by Rachel Lee
The killer was in her house.
Killer, singular? Trish asked herself. She’d always assumed so, because Grant’s vision had but one actor. But she remained still, clutching the shotgun, closing her eyes, quieting her breath, and forced herself to listen.
Step.
Pause.
Step.
Pause.
Step.
It had to be one man. In her mind’s eye, Trish could see him. Cautious step. Look around, testing shadow and silence. Then another cautious step.
Grant was right. They’d sent a pro.
He’d have a pistol, Trish reasoned. A rifle or shotgun would attract too much attention as he entered the house and later made his escape. She had only her shotgun. It was not a fair fight, not in close quarters. She would need longer to swing the shotgun’s barrel, sight and squeeze the trigger. He would get off the first shot. And he wouldn’t miss.
Unless she could make him pause. That meant not being where he expected her to be.
But he had already cleared the living room, she could tell, and the kitchen. He was in her office now. Then he would come to her bedroom. There was no time to open a window. And nowhere else to run.
Except the closet.
Yes, the closet.
Grant hadn’t ridden a motorcycle in years, and then only once with a friend. He overleaned, oversteered and over-everything-else’d for the first few moments, until he learned to trust the gyroscopic effect of rotational energy in the wheels. It was like riding a bicycle without the pedaling. That he could manage.
As for the rest, he still had no idea.
The vision had been so clear. The killer would come into Mahoney’s at ten to one and order a drink, then go over to Trish’s. Crystal clear, but for a stopped clock. Now Grant was playing catch-up, racing someone who was better trained and better armed.
But not better motivated.
In the distance, across the city square and down the block, at the sheriff’s office, he heard an engine rev. Mahoney had made the call and someone else was already on the move. And the couple from Laramie should be there, too.
Reason said they were better trained to handle the situation. And better armed.
But not better motivated.
Love and guilt, terror and a soul’s aching need for redemption. They drove him relentlessly as he shifted the bike and twisted the throttle.
Cold air bit his face and whipped his hair, but it didn’t matter. Getting to Trish’s mattered. And getting there quickly mattered more. Getting there only in time to see more bloody debris of broken dreams would not do. And it would not happen. Not again.
As he swerved onto Trish’s street, he throttled the bike down, briefly considering the fastest way to get off that did not include a sprawling tumble onto asphalt. He would get inside no quicker and do Trish no good if he was even more crippled. That meant no heroic and foolish vault from a moving motorcycle.
The black SUV was parked two doors down and across the street. The vehicle a killer had driven. A man who intended to kill the woman Grant loved.
It.
Would.
Not.
Happen.
The bike slewed as he pulled into Trish’s driveway, and for a fleeting instant he felt the back wheel begin to give way to centripetal acceleration. He squeezed the brakes and blinked as rubber and asphalt made peace. The bike stayed upright and he kicked down the stand.
Now without the roar of the bike’s engine, his ears joined the sensory assault on his reasoning. His eyes swept the scene. The door was open. Near the garage, a tiny glint of metal caught his eye. It was copper. Phone cable. Cut. Just like in his vision. Impossibly, a line from Sherlock Holmes popped into his mind: the dog that didn’t bark. Where was Tad?
Where was Tad? Trish wondered as she eased the louvered closet door closed, lifting as best she could with fingertips in the slats, to muffle the sound as its rollers slid in their tracks. There was hardly any sound to muffle. Good home maintenance paid off, she realized with a moment of black humor. She had vacuumed and sprinkled silicone lubricant in the tracks only last week. Or was that another example of Grant’s theory of precognition?
There was no time to ponder metaphysics. The closet was not deep enough for her to stand with the shotgun at her shoulder. Instead, she dropped to one knee and braced the butt against the inside of her foot, left hand aiming the barrel up toward the door, right hand upside down on the stock, right thumb on the trigger. It was hardly the classic shooting position, but it would have to do.
It also had the advantage of making her a smaller target if the killer did fire through the door. She hoped he would make the mistake of firing at chest level, on the mistaken assumption she was standing. If so, the bullet would pass well over her head. The birdshot, by contrast, would take a nasty chunk out of his midsection.
