The Blind

by Shelley Coriell

  Jack raised an eyebrow as he took a seat next to her.

  “The dress has kind of grown on me,” she said. “I’m going to wear it next year for Halloween when I take my nephews trick-or-treating.”

  Ricci, now out of his gear and soaked with sweat, joined them at the car.

  “Everyone out of the tower?” Evie asked.

  “Safe and sound. We’ve evacuated the area, and tomorrow morning the structure guys are going in for a look.”

  Evie rested her hand on Jack’s knee and squeezed. “Sorry about your building.”

  “It’ll be fine,” Jack said with a confidence that would never be shaken. “Plans far exceeded earthquake code.”

  “Of course. Only the best for you.”

  “Only the best.” He put his hand over hers.

  “What about Vandemere’s mother?” Evie asked Ricci. “Did you find her?”

  Ricci nodded. “In the parking lot of an office complex two blocks away, and she was ready to fight for him, too. She took a swing at the arresting officer.”

  When it came to their children, mothers of all ages and shapes and sizes showed formidable strength. Evie had already received word that Sabrina was in surgery and Vandemere’s bullet had missed all major organs. Little Angela had downed two bottles and was fast asleep in her grandmother’s arms.

  Under her narrowed gaze, the paramedic inched up Evie’s sleeve. The wound on her arm needed a good cleaning but no stitches. It might leave a scar, but that was nothing new. She pushed the hair from her face and looked at Jack. He’d taken on a serial bomber and came away without a scratch. He looked perfect. On the street and in her world.

  A flash exploded in her face.

  Evie tried to blink away the blind spots. “Dammit, Freddy. No pictures.” She shook her head. No, it couldn’t be Freddy. He’d already been whisked away by an ambulance. When she could see again, she spotted a young girl with long dark hair.

  The girl blew a pink, shiny bubble. “I’m not Freddy.”

  Evie waved a finger at her. She’d seen that face before. “You’re…”

  “Lilliana. His niece. Uncle Freddy told me he’d pay me fifty bucks for any good shots I got down here.”

  Evie shook her head. “Why am I not surprised?”

  Lilliana blew another neon pink bubble.

  “How’s he doing?” Jack asked.

  “Good. The bullet didn’t hit anything too important, but the doctor said Uncle Freddy would have to stay in the hospital a few days. Now let me get one more.” She lifted her camera.

  Click.

  As they walked to the sports car one of Jack’s people must have delivered, he pulled her close, tucking her into his side.

  Once at the car, he bowed. “Where to, my lady?”

  And dammit, not a single hair moved. She laughed and nudged him upright with her fingertips. “Your chauffeur days are over.”

  “Or maybe they’re just beginning.” He opened the door. “So where do you want to go?”

  She sank into the lush leather seat. Really, she could get used to having Jack Elliott in her life. “Someplace with cake.”

  * * *

  Saturday, November 7

  8:22 a.m.

  Evie placed one hand on the desk in Jack’s Ojai home office.

  “I’m afraid not, Alexi,” Jack was saying into his Bluetooth.

  She placed the other hand on his desk.

  “Six point five won’t work on this end.”

  She brought her knee up and crawled across the expanse of wood the color of browned butter. She spun him from his computer.

  “But if you can get your people in Moscow to five and three-quarters, we can open up a dialogue.”

  She planted a boot on each side of his hips and slipped her hands around his neck.

  “Um, Alexi,” Jack said, “contact Brady when you get the new numbers.”

  Jack switched off his computer and tore the Bluetooth from his ear.

  “Taking over Russia this morning?” Evie asked as he slid his hands along her thighs.

  “Not right now. I have other things on my mind.”

  “Those will have to wait.” She pushed back his chair. “Because you have to see something.”

  She dragged him outside, and they strolled through sunshine and citrus groves to the pasture. “Look,” she said. “Miss Alfalfa spent the past hour herding Sugar Run along the fence. She’s showing him where it’s safe to go.”

  “Pretty amazing.” Jack nuzzled the top of her head.

