by Seton, Cora
“I’ll be okay. It’s daytime, and no one would do anything in broad daylight.”
“Uh, darlin’…” He eased her backward to arms’ length. “In case you hit your head and don’t remember, the attack yesterday happened in broad daylight.”
That was true. She fought from displaying that sentiment in her expression. “Yeah, but surely they won’t try something that stupid two days in a row. I mean, really. Is killing me so important that he’d risk getting caught again?”
Remy’s answer was to pull her into his arms and hold her tight. “Sometimes, I wish you didn’t work for the NCIS.”
Hearing his caring tone touched her, and she laughed softly. “Sometimes, I wish you weren’t a SEAL. So, we’re even.”
With a sigh, Remy let go of her. “Just don’t be out all day. We have to get packed and to the airport two hours early.”
“I’ll be ready.” She kissed him one more time, slipped into her jacket, grabbed her purse and left the apartment.
She’d just reached the parking lot and was about to cross it when a trash truck backed away from the huge bin it had just emptied. Rather than hurrying across, Mitchell stepped back, even with the bumpers of the cars parked on either side of her.
The garbage truck picked up speed, still backing up. A brief thought crossed Mitchell’s mind that the driver was being reckless to go so fast in a parking lot. Sometimes, small children darted out from between cars.
She drew in a deep breath to shout at the driver to slow down when the truck’s rear end swerved, heading directly for her. Caught off guard, she froze, a full second passing before she realized that if she didn’t move, she’d be hit. Spinning, she ran back the other way.
The crunch of metal on metal and squealing tires filled the air.
A glance over her shoulder made her heart slam into her ribs. The two vehicles she’d stood beside were sliding sideways and almost on her heels.
She picked up her knees and elbows and ran faster, ducking into the stairwell she’d just exited. The cars slammed into the side of the building—the brick walls the only things keeping the crushed vehicles from hitting her.
From the stairs above, Remy leaped, landing on the ground beside her. “What the hell?”
Gulping for air, Mitchell pointed at the cars blocking their exit. “That garbage truck,” she gasped. “It almost hit me.” Now that the cars were no longer chasing her, she pulled her gun from her shoulder harness and threw herself across the nearest car.
“Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Remy yelled, grabbing at a foot.
She shouted over her shoulder, “That was no accident.” Mitchell left Remy in the stairwell and ran after the garbage truck turning onto the street at the end of the parking lot.
The garbage truck raced out into traffic. A driver slammed on his brakes and skidded to a halt, narrowly missing the truck. His quick stop caused the guy behind him to ram into his rear end, pushing him into the backside of the truck. The garbage truck didn’t slow or stop, but sped away.
Remy caught up with Mitchell at the main road as she raised her handgun, pointing it at the truck.
He gripped her arm. “Don’t shoot.”
“He nearly killed me.”
“The bullet could ricochet off the heavy metal and hit an innocent.”
Of course, he was right. She lowered her gun and would have taken off running after the truck if Remy hadn’t tightened his hold on her arm.
“You won’t catch him on foot, Mitchell.” He tugged gently, easing her back from the edge of the road. “We need to call it in and get the police after him.”
“Damn!” Mitchell jammed her weapon into the holster beneath her jacket.
Remy yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and hit 9-1-1. “Did you see the driver’s face?”
“Hell, no.” Mitchell shoved a hand through her hair and then reached for her own phone. “I was too busy getting my ass out of the way before it was crushed.”
Remy reported the incident to the police, and Mitchell called her boss at the NCIS.
“Damn, Mitchell,” Patrick Holzhaus’s gravelly voice rumbled into her receiver. “I can’t let you out of my sight for a minute without you getting in trouble.”
“Trust me, I wasn’t asking for it.” She turned to stare at the two small cars smashed into the side of the building. “Getting to the office this morning might take me longer than I’d anticipated.”
“Why are you coming in at all? I thought you were on vacation.”
“I wanted to know what’s going on. What’s the status of the search for Rocco?”
“We’re following leads, but so far, they’re coming up empty.”
Frustration made her pace a couple feet away. “Did you check with his family?”
“Done. No one’s talking, and we got special warrants issued to search their premises.” Patrick paused. “Nothing.”
“What about DD’s corral? Could he have gone back to his nightclub?”
Patrick laughed. “He’d be a fool if he did.”
“The man is a fool. An insane fool,” Mitchell reminded him.
Beside her, Remy was describing to the emergency dispatcher what had happened and what had been damaged.
“Sanders,” her boss said, “the NCIS, local police and the state police are all looking for Rocco. We know the routine. We’ll get him.”
“He’s dangerous, and he has people who will do his dirty work for him, as evidenced by this most recent attack.” Her stomach tightened and her breath hitched. “And apparently, they know where I live.”
“All the more reason for you to stay away from the office, go on vacation, get out of the state and relax. We’ll handle it.”
“But—”
“No buts,” her boss stated with finality. “Have a good vacation. That’s an order.”
The line went dead, and Mitchell tucked her phone into her pocket as Remy ended his call. “Guess we’re stuck here for at least an hour answering questions.”
