by Misty Evans
For his job with National Intelligence, Mitch regularly monitored forums and blogs, looking for the vigilantes, the crazies who were motivated enough to take action. He’d seen it all, but the depravity and hate that one human being could have for another still shocked him at times.
His gaze stopped on a username. One he’d seen pop up in multiple end-of-the-world forums. Mary Monahan. She believed she was the mother of a boy who would save the world.
Her belief wasn’t based in any kind of reality. It was based on a sci-fi movie franchise where future cyborgs traveled through time to kill a man who would lead the human resistance in The Last War between humans and computers.
The movies had spawned the popular cable show Chris Goodsman had starred in for ten years, Resistance: The Mary Monahan Chronicles.
Mitch shook his head as he read the username TheRealMary’s post:
For it is written, the true believers will not be touched by fire from the machines.
Fate will not guide them; truth will.
Their destiny is resistance.
The dish on Emma’s roof lost its connection to the satellite. Mitch’s screen locked up.
Chris Goodsman isn’t the only psycho out there.
Sighing, he clicked out of his browser and went back to the zip file Dupé had sent. One folder contained a map of the national park, including topographical and satellite versions. Mitch studied the landmarks outside of the park area, the various entry and exit points.
Gordon could have left from multiple spots, or someone could have driven him out. With his survivalist training, he could be camping inside the park, but that was risky with so many firefighters and first responders combing through it.
Mitch began looking for motorcyclists leaving the park that day, especially those with two people on them.
The satellite made a connection, his laptop signaling him that service was once more available. He opened up his browser and started to go back to the forums to look for chatter amongst the homegrown terrorists’ groups when he decided to type in Resistance: The Mary Monahan Chronicles instead.
The search engine brought back ninety thousand results. Mitch went to the Wiki page about the show.
A list of cast and characters appeared along with an in-depth description of the plot backstory and summary about the main characters, Mary and Tom. The show had won dozens of awards, spawned thousands of fan fiction stories, and catapulted the originally unknown cast into super stardom during its ten year run.
Several of the reference notations at the bottom of the page listed links to Goodsman’s trial and conviction. Mitch clicked on the first one and started reading.
Two hours later, he caught himself drifting off, the swirl of information overload turning his brain to mush. Moving to the sofa near the window, he set his watch alarm for a nap and fell asleep with the laptop on his belly.
Mitch woke with a sudden oh, shit jerk, the smell of bacon and eggs assaulting his nose.
He sat up, dumping the laptop off his chest and finding his face inches from a plate with soft blue flowers and his favorite breakfast on it.
“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” Emma said. Salt and Pepper sat on either side of her, tails wagging and tongues hanging out, gazes locked on the food. “I thought this might wake you. Never known a man who could resist bacon.”
She was freshly showered, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, her smirking lips once more the color of strawberries.
Mitch ran a hand over his face. “What time is it?”
“Nine-thirty. Your watch alarm went off at five, but you didn’t wake up, so I finally shut it off.”
“Why didn’t you wake me?”
“You apparently needed the sleep.”
She set the plate in his lap, picked his laptop up off the floor and placed it on her desk. “There are clean clothes in the bathroom if you’d like to shower. No underwear, I’m afraid.” The glee in her tone told him she was enjoying the fact he’d have to go commando. “Coffee’s on downstairs.”
“Did Dupé arrive?”
She headed for the door, the dogs torn between following her and staying with the bacon. “He did not.”
Mitch reached for his phone and realized it was still on the desk. “Shit, he’s going to kill me.”
She turned back. “For what, falling asleep? Being human?”
His morning hard-on was painfully thick between his legs as he hustled to the desk. Trading the plate for his phone, he saw he’d missed two calls and three texts. “For not answering my goddamn phone.”
“I spoke to Victor shortly after I shut off your watch alarm. He’s joined the taskforce searching for Chris. I assured him I was safe here at the ranch with you and Will. He doesn’t like it, but he knows better than to argue with me.”
She winked and marched out. The dogs took one last look at Mitch and his bacon, and followed.
Victor Dupé knew better than to argue with her?
Mitch shook his head, grabbed a strip of crisp bacon and stood for a moment chewing it. His head was still clouded with a dream, one that included Emma and his motorcycle.
Total fantasy. She was a ball buster and he had no time for that kind of woman in his life, even if it was just sex.
But he sure as hell wasn’t happy about spending more time with her.
Except in his dreams. If those pretty lips of hers ended up on certain parts of his body in the safety of his dreams, so be it. Since Mac’s death, he’d had a hard time sleeping at all, and when he did fall asleep, he usually ended up suffering horrible nightmares. To dream about a sexy woman doing him on his bike was a welcome reprieve.
The bacon was cooked to perfection, and suddenly Mitch was starving. Snatching up a second piece, he hit the head, washed up, and ignored the clean clothes. One way or another, he’d be out of here by sunset. He’d get back to his hotel room and take a nice, long, hot shower. Then he’d get to work on nailing Sean Gordon’s ass to the wall. Hopefully, he could take a few of the man’s brothers-in-arms down with him.