  And so was Jack, a man who could deal with serial killers and blind horses. A laugh bubbled up her throat. And her. She thought she’d never find a man who could accept the dangers and destruction associated with her job. But then again, she never thought she’d let such a man into her life.

  She climbed onto the bottom rung of the fence and rested her elbows on the top rung. Jack slipped his arms around her and nuzzled her neck, much like Miss Alfalfa, who was nudging Sugar Run toward the water trough. “Are you going to collect any more?” Evie asked.

  “I think one goat’s enough.”

  She elbowed him in the ribs. “I meant racehorses.”

  “Do you want me to collect more racehorses?”

  “I like horses.” She turned. She wanted to see him and him to see her. “Jack, there’s something else you should know.”

  “Full disclosure is fine with me.” He slipped his hands beneath her denim jacket.

  “I also like kids. I want kids.”

  His fingers slipped under her tank. “I know that.”

  “Not just one or two. I’m thinking a few more.”

  He flattened his hands on her skin, ran his palms along her sides, then dipped his fingers into the waistband of her jeans. “It’ll be my favorite collection.”

  She took his hands in hers, hands that knew exactly what they wanted and weren’t afraid to take on anyone and anything. “And I don’t plan on giving up my job. I love disrupting bombs and carrying a gun. I love stopping bad guys and making this world a little bit safer for good people.”

  “I am thankful for that.”

  “But can you live with that?”

  He brought their clasped hands to the center of his chest and pressed her palm against the strong, steady ticking of his heart. She loved the feel, the sound, and the promise of a lifetime with him.

  “The bottom line, Evie, is I can’t live without you.”

  Epilogue

  Sunday, November 8

  7:47 a.m.

  Evie sat on the porch of Jack’s Ojai ranch house, her dusty cowboy boots propped on an overturned orange crate. “Here you go.” She tossed an orange at her teammate Hayden Reed. “For Smokey Joe. Maybe it’ll sweeten him up.”

  Hayden caught the orange. “At this point I don’t think anything will help.”

  Even with her less than perfect hearing, Evie could hear Smokey Joe and Kate going at it in Jack’s kitchen. Hayden, Kate, and Smokey were leaving Southern California today, and Smokey was not one bit happy about where he was headed: his cousin Franny’s house in Florida. For his own safety, he couldn’t live alone, and he refused to move in with Hayden and Kate.

  “You know what he needs?” Jack asked as he slipped his arm around Evie’s shoulder.

  “A new attitude?” Hayden asked without a trace of humor.

  “A new pasture buddy.”

  Evie laughed while Hayden’s brow wrinkled.

  “I’m serious,” Jack said. “Smokey needs another horse that has the patience and disposition to put up with him. Goats work, too, if you’re in a pinch.”

  Hayden frowned at the orange in his hand. “Smokey Joe is an old goat, and that’s the problem. He’s so disagreeable no one wants to deal with him.”

  Evie peeled the last of her orange before adding, “Kate did.”

  “She still would, but he refuses to move in with us.”

  “I don’t blame him. You two are madly in love, and he’s the third wheel.” She pre
ssed her shoulder into Jack’s side.

  Hayden set the orange on the porch railing. “I don’t know what to do.”

  “Do what you do best, Hayden,” Evie said. “Use your eyes. You saw Kate and Smokey together, why did they work?”

  Hayden slid his hand along his tie, and she could see the pictures whirring through his head. “For one, she didn’t let Smokey push her around. The minute he pulled any crap, like accidentally leaving the water on in the upstairs bathroom, she hauled him on the carpet for it. She was tough, but fair. He respected her, and she respected him.”

  “And…” Evie prompted.

  “Kate needed him, and Smokey knew that. Of course Kate never came out and said it, but she did. She needed his isolated place in the mountains. She needed his gumption and passion to start an online jewelry store. She needed his wit and mental acumen. Most of all, she needed his acceptance of her, scars and all. They both considered themselves a little broken. But together, they were whole.”

  Jack, the consummate deal maker, nodded. “Smokey Joe needs someone not in the mainstream world. Someone with patience, honesty, and toughness. Someone Smokey can respect. Someone a little broken. Do you know anyone like that?”