“I’ll stay and handle it.” Mitchell waved toward the approaching police cruiser, its sirens blaring. “You can go on to your unit.”
“While you were talking to your boss, I called and told the LT I’d be in later.”
“Did you happen to tell the dispatch that the man was driving a big-ass garbage truck? It’s kind-of hard to miss.” Mitchell shook her head as the police car pulled into the parking lot next to them.
The cop got out of the car and addressed Remy. “Are you the guy who reported the accident?” The officer looked past Remy to the mangled cars smashed up against the apartment building. Residents had gathered on the pavement around the vehicles, talking to each other, their eyes wide, curious.
A woman came down the stairs in the blocked stairwell, her brows descending. “My car!” She clapped a hand to her cheek and shook her head. “What happened to my car?”
“Here we go,” Mitchell muttered, and then turned to the policeman. “Did dispatch send someone after the garbage truck?”
The cop finally looked at Mitchell. “It was reported abandoned in the middle of the road one mile south. It’s blocking both lanes and causing a traffic jam. Units are on scene.”
“Sweet Jesus.” Mitchell shook her head. “Are you telling me you’re more worried about the traffic jam than capturing a man who came within one foot of murdering someone?”
“Of course not.” The man shook his head. “Are you the victim of the attack?”
Mitchell planted her hands on her hips. “Damn right, I am.”
“Sorry, ma’am.” The cop had the audacity to smirk. “What I heard was that by the time the police got to the garbage truck, the driver was long gone.”
A frustrating hour and at least one hundred questions answered later, tow trucks arrived and hauled away the totaled cars. The policeman who’d taken the report had left, and the rubber-neckers had dispersed.
“Want to go to my unit with me?” Remy asked.
Mi
tchell shook her head. “No. I need to pack.”
Remy glanced at his watch. “As much as I hate to, I still need to swing by the unit. I’ll be home in an hour and a half. I’ll need only fifteen minutes to pack, and we can hit the airport at least an hour and a half early for our flight.”
“Good.” She leaned up on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. “I’ll see you in a few.”
She turned and walked away, but Remy stayed right with her. “Don’t you have to go to the office?” she asked, annoyed that he was still there.
“Yes. But I’ll go as soon as I see you safely to the apartment.”
“I’m fine. I have my Glock.” She patted it, liking the reassurance of the solid weapon against her ribs.
“Yeah. A Glock didn’t help you much against a garbage truck.”
“Only because I wasn’t expecting to be run over by a truck.”
“Now that you know someone is after you, you need to maintain situational awareness.”
“You’re preaching to the choir, sweetheart, and pissing me off.” She gave him a shove toward his SUV. “Go. I’ll be fine. I’m a big girl and can take care of myself.”
They’d reached the stairwell leading up to their apartment.
“Okay. But lock the door, and don’t open it for anyone but me.”
“I have my gun, for Pete’s sake.”
“What if they show up with the same automatic weapons they used at the courthouse?”
Damn the man. “I hate it when you have a good point.” She kissed him hard and ran up the stairs. “I’ll be ready when you get back. So, hurry.”
He crossed his arms and frowned. “Maybe I should stay.”
Mitchell ground to a halt and glared at him. “Get the hell out of here or we’ll miss our plane.” She turned her back on him and entered her apartment, closed the door behind her, locked it, and then hit the light switch.
Nothing.
With plenty of light filtering into the room around the faux wood blinds, she could make her way around the apartment as she tried another light switch. Again. Nothing.
“What the hell?” That creepy feeling of impending doom settled in the pit of her belly as she tried several more light switches before concluding her electricity wasn’t working. She went to the breaker box and shined her phone’s flashlight into it. All the breakers were on, along with the master switch.
Mitchell scrolled through her contacts list for the apartment manager’s number. It took six rings before he answered.
“Hello.”
“Is this the apartment manager?” she asked.
“It is.”
She gave him her apartment number. “My electricity is out.”
“Did you pay your bill?”
“Hell yes.”
“No one else is experiencing an electrical outage. I’ll send over the maintenance man, but I suggest you also put a call in to the power company.”
When Mitchell got off the phone with the apartment manager, she searched the internet for the service number for the local electric company and was promptly put on hold. “I can’t fucking believe this.”
As she waited for a customer service representative to answer, she used a flashlight to find her way through her apartment. She dragged a suitcase out from the closet and plunked it on top of the bed. Five minutes on hold and she had all the undergarments she’d need for a week in the mountains packed. Ten minutes on hold and shirts, sweats and a sexy baby doll nightgown were folded neatly beside her undergarments.
At fifteen minutes, she had her toiletries, trousers, thermal underwear, gloves and goggles packed. All she needed was her waterproof winter jacket and she was ready to go. Twenty minutes and someone finally answered the phone. “How may I help you?”
“My electricity is out.” Mitchell gave him her address and waited.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I show a call was made late yesterday evening by a Ms. Mitchell Sanders, asking that the electricity be cut off today. The note on the order says the customer was moving.”
Too weird. “I’m obviously not moving, and I didn’t call anyone yesterday to cut off the electricity.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, it’s in our records. Are you Ms. Mitchell Sanders?” He rattled off her name, address and personal cell phone number.