Seeing the clothes Collin’s had laid out for him gave Mitch pause. Well-worn men’s jeans and a flannel shirt not much different from the one she wore. He fingered the shirt, wondered about the man who might have worn it. A brother? A lover?
A husband?
Emma hadn’t been wearing a ring. There were no pictures of her with anyone else. He didn’t have a file on her. No background at all, except what she’d told him and the mentions on the internet about her in conjunction with Goodsman’s trial.
Who was this woman? Independent, not afraid of a killer on the loose, and one who went toe-to-toe with an FBI God and didn’t even flinch.
She profiled criminals, treated them, and recommended their incarceration or release. She raised horses, saved dogs, and provided therapy to juvenile delinquents.
Taking his plate, he went downstairs.
Emma looked up from her place at the kitchen table, a pair of reading glasses on the end of her nose. A file was spread out on the table in front of her.
Sun shone through the window and the smell of bacon and coffee filled the air. The toaster snapped and two pieces of lightly browned bread popped up.
“Toast?” Emma shuffled her papers together and laid her glasses on top of them. She crossed the room to the counter and started buttering. “There’s plenty more bacon if you’d like.”
“Where are the dogs?”
“Running around the ranch like they do every morning. Why?”
“You let me sleep in, and you let the dogs leave you. Still not taking your safety seriously, are you?”
She stopped buttering long enough to open the drawer next to her hip and flashed a Smith & Wesson peashooter at him. “There’s a .380 Beretta taped to the underside of the kitchen table. I like the revolver best so I keep it handy.”
She grinned like the Cheshire cat and went back to buttering the toast.
Mitch helped himself to t
he bacon piled on a plate near the stove and snagged some coffee. It pained him to admit his shortcomings, but he owed her some gratitude. “Thanks for helping me out with Director Dupé.”
She gave him that noncommittal smile and kept buttering.
None of my business, and yet, he needed to know. “So you and Victor…?”
He let the question hang.
The knife went into the sink with a clatter. Emma glanced at him as she brushed crumbs from her hands. “Me and Victor what?”
The jeans and shirt upstairs certainly didn’t look like Victor Dupé attire. She hadn’t said anything about the man that made Mitch believe she’d slept with him. And certainly not with her hired hand, Will.
And yet…
The thought of her with Director Dupé wouldn’t leave his mind. From her story the night before, she obviously thought highly of him and there had been a touch of awe in her voice.
He raised one eyebrow and shrugged. “You seem to know him well, that’s all.”
An odd look crossed her face. She tilted her head slightly. “We’re friends.”
“Dupé doesn’t have friends.”
“Is that so?” Two more pieces of bread went into the toaster and she pushed the lever. “Well, if you’re concerned about the status of my relationship with him, I suggest you talk to Victor about it.”
Right. Like that was going to happen.
She’d shut him down, yet there was no subterfuge, no embarrassment. If anything, she seemed amused by his little display.
He suspected he’d put his foot in his mouth. The clothes upstairs didn’t belong to Victor, nor had Emma ever had an affair with the man.
Good to know.
Not that he cared.
“Is Goodsman as wacky as they say?” he asked after a sip of coffee.
She handed him a piece of toast. “Define wacky.”
“He encourages his fans to believe in the fantasy world of Tom Monahan, cyborgs, and the Resistance. He glamorizes that world and glorifies anyone who claims it’s real. He even has a fund set up to bail fans out of jail who’ve committed a crime in the name of Tom Monahan. Who does that?”
The second piece of buttered toast made its way to the table with her. She took a bite as she put her reading glasses back on. “He’s clever, but I assure you, he’s sane by psychology standards.”
“I don’t know.” Mitch sat and started on one of the eggs. “I think there might be some validity to that psychotic break he had when he killed his girlfriend. He perpetuates the idea that he’s still Tom Monahan.”
She shuffled papers, read, and chewed. “When it fits his purposes, it’s easy for him to pretend he’s the fictional character Tom Monahan. His fans and the press eat it up.”
“You don’t agree with the other experts who claimed he has grandiose delusions that he’s the savior of the world?”
“Oh, I believe he has grandiose delusions, but they’re bigger than the Tom Monahan world and they are firmly based in reality.”
“What do you mean?”
She gathered up her file and her toast and headed for the stairs. “Chris is extremely convincing, and the most dangerous liars are those who believe they are telling the truth, but during my one-on-one interview with him, I saw a crack in his facade. I saw past the lie. So what I mean is Chris Goodsman is the best actor I’ve ever seen.”
Disappearing from his sight, her footsteps echoed overhead as she hoofed it up the steps to the second floor.
Bending over, Mitch took a peek under the table. Sure enough, there was a .380 pocket pistol taped to the underside.
He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he finished his breakfast. A minute later, Emma reappeared, heading for the tiny mudroom off the kitchen. She pulled on a barn coat, flipping her ponytail out from under the collar.
Mitch jumped up and stuck his plate in the sink. “Where are you going?”
She tugged on a boot. “I have a client at ten.”
“Seriously? Not only are you putting yourself in danger but you’re willing to risk the safety of your client?”
