by J. L. Saint
“He won’t get near you. I promise. I see the police pulling into the parking lot now. Just hold on.”
The police were already out of the car with their Glock 22’s drawn when Roger pulled into the parking lot. Glass from the double doors to the food mart lay in a shattered pile on the sidewalk. One officer turned his pistol toward Roger and shouted something. Mari was still on the phone talking so Roger missed what the officer said.
Roger shoved the car into park and held up his hands, showing the officer he was unarmed. He pointed at the phone then rolled down the window. “There’s a woman trapped in the bathroom. I have her on the phone. She’s the one who called 911.”
The officer stepped closer, pistol at the ready, but barrel pointed to the side. “Who are you?”
Delta didn’t wear uniforms or regulation haircuts. They did little to set them apart from any regular Joe on the street. He held up his Fort Bragg ID pass.
“Her husband’s military commander, Officer Cain.” Roger noted the man’s name. Though young, the man seemed calm and in control. “There were two men involved and I’m sure the clerk inside needs an ambulance. I’ll wait here until you check the place out.”
The cop nodded after a hard stare and rejoined his partner, who was plastered against the wall outside of the store. At the same time they rushed through the front door, one dropping low, the other high, then they disappeared inside.
“Stay where you are,” Roger told Mari over the phone. “The police are checking the store out now.”
“I can’t come out,” Mari said. “They can’t see me. I’m indecent.”
“He ripped your clothes?” A dizzying rush of rage sliced through him. What had she been through?
“My hijāb. He took it. He tried to choke me with it. It is improper to be seen in public without it.”
Roger let his head fall back to the headrest and mentally counted to regain his equilibrium. He was one hundred percent positive that if Mari’s attacker walked out the door at that moment, Roger would strangle him with his bare hands, police or no police.
“Are you there, Mr. Weston?”
“Yeah.” His voice grated hoarsely. “Call me Roger, so the police know that you know me.” He glanced through his car for something she could use and produced a clean towel from his gym bag. He could hear a multitude of sirens growing closer. People were stopping on the street to look.
“The police want me to come out,” Mari said. “I can’t.”
“Hold on. I’ll be right there.” Roger exited and locked his car then slowly approached the front of the store and called out. The scent of pickles tickled his nose. “Officer Cain. Can you hear me? It’s Lt. Col. Weston.”
“I hear you.”
“Mari won’t come out until she has this towel. The bastard took her headscarf. He tried to choke her with it. She’s Muslim.”
A moment of silence followed. “Don’t touch anything. You can bring it here.”
Roger crossed the threshold, his eyes quickly adjusting to the lighting. The clean and orderly set up of the food mart was violated by the remnants of violence…and death, he thought as he ran his gaze over the elderly man lying in a bed of glass, pickles and blood. That it could have easily been Mari in the pile as well burned in his gut. He moved to the back of the store and storage room with a grim determination to nail the bastards responsible. He crossed the hazardous sea of nuts on the ground and joined the policemen.
The officers had their guns drawn, and were situated outside the bathroom in defensive stances. They were still in full alert mode. Roger knew Mari wasn’t a threat, but they didn’t. Roger held up the towel and his hands to assure them he was unarmed. “Let me talk to her and give her this.”
Officer Cain nodded. “Go ahead, but tell her to come out with her hands where we can see them. Until we know what went down here, we aren’t taking any chances.”
“You can’t these days,” Roger agreed. He moved over to the door. “Mari, it’s Roger. I have a head covering for you. You can open the door. It’s safe now.”
Roger heard a low moan then the clicking of a bolt. The door cracked open and, oh shit, a paper towel wrapped bloody hand stuck out. Several drops of blood plopped onto the floor. His stomach flipped.
“You’re hurt! Move back.” Screw propriety. Sometimes there were more important things. “I’m coming in.” Roger glared at the cops, daring them to argue with him. They lowered their Glocks and nodded.