  A slow smile slid over Evie’s face. “I do.”

  * * *

  4:31 p.m.

  “Does Kate know about your harebrained idea, Evie-girl?” Smokey Joe asked as he groped the air until he found the rail on the stairway leading down from Jack’s jet.

  “No.” Evie grabbed his elbow and started down the stairs with him.

  “What about Hayden? Does he know?”

  “Nope. Jack and I are the brokers behind this deal.” She winked at Jack, who was waiting on the tarmac.

  “So you’re putting your ass on the line here, aren’t you?”

  “I like to play with things that go boom.”

  Smokey scratched at a sprig of hair on the side of his head. “Why?”

  “Because time’s running out.”

  “What the he-ell are you talking about?”

  “Kate’s pregnant,” Evie said.

  Smokey stopped, his shaky old foot hovering over a metal step.

  Evie put her hand on his thigh and pushed his boot onto the step. “The news surprised Kate and Hayden since the doctors told Kate she’d never have kids after the Broadcaster Butcher took all those swipes at her.” Evie nudged him forward. “Apparently that’s not the case. Hayden finally spilled that she’s two months along but hasn’t told anyone because she wants to get past the first trimester.”

  A twinkle lit up the old man’s watery eyes. “Katy-lady, she’s a tough gal. She’ll do right fine.”

  “Agreed, but with the baby clock now ticking, she can’t come running every time you find yourself at the bottom of a canyon after driving off the side of a mountain. The choice is yours. You can make this work, or you can go live with your cousin Franny in Florida.”

  They’d reached the bottom of the stairs, where Jack handed Smokey his cane. Smokey took a deep breath. “Doesn’t smell too bad here. Sea and pines. I like pines.”

  Evie released Smokey’s arm and took Jack’s.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Bernard,” a voice said.

  Smokey cleared his throat and held out his hand. “Folks call me Smokey Joe.”

  “Excellent, folks call me God, but you can call me Parker.” Parker took the old man’s hand and shook.

  Evie and Jack held back as Parker and Smokey Joe made their way to a black SUV.

  “You think this is really going to work?” Jack asked.

  “I have no idea,” Evie said. “They’re both strong-willed and set in their ways.”

  “Could get explosive,” Jack said.

  “It probably will.” She looked up at him, puffing the hair out of her face. “But there’s nothing wrong with a little smoke and fire in a relationship, is there?”

  Jack pulled her into his arms. “Definitely not.” His lips touched hers, igniting a fire that warmed her to the tips of her red cowboy boots.

  About the Author

  Shelley Coriell is the award-winning author of romantic suspense and smart, funny novels for teens. The Broken, her debut book in the Apostles series featuring Parker Lord’s elite but maverick FBI team, was named one of the Best Romances of Summer 2014 by Publishers Weekly and a Top Pick by Romantic Times Book Reviews. An avid foodie and former restaurant reviewer, Shelley lives in Arizona with her family and the world’s neediest rescue Weimaraner. For Apostles news and bonus content, sign up for Shelley’s newsletter: ShelleyCoriell.com/newsletter

  You can learn more at:

  ShelleyCoriell.com

  Twitter @ShelleyCoriell

  Facebook.com/ShelleyCoriellAuthor

  He took her life, but left her alive.

  Please see the next page for an excerpt from

  The Broken

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mancos, Colorado

  Tuesday, June 9

  1:48 a.m.

  The cry was low and tortured, pulled from the gut of a man who’d been to hell and back.

  Kate Johnson threw off her covers and grabbed the box of paper clips she kept on her nightstand. “I’m coming, Smokey Joe,” she called even though the old man couldn’t hear her. He was too far away, trapped in a time and place known only to his tormented mind. She tore down the steps of the cabin and into Smokey’s bedroom.

  “Safety pins! Where the hell are my safety pins?” Smokey’s hands clawed at the covers she’d tucked around him four hours ago. “Dammit to hell! I need those pins.”

  Kate took one of his hands in hers and dropped a handful of paper clips onto his palm. “Here you go.”