“Good one.” She winked at him and pulled on her other boot. “But it’s not going to work. My client is coming from a juvenile detention center where her health and well-being are at risk on a daily basis. Trust me, even if a killer is on the loose here at the ranch, my client is safer with us than where she currently lives.”
Mitch rolled his eyes at her back, then followed her out the door.
Chapter Five
Emma felt Mitch’s eyes on her.
He watched her from the fence near the horse barn as she led Twinkie through his paces with Danika on his back.
The girl was especially broody today. Seeing the new foal had brightened her eyes for a few minutes, but the holiday season was tough on criminals too. Especially young juveniles. Separated from family and friends and unable to participate in the normal holiday festivities, their moods plummeted like Santa coming down the chimney.
Emma glanced over at the far field. Hope was doing well, prancing by her mother’s side. Second Chance seemed to have taken to her new role as mother with ease and a certain pride. She lifted her head from grazing and stared back at Emma for a moment before flicking her tail and nuzzling Hope.
Will was cleaning out Twinkie’s stall, Lady by his side. Salt and Pepper lounged in the sun near Mitch’s feet.
Danika’s guard roamed the area near the house, keeping an eye on the girl while getting some fresh air. Officer Carla Moses had confirmed Emma’s observation about Danika’s mood. “She’s off her feed,” the woman had told Emma, using a term they both understood as Danika had made her way to the barn to see the foal. “Was cryin’ about her momma last night.”
Not surprising. Most 14-year-olds would miss their mother at Christmas, juvenile detention or not. The fact that Danika had accidentally killed her mother only added to the girl’s misery.
“Take him to a trot, Danika,” Emma instructed her.
Danika sat up a bit taller and nudged the horse’s side. Twinkie responded, moving into a faster gait, his gold and white mane lifting and falling. Danika guided the horse around the fenced-in area, as the wind blew her dreadlocks and the horse’s movements provided a brief sense of freedom.
Around they went several times, each pass peeling back another layer of the girl’s mood until she was smiling. Emma caught the girl’s eye on the fourth pass and motioned her in.
“Get the molasses treats,” Emma said after Danika dismounted. “Let’s work on the tricks you learned last time.”
Over the next ten minutes, Danika instructed Twinkie to lower his head on command, step in and out of a Hula Hoop lying on the ground, and lift his front feet when she pointed at each one. Finally, she took the horse through a simple obstacle course.
“Can I braid his hair?” Danika asked when they’d completed the circuit. Her gaze was downcast, her soft voice barely above a whisper.
That would cut into their time on the couch today, but time with the horse was just as important. “After you brush him down, you can do a single braid, okay?”
The girl nodded and led the horse to his stall, freshly cleaned and ready for him.
Emma followed slightly behind, giving Mitch a small smile as she passed. The wind caught his bangs, lifting them, his lovely gray eyes staring her down. No return smile, no shift in the broodiness that matched Danika’s.
The fresh air and horses didn’t seem to change his perspective at all, which surprised Emma. Animals and nature did the trick with almost everyone she’d ever encountered. She’d seen hardened criminals turn into saps over a puppy, stone-cold killers lose their hard edges when planting a garden.
Mitch fell into step behind her as she entered the cool shadows of the barn. Officer Moses appeared at the far end where the other barn doors were open. Her gaze touched on Danika and the horse, then on Mitch. Emma had caught the woman watching him several times.
Hard not to. All that masculinity in
slouchy jeans and his black shirt. His jaw had a light sprinkle of whiskers this morning.
He looked like a motorcycle rider. Not the type that hung in gangs, but a lone wolf who needed the freedom, who was addicted to the rush.
Danika led Twinkie to his tie-up, and Emma stopped just inside the doors to give the girl some space as she went through the steps of brushing the horse down. Danika spoke softly to Twinkie and smiled when he nudged the treat bag hanging around her neck. More than once, she gave in and snuck the horse a molasses treat in between brushes.
Mitch sidled up next to Emma, saying nothing. He hadn’t changed into the clothes she’d laid out for him, but had rolled the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows, revealing muscled forearms.
Taking him breakfast this morning had been more for her sake than his. When she’d stolen into the office to turn off his watch alarm at five a.m., she’d caught herself staring at him as he slept under the moonlight coming through the window. One arm had been thrown up over his head, his hair looking like he’d ravaged it with his fingers. His strong jaw sported a hint of whiskers lining his face, the lines around his eyes had been relaxed for the first time since he’d arrived. Sleeping in the monochrome light of the moon, he’d seemed younger, almost…playful.
And sexy as hell.
Long legs stretched out on her couch, that broad chest of his rising and falling with his slow, even breaths, her fingers had itched to touch him, to feel his strength. He seemed so peaceful, so unencumbered at that moment, she’d wanted to lie down right there with him. Curl into his strength and protection and sleep like she hadn’t slept in a long, long time.
How long she’d stood there, she didn’t know. She’d been mesmerized by his beauty, his solidness. Finally, he’d shifted in his sleep and she’d fled, embarrassed. If he’d woken and seen her hovering over him, she would have been mortified at the least, but worse he would have seen her vulnerability.