Roger slid into the bathroom. Mari turned from him with a cry. She faced the wall with her head bowed as if shamed. He plopped the towel on her head, covering the thick mass of wavy, impossibly long hair the color of black lacquer. He was damn certain he should be wrapping her cut hands instead. He moved around to face her and crouched down to look into her haunted amber-gold eyes. “I don’t know what you have to do, or how you have to think of me in order for it to be acceptable with your beliefs for me to help you, but whatever it takes, do it or think it because that’s what’s going to happen. Understand?”
His breath hitched. In the two years he’d known her, Mari had always been covered with only her eyes visible, and all too often her gaze had remained downcast during any short conversation. He’d never actually seen her before. Roger had supposed shyness and her religious upbringing dictated her interactions and he had always made sure he was as kind and as respectful as possible. Now as he looked at her and realized just how secluded and hidden she constantly lived, he found himself really questioning why. God didn’t create beauty and bury it in the dirt. Nor did God mean for the human heart and spirit to be hidden from the world. Lights were meant to shine in the darkness. Frightened out of her mind, disheveled, blood smeared on her honey-cream skin, she had to be the most stunning woman he’d ever seen.
“The ambulance is here,” Officer Cain called out.
Roger didn’t wait for Mari to answer; he swept her into his arms and carried her out to the paramedics. But the way she exhaled and let her head rest against his chest was answer enough.
Chapter Fourteen
Atlanta, Georgia
Lauren released the steering wheel, her hands cramping from the intensity of her grip. She had just lived the longest, most agonizing ten minutes of her life, and now that she’d finally made it to Angie’s neighborhood, she realized her angst had only begun. Seeing Angie’s car in the driveway, parked exactly where it was sixty minutes ago was not a good sign. During the multiple unanswered calls Lauren had made on the drive over, she had desperately prayed that Angie had taken the boys out to eat and had forgotten her cell phone at home.
So finding Angie’s car left Lauren facing the increasing possibility that her sons and her best friend were in danger. She’d made a grave mistake. She’d always abdicated the protection of herself and her family to someone else, something else, or the Shepherds. She knew absolutely nothing about self defense. She didn’t have a gun, didn’t know how to use one, had never even touched one. Not that she would go barreling into Angie’s house with a gun drawn like a TV show, but she fully realized 911 wouldn’t have done her a damn bit of good against the gunman at her house. 911 only helped if there was the time and the opportunity to call for help, and the police were able to arrive in time to do any good. What were the odds all of those elements would work that smoothly every time?
She—
The front passenger’s door opened and she barely stifled the scream rising in her throat as Jack slid into the seat. Her blind grab for the towel bar came up empty. It had fallen between the seat and the console. She made a mental note to get her hands on a better weapon.
“I’m about ninety-five percent sure you weren’t followed,” he said. “But there’s an off chance I didn’t spot a tail, so stay alert. The traffic and the short distance didn’t work in our favor. Which house?”
“The tan one with the red Camry in the driveway. The car is parked exactly where it was when I left. They should be there. They should be answering the phone.”
Jack reached over and touched her hand. His fingers were warm, comforting. The summery day was hot, but she was cold, an icy fear had wrapped her in a chilling grip.
“Hang in there. We’ll find your sons and we’ll keep them safe.” His calm assurance brushed soothingly over her knotted angst.
She blinked back the moisture in her eyes and inhaled. She believed him. She had to.
He scanned the neighborhood. “I’m going to circle around and check out the house from the back. You can’t stay here. You’re a sitting duck parked in this car, especially if he managed to follow us. Come with me, but when we get close to the house you have to stay hidden until I give the go ahead. Got it?”
“Yeah.” She’d crawl through fire to get closer to her sons. She had feared he would leave her behind; insist she stay in the stifling car. The wait would have driven her crazy.
“Bring the dogs with us. If your sons are being held hostage, the dogs might help.” He didn’t waste any more time. He checked the area again and exited the car.