  His knobby fingers clamped around the bits of metal, and he dipped them in a frantic but practiced rhythm. Eventually his cries died off and gave way to moans. Then came the sobs. They were the worst.

  As she had done dozens of times over the past six months, she sank to her knees beside his bed and gathered him in her arms. Papery skin over old bones. The sour-sweet smell of cold sweat. Her cheek rubbed against the sprigs of gray hair on his head. As the sobs tapered off and his trembling ceased, she looked at her arms and shook her head. How could a hug, nothing more than two arms, her arms, stop a war?

  When the old man’s breathing returned to normal, he opened his sightless eyes. “That you, Katy-lady?”

  She squeezed his bony knee. “Yes.”

  Relief smoothed the lines of terror twisting his face.

  She left his bedside and opened the top drawer of the bureau. “Who was it?”

  He inched himself to an upright position. “Never got a name on this one. He wasn’t talking by the time ground grunts got him in the chopper. Mortar round blew off half his neck.”

  “What do you remember about him?” This was another thing she didn’t understand, Smokey’s need to relive the pains of the past. Yesterday’s horrors should be bundled up and tucked away. They had no place in this world. She reached into the drawer for a clean nightshirt.

  “He had red hair, color of a firecracker, and he held a picture of his momma in his hand. We lost him before we got to Da Nang, but I made sure the hospital crew got the picture and told them to tell that boy’s momma she’d been right there with her son when he needed her, offering comfort only a momma can.”

  Mommas don’t offer comfort. The thought snuck up on her, a jarring uppercut to the chin.

  “Katy-lady, you okay?”

  The bureau drawer slammed shut. “I’m fine.”

  She handed Smokey Joe the clean nightshirt and sat on the foot of the bed. That’s when she noticed the soft voices coming from the radio on the nightstand. A late-night talk show host was talking to William from Michigan about a school shooting in New Jersey that left two eleven-year-olds dead. “This!” She jabbed a hand at the radio. “What is this?”

  “Don’t know.” Smokey raised his gaze to the ceiling. “Can’t see.”

  She snapped off the radio, silenci
ng the voices. “You were listening to the news before bed again, weren’t you?”

  “You going to start nagging me? I don’t pay you to ride my ass.”

  “No, you pay me to take care of you, and if you don’t want to take out any new help wanted ads, listen to me. Your doctor said no news before bedtime. Those stories from the Mideast bring back too many war memories.” And trigger nightmares of a time when he desperately tried to save bloody and broken bodies with only a handful of safety pins and a heart full of hope.

  His gnarled fingers fumbled with the buttons of his sweat-soaked nightshirt. She reached over to help.

  “I wasn’t listening to no war news. There was another one of them Barbie murders. This one right here in Colorado. All the stations are yammering about it.”

  Barbie murders? What an insane world, filled with criminals without conscience, a public fascinated by the gory and gruesome, and media ready to unite the two for the sake of ratings. She didn’t miss the crazy world of broadcast news and had no regrets that she hadn’t seen a newscast in almost three years, not since she’d been the news.

  She unfastened Smokey’s next two buttons. “So a Barbie was killed?”

  “Yep. Course the coppers don’t call ’em Barbies. That’s just my name, but I think that makes six now, all TV gals, all stabbed to death in their homes.”

  She grew still. “Broadcast journalists? Stabbed?”

  “Yeah, not too pretty, either. Each gal had more than fifty knife wounds. Now why the hell does someone need to stab a body fifty times?”

  Her hand sought the scar between her right eye and temple. Because twenty-five isn’t enough to kill?

  “I’ll tell you why.” Smokey jabbed a crooked index finger at his temple. “He ain’t right in the head.”

  Kate slipped the shirt off Smokey’s bony shoulders, her own shoulders relaxing. As an investigative reporter she’d seen up close the machinations of the criminal mind. She knew the mean and twisted and evil that perpetuated crimes against humanity. There were plenty of bad people in this world, plenty of knife-wielding crazies, and the twenty-five scars that crisscrossed her body had nothing to do with Smokey’s Barbies. “Haven’t we both determined the world in general isn’t right in the head?”