But only if he was near the door. She could not depress the barrel far enough to hit him if he was more than a few feet back. If he stood across the room and peppered the door with rounds, sooner or later one would hit her. And there wouldn’t be a damn thing she could do about it.
For that entirely sane reason, she dismissed the thought as soon as it entered her mind. There was nothing to be gained by enumerating the hopeless possibilities. She had to focus on what she could do and let the rest take care of itself.
She heard the bedroom door open and eased the safety switch off. Come on in, you bastard. Come on in.
Grant almost tripped over the two bodies on the lawn. They must be, he realized, Gage’s friends from Laramie. He squatted for a moment and pressed his fingertips to their throats. To his surprise, both were alive, despite the bloody mess at the center of their faces. They hadn’t been shot, he realized. Instead, the killer had crushed their noses with punches, kicks or the butt end of a pistol. The woman let out a low moan, and Grant put a fingertip to her lips.
He lowered his face to her ear and more breathed than whispered, “I’m Grant Wolfe. Trish’s friend. He’s in the house, isn’t he?”
The woman nodded. “S-sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Grant whispered. “I need your gun.”
She nodded again, though her hand seemed to wander vaguely over a belt holster that wasn’t there. She was too disoriented to help, Grant realized. And as an undercover she’d have been wearing a shoulder rig.
“I’m sorry,” he said as he reached inside her jacket, fumbling across her breast for the pistol.
“Ssss’ okay,” she murmured. “S-snap.”
His fingertips found the retaining snap as she said the word, and he flicked it open and slid the pistol out. It was heavier than he expected. And he’d never fired a gun in his life.
“Thumb s-safety,” she stammered weakly, looking at him. “Point. S-squeeze. T-two sh-shots. C-center mass.”
It wasn’t much of a gun-safety course, but it was all he was going to get. He nodded and rose, entering the house, moving toward Trish’s bedroom as lightly as he could.
It wasn’t light at all. And he knew it.
Grant! Trish recognized him from his very first step. Part of her heart leaped at the realization that he was here. And part of her heart cringed. If she could hear him, so could the killer.
The killer who was, even at that moment, standing near the end of her bed. Her empty bed. The wheels would be turning, she realized. Had she gone out for the night? Had he made some mistake, and she had slipped out of the house? Did he have the wrong address? He would quickly rule out those options and come to the logical answer. She was in the closet. But how quickly? Would his thoughts be loud enough to deafen the sound of Grant’s movements?
For that she could only hope and keep the barrel of the shotgun trained on the spot where she knew he must stand if she was to have any chance at all.
But she could do more than that, she realized. She could let the killer know where she was. Or where she almost was.
She braced the barrel against her knee, reached up with her left
hand and, as quietly as she could, slid a hanger an inch across the closet rod. It was so quiet she wasn’t sure he would hear it. But that was the point. A helpless woman in hiding would be quiet. If she made any obvious sound, his combat-trained senses would pick up on it. But if he heard nothing…
She was about to move the hanger again and froze.
Step.
Pause.
Step.
Trish smiled. That’s right. A little closer. Just another step or two. Come on….
Grant heard the sharp intake of breath from the bedroom. The killer knew she was in there somewhere. But not where he expected. She hadn’t shot him as he stepped into the room. She’d hidden. That complicated things, he realized, for he had no idea where she was hiding, either.
But he knew her bedroom, and the options were few. One, really. The closet. She would be in the closet. The scenario played out in his mind. She couldn’t hold the shotgun normally. The barrel was too long for the shallow closet. She would crouch and aim it like a mortar. The killer would probably have to get right up to the closet door. She would realize it. She would make some subtle sound to lure him closer. Indeed, she just had. Thus his intake of breath.
Seconds collapsed into instants.
Come on, Trish almost spoke aloud. If there were telepathy to go with precognition, surely the killer must have heard that thought. One more step and you’re mine.