She clipped on Sasha’s and Sam’s leashes then, at Jack’s direction, she followed his lead, keeping to the shadows. The older neighborhood was lush with sprawling oaks, gleaming hedges and rolling lawns. Sunday afternoon in a populated city came at her, the drone of traffic and lawnmowers, a tinny radio, distant children shouting and laughing, a dog barking. Nothing sinister. Just an apple-pie-and-pass-the-grits normal day in the South, which made her situation even more surreal.
Alarms should be going off.
She should be screaming for help.
The world should be at a standstill instead of marching along as if nothing were wrong.
Even the fragrance of blooming tea roses and honeysuckle warmed by the afternoon sun were too cozy. The scent grated harshly over her nerves.
She stumbled as Sasha and Sam plowed ahead, pulling hard against their leashes. Jack caught her elbow and then reined the Shepherds in with a quiet, firm command that had them moving stealthily at his side. Move over, Dog Whisperer, there was a new Alpha in town.
Luckily there were only hedges to navigate through between this end of the block and Angie’s house. Farther down were the fences, likely enclosing swimming pools as required by law.
In less than two minutes, they were one house away from Angie’s. Since the boys’ birthday party yesterday, the unfolding events had skewed Lauren’s perception of time, tilted it sickly on some warped, metaphysical axis in her mind. She wanted everything to happen instantly.
Jack approached the house from the right side where a wealth of tree coverage went all the way to the windows of Angie’s three bedroom ranch. Angie often complained about the oak’s branches creaking during strong winds or a heavy rain, completely sure they’d land in her bed one day. Lauren waited one house away, beneath the dark overhang of a carport attached to a storage shed. Gardening tools and a lawn mower filled the space and she grabbed a trowel, figuring its sharp prongs could do some major damage. Jack silently moved to each window and peered inside then disappeared around the corner of the house.
She held her breath as precious seconds ticked by.
He came back looking grim. “The back door is ajar and the house is empty.”
Lauren moaned, somewhere between a scream and a cry.
He grabbed her arms. “Listen. There’re no signs of violence or a struggle, so don’t go jumping to conclusions yet.”
“Let me look,” she whispered, her heart struggling to beat as her mind raced. Angie wouldn’t have left the door open. And if a gunman had taken either Matt or Mitch hostage, there would be no signs of a struggle. Angie would have cooperated.
She might have left some sort of hint or clue, Lauren thought to herself and prayed to find something. How did mothers ever face this horror? Missing their child or children. Not knowing what was happening to them? If they were okay…hurt…oh God.
Trowel clutched in hand, Lauren followed Jack as he again cautiously approached the house from the back. Her stomach churned. A cold sweat had her palms damp and her body shivered as she crossed the threshold.
Silence, an ugly dark pit of it, surrounded her as she swept her gaze back and forth for any clue. The house—their stuff and Angie’s belongings—was exactly as Lauren had left it a short time ago. The TV was on and muted. Thomas the Tank Engine filled the screen. Tears blurred her eyes and she sucked in air, realizing she had barely breathed since entering the house.
The scent of peanut butter smacked her. She went to the kitchen sink. “They ate PBJs.” She located two lunch plates with crusts and two almost empty glasses of milk in the sink. Jack touched the milk glass.
“It’s still cold.” He marched over to the TV and paused the DVD. “How long ago did you leave here?”
“About sixty minutes.”
“This has only been running for twenty minutes.”
Lauren’s eyes widened. “Which means that they were here and fine then.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the floor, his expression darkened, his body tensed. The dogs suddenly pawed at the now-closed back door. Lauren ran the few steps to the door. “That’s how they always greet the boys.”
Jack’s sixth sense screamed. “Wait, Laur—” But she didn’t hear his warning, the dogs’ barking had drowned him out.
Lauren jerked open the door, expecting to see Angie and her sons, totally not registering Jack’s booming for her to stop until it was too late.
Before she could blink, she found herself sandwiched against the wall with Jack plastered to her back. Her trowel clattered to the floor as surprise left her fingers nerveless. His heat and the deadly tension in his hard body were overwhelming. He had is gun in hand. No one was at the door and the dogs barreled out.
