that someone had beaten him to it. A shit job for sure. Large sharp gouges along the seam of the door and at the lock gleamed silvery bright in the beam from his flashlight.

  He reached behind him, pulled out his 9 mm Glock from beneath his leather jacket, and released the safety. With a gloved hand, he slowly opened the door and risked but a sharp glance inside before he cleared the entrance.

  The interior was almost as gloomy as the night outside, but since his eyes had adjusted already, he could make out the tangle of shapes before him.

  Large lockers and an assortment of equipment lined the edges of a hallway, but there was a clear path down the center. Slowly he inched along, pausing well before the low light cast by an illuminated exit sign so that he would remain hidden.

  He recalled from the building plans where the stairs would be that led to the manager's office and dressing rooms, as well as the stairs to the basement level and trap door area. Crouching, he rushed past the dim circle of light cast by the exit sign.

  As he did so his foot brushed against a cable housing on the ground. It slithered and shook like an angry rattlesnake. The rattle echoed loudly off the walls in the quiet of the hall and he stilled, waiting to see if anyone would respond to the sound.

  Only silence answered.

  Mick released a low grateful sigh and proceeded, decidedly more careful of the objects littering the floor and sides of the hall. More cables. A Klieg light. A box brimming with colored gels for the spotlights.

  Muscles tense, every inch of him on alert, he skirted all the items until he neared the stairs to the basement level.

  Pausing, he peered down the darkened stairway, watching for any signs of life.

  Like before, the space was empty and the area down below was deadly quiet.

  He took the first step down the stairs.

  A muffled thud sounded in back of him.

  He whirled on the stair, stepped back up, and took cover behind one of the large gray metal lockers lining the hall, his hand tight on his pistol grip.

  Listening, he heard the squeak of a sneaker against the tiled floor. Soft footfalls immediately came, followed by the thud of heavier steps.

  Two people.

  Somewhere dead ahead in the dark.

  Coming toward him as he hid by the stairway.

  He lifted his gun and trained it on the area. Waited patiently for any additional movement.

  A sudden flash of muzzle fire erupted in the dark followed by the familiar pop from a silencer.

  Cautiously he eased from behind the locker and made his way closer to the spot where he thought he had seen the flash, ducking in and out from behind the equipment along the hall for protection. He was several feet away from the location when he heard the sound of light footsteps racing away again, followed quickly by the flat-footed pounding of the heavier body.

  Another silenced shot rang out and the shooter carelessly stepped into the dim light from the exit sign Mick had avoided earlier, giving him a clear view.

  "Stop or I'll fire," he called out while sizing up the man in the illumination from the sign.

  The shooter was middle-aged and dark-haired with a pronounced scar above one brow. Tall and thickly muscled, the man was fairly fit, but with a midsection that was starting to turn to flab. His easy stance with the gun spoke of training and the silencer on the weapon confirmed he was a professional, but he had made a totally careless mistake by exposing himself in the light from the sign.

  The man peered into the darkness toward Mick, searching for him in the shadows. His face was flush with embarrassment – or maybe from the red of the sign – and gleaming with sweat.

  From a chase? Mick wondered.

  "Identify yourself," Mick said, but then shifted farther back behind the protection of the locker and closer to the wall so that the shooter couldn't place him based on the sound of his voice.

  "This is none of your business. Stay out of it," the man said and moved as if to shift away from the light, but Mick shouted out a warning.

  "Move another step and you’re dead."

  At that command, the man finally did as he was told, remaining in place, but still ready to fire.

  "Shaw is my fuckin' capture," the other man threatened while peering into the dark for any sign of Mick.

  The big metal locker provided great cover and Mick took advantage of that. Reaching down, he picked up a heavy metal hook wrapped with rope. With his free hand, he tossed the hook up ahead of him and toward the wall opposite both him and the shooter.

  The hook landed with a noisy clatter against a pile of lighting equipment.

  The other man turned and shot in the direction of the sound, exposing his gun hand as he did so.

  Mick fired, the reverberation of the gunshot loud as it echoed along the hallway.

  The shooter grunted in pain and dropped his weapon, but he was already reaching for it with his uninjured hand when Mick charged him. With a strong shove of his shoulder into the man's thickening midsection, Mick sent him careening into the far wall, where he collapsed to the ground in a heap.

  While keeping his gun trained on the shooter, Mick bent and retrieved the weapon the other man had dropped and tucked it into his waistband by the small of his back.

  "Who sent you?" Mick asked.

  "Like I would fuckin' tell ya," the gunman said as he cradled his bleeding forearm against his chest.

  "Get on your stomach." He urged the man on with a wave of his gun. When the man complied, he placed his knee in the middle of his back.

  Working quickly, he grabbed some cable ties from his jacket pocket, pulled the man's arms back one at a time, and trussed them together with the ties. When he was done, he stood and nudged the man with his foot.

  The man rolled over and there was no mistaking his anger.

  Mick bent and grabbed the front of the shooter's drab olive military jacket, lifting him off the ground a bit. Not an easy thing to do since the man was solidly built. He shook him roughly.

  "You're too stupid to be working on your own. Who
sent you?" To stress his point, he brought his weapon to the man's temple and repeated his earlier question.

  "Franklin Pierce," the man finally replied, unable to hide the quiver of fear on his lips. His gaze jumped back and forth from Mick's face to the gun pointed at his head.

  Franklin Pierce, his ex-Ranger buddy who now ran his own private security firm. It had been years since he had talked to his old friend. He would definitely have to pay Franklin a visit and find out what was up, but first . . .

  "Tell Franklin that I don't appreciate him sending in the second string. Tell him he needs to stay out of this."

  The flush along the man's face deepened and he stuttered with resentment as he tried to sit up. "You d-d-didn't have t-t-o shoot me, man."

  Mick had no doubt that if the situation had been reversed, the gunman wouldn't have hesitated to kill him. He seemed like the kind to shoot first to avoid asking questions later, which was why he had made sure to tie him up. Wanting the man to have no doubt about his earlier warning, he pointed his gun at the man's groin.

  "If there is a next time, I'll shoot something you'll really regret losing."

  For good measure, he once again grabbed hold of the man's jacket and shoved him away forcefully. The other man rebounded against the wall with a thud, and then lay there moaning, but relatively uninjured.

  Mick raced in the direction in which he thought the gunman had been shooting.

  Nothing but empty hallway greeted him.

  He hoped that the time spent interrogating Franklin's goon hadn't allowed his target to escape.

  Gun drawn, he crept along the edges of the hall, the narrow beam of his compact flashlight sweeping the area in front of him and along the walls as he searched.

  Just the shadows and equipment.

  He pressed forward, continuing his hunt and suddenly something gleamed back at him from the ground before him.

  He trained the flashlight on the floor.

  Bright droplets of yellow-green phosphoresced into luminous life. Bending, he inspected them for a moment.

  Memories came speeding back of hot summer days and the twinkling of hundreds of lightning bugs in the woods behind his home. His cousin Ramon had used to trap dozens of the fireflies in a rusty-topped old Mason jar. When Ramon tired of watching the insects crawling around the inside of the jar, their asses shining light against the glass, he would spill out some of the insects and squish them against the sidewalk.