“I am.”
“The name, address and telephone number match on the work order,” the rep insisted.
A creepy feeling settled in her gut. “Well, it wasn’t me. How soon can I have my electricity turned back on?”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, the service technician won’t be back in your area until tomorrow.”
“You’re kidding me, right?”
“No, ma’am. It’ll be tomorrow before you have electricity to your house.”
“Un-fucking-believable.”
“Do you want your electricity reconnected, ma’am?”
“Damn right, I do. Today. Now.” After confirming once again that the electricity would be turned on the next day, Mitchell opened the blinds to let in as much light as possible. Thank goodness, they were leaving that afternoon. Going without electricity for twenty-four hours was a freakin’ pain in the ass.
Mitchell’s cell phone beeped with the sound she used for text messages. Thinking it might be Remy, she hurried to check.
The text screen had just blinked off when she reached for it. She hit the on button, and the screen displayed a message that made her blood run cold and her heart skip several beats.
DIE BITCH!
As she stared down at the screen, the phone rang and she fumbled with it, almost dropping it on the tile floor. Catching it just in time, she read the caller ID.
Blocked Number
Reluctant to answer, but getting angrier by the minute, she hit the talk button. “Hello.”
“No one fucks with me and gets away with it,” the deep voice said.
“Rocco, you sick bastard, turn yourself in now,” Mitchell said, her hand clamped tightly to the cell phone, her voice shaking with rage. “Because if I find you, I’ll shoot your ass. You won’t get a second chance in court.”
“You can’t shoot me if I kill you first.” The line went dead.
For a moment, rage consumed Mitchell, and she wanted to throw the cell phone against the wall. But the phone rang again.
This time, the caller ID was Remy LaDue. With her hand half-cocked to throw, she retracted it and pressed the talk button. “Thank God,” she said in a rush.
“What’s wrong?” Remy asked.
Pulling herself together, Mitchell inhaled, let it out, and then answered. “Nothing, except the electricity is out.”
“Power outage?” he asked. “We aren’t having a storm.”
Rather than worry him unnecessarily, she lied. “Maybe the garbage truck hit a power pole.”
“Maybe. Just keep the door locked and your gun ready. Key in 9-1-1 and be ready for anything.”
“I’m fine. I even managed to pack in the dark.”
“Good.” A muted voice sounded in the background. “Look, I have to go, but I’ll be home in less than an hour.”
After Remy rang off, another text message flashed across the screen.
A LOT COULD HAPPEN IN AN HOUR
Her breath hitched in her throat. How did Rocco know it would be an hour before Remy returned? Or was it just coincidence that he mentioned an hour?
Feeling like a big weenie, Mitchell dialed 9-1-1. She gave her name and reminded the dispatcher of the garbage truck incident earlier.
“How can I help you, Ms. Sanders?”
“I thought I saw the driver of the truck again, lurking in the parking lot.”
“I can have a unit sent to patrol the area.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate it.” When she ended the call, she wasn’t surprised when another text message flashed across her screen.
THE COPS WERE NO HELP AT THE COURTHOUSE
“Bastard.” Mitchell called the phone company and reported her phone nu
mber had been hijacked, and someone was listening in on her conversations.
“We could send you a new phone.”
“And how long would that take?”
“It could be to you in two business days’ time.”
“Never mind.”
A beep sounded, and another message displayed across her screen.
BANG! BANG! YOU’RE DEAD!
Mitchell dropped her phone on the hard tile floor of the kitchen and ground her heel into the screen. As soon as she destroyed the device, she regretted the action. “Well, shit.” If she needed to call the police, now she had no way of doing it.
For the next hour she sat in the dark, no television, no radio to listen to, and her phone was well and truly dead.
By the time Remy returned to the apartment, she was ready to climb the walls.
Rocco wanted her, and she was more than ready to take him on.
Chapter Four
‡
Remy tried five times to call Mitchell’s cell phone. Twice from the unit, and three more times on his drive home. As he drove the streets of Virginia Beach, all manners of scenarios had run through his mind. None of them good.
If anyone harmed a hair on Mitchell’s head, he’d kill him, ripping his limbs off one at a time. The more he thought about someone hurting Mitchell, the heavier his foot pressed on the accelerator, until he was speeding twenty and thirty miles per hour over the posted limits. He ran two red lights and almost T-boned a minivan before he forced himself to slow and take a deep breath.
She would be fine. He’d find out the electricity had been restored and she was just in the shower, unable to hear the phone ringing. Rocco wouldn’t have made his move on her. He wouldn’t have been watching her apartment all this time, waiting until she’d been left alone.
Once again, he slammed his foot on the accelerator and wove through traffic, dodging pedestrians and bicycles.
When he reached the apartment complex, he didn’t bother to park between the lines. Instead, he skidded to a stop so fast, he bumped up against the curb. Not giving a damn about his SUV’s wheel alignment, he threw it into Park and leaped out. He took the steps two at a time, arriving at the apartment door, breathing hard. Too worried to wait until he fished his key out of his pocket, he banged a fist on the wooden door. “Mitchell! It’s me, Remy. Let me in.”