“There’re fresh muddy prints on the kitchen mat,” Jack said harshly. “They’re about size twelve men’s shoe. My size, but they’re not mine. So Angie had a welcomed or unwelcomed guest here within the past hour. My guess is unwelcomed and that someone could have been at the door. Opening it could have been a fatal mistake.” She nodded, gulping for air. He continued, “You have to think before you react and remember EVERYTHING is suspect. The boys could have been outside with Angie and the muddy footprints could mean nothing at all, or the boys and Angie could have been being held at gunpoint. In which case, any edge that I might have had in sneaking around and surprising them from behind would have been lost when you opened the door. So look before you leap, or before you open a door in this case.”
Lauren realized to her core that the world as she’d always known it was gone as effectively as if she had been transported to another planet. She looked at the mat by the sink Jack referred to. “The prints are new. They weren’t there when I left. I know because I swept up cornflakes after Matt dropped the box while climbing up to the top of the pantry. And Angie was not expecting anyone to come over.”
“Then we’ll assume they’re in danger.” Sasha and Sam continued to bark and Jack grabbed her hand, pulling her with him as he slipped to the outside porch and scanned the area, his gun ready. “Stay close. Stay low, and do what I do. The Shepherds might be tracking your sons.” Jack kept to the shadows, knowing how to blend in with the scenery and using that skill like a master.
Sasha and Sam went to a gate three houses away from Angie’s and pawed the wooden privacy fence, begging to get inside.
Jack pulled back into the shadows. “Stay here. Let me check the area first. Whoever made those footprints could have left or could be on the other side of the fence.”
He reached the fence and after checking through the cracks, he put his gun away, and stepped back. He signaled for her.
Lauren rushed up.
“Relax. They’re safe.” Jack motioned for her to go ahead. She almost stumbled as her knees went weak with a relief she couldn’t quite grasp. What did the footprints mean?
Angie, harried and disheveled with her red hair a corky mop in the breeze, opened the gate. The Shepherds bounded inside, nearly
knocking her over. She laughed. “You know. When you go on that sex date, we’re going to have to get you a babysitter three days in advance. Otherwise you’re going to be too tired to enjoy anything. These monsters are murder on energy.”
Lauren froze, except for her mouth which opened and shut like a fish out of water.
Angie turned around, gasped then yelled, “Matt. Get down. I told you that you must ask your mom before you can use the diving board.”
“But she’s not here and I want E-hart to fly now.”
At Jack’s barely audible chuckle, Lauren unstuck herself and hurried through the gate, sure her face was beet red. Matt stood on the diving board situated at the deep end of the pool, bouncing with his race car in hand. Mitch had his race car at the shallow end of the pool and was racing it down the stair rail, thoroughly happy to stay within the safe parameters Angie had set.
“Off the diving board now, Matt.” Lauren thanked God that she found her sons safe.
“But, Mom!”
“No buts. You disobeyed Aunt Angie and that means you forfeited your opportunity to use the diving board this time.”
“But…but… MOM!”
“Now. Next time you’ll remember that you can’t just do what want to do without facing the consequences. When Aunt Angie is babysitting you, you have to obey her. Do I need to add another punishment as well?”
Matt shut his mouth and backed off the diving board. He had his jaw set at a stubborn angle though, telling her that he hadn’t come close to learning any sort of lesson. The heat of Jack’s body behind her penetrated her consciousness even before she heard him shut the gate. Both her sons and Angie came to a surprised standstill, their gazes wide.
“Oh my,” Angie said. “Didn’t realize you had company.” Rather than appearing contrite at her sex date remark, she looked entirely too pleased. “I’m Angie Freemont.” She stepped up and offered her hand.
“Jack Hunter.” Jack shook her hand.
“I tried to call, and became really worried.” Lauren said. “Someone ransacked my house at some point since last night.” She again glanced at her sons, so thankful they were safe, but still fully aware they were all in a bad situation. Would they ever be safe again? Danger had parked a vulture on her shoulder that continued to tear at her heart. At the moment the boys were hugging Sasha and Sam and running their race cars down the dogs’ backs.