But he didn’t take the step. Instead, she saw the shadows in the louvers shift as he lifted his arm. She heard the muffled spit an instant before the wood above her head splintered. Bits of drywall fluttered down as the bullet bored into the wall behind her, followed a moment later by the tinkle of a brass cartridge landing and bouncing on her floor.
Step closer, dammit!
Instead, there was another spit, another splinter of wood, another snowfall of drywall, another delicate ring of brass on hardwood. And this time the hole was lower. He was doing exactly what she had feared he would. Firing through the door, knowing that sooner or later he’d hit his target, without ever having to get close enough to expose himself to danger.
The unenumerated possibility about which she could do nothing. Or could she?
She let out an audible grunt and thumped her knee against the floor. You hit me. You’re done. Mission accomplished. Come check and see.
Grant had seen the flashbulb pops of the shots, and he heard Trish grunt and slump to the floor. His heart slammed in his chest. The killer had shot her through the closet door. Grant had failed.
No!
Not this time. Not again.
He held the gun out in front of him, trying to mimic what he’d seen in cop movies, hoping it was accurate or at least close enough. This man had hurt Trish. This man would die. It was a simple equation.
Grant moved through the doorway, no longer worrying about noise. Mahoney had been right. The killer was a big sumbuck, with a sick half smile that made Grant’s blood boil in black rage. The killer had lowered his weapon, one hand reaching for the closet door. Grant swung the woman’s pistol up and began squeezing the trigger.
“No, you don’t,” Grant hissed, squeezing again.
And again. But there was no crack. No recoil. The safety! She’d said it was thumb-operated. He felt for it blindly, holding the weapon on the man, knowing he would not have enough time. For the killer had pivoted with predatory grace and was already sighting his weapon on Grant’s face.
And the hole in the end of the silencer looked impossibly huge.
Then the closet door exploded.
The boom was impossibly loud in the closet. Trish worked the slide to chamber a fresh round as she kicked at the door. The killer had been turning to shoot Grant, and she was taking no chances. With a quick, popping grind of metal on metal, the doors rollers wrenched the track open and popped off. She kicked at the door again as it began to fall inward on her, rising from her crouch with the butt of the shotgun seated against her hip.
The killer had taken a step back when the first round hit, stunned but not down. In milliseconds she watched him weigh the threat of Grant in the doorway with a pistol he had not yet fired and Trish emerging from the closet with a shotgun that had already sent rivers of pain arcing across his synapses. He was turning to her. But he was slowed by pain and she was pushed by rage.
She didn’t raise the weapon to her shoulder. She didn’t take time to sight. She pointed at his midsection and squeezed.
The closet door tumbled across the barrel in the instant before the shotgun boomed and kicked again.
She had missed.
Or not.
With a howl like a wounded animal, he sank to the floor, the pistol falling from his hand as he clutched at his groin and a puddle of blood began to spread. Trish used the barrel of the shotgun to sling the door away and chambered another round, stepping closer, raising the butt to her shoulder, sighting on his face.
“Trish!” Grant called. “He’s down. He’s done.”
Maybe so, Trish thought. But she wanted it over. She wanted to make damn sure this man would not get up. Ever. Except in a bag. She squeezed again.
This time it was Grant’s hand, not the closet door, that deflected the barrel. Just enough that Trish saw the hardwood floor beside the man’s head splinter.
“Trish, no!” Grant said, gripping the barrel, stepping in front of her. “He’s down. He’s done. And dead men can’t talk.”
She finally met Grant’s eyes. She nodded. “You’re right. Dead men can’t talk.” She looked down at the man on the floor. “And that’s the only reason you get to live. So start talking. Before I change my mind.”
At that instant, she heard her front door bang open with cries of “Police!” At the same instant, adrenaline deserted her and she began to shake and shake hard. She couldn’t fight when Grant took the shotgun from her, and then she couldn’t stand, as her legs turned to rubber.
Grant slipped his arm under her shoulder, holding her up.
“Up here,” he shouted.
Helpless in the wake of shock, she could feel only more shock as Grant tossed her gun onto the bed and then a pistol. He kicked the assassin’s weapon across the room.
“No,” she said, feeling another surge of adrenaline, struggling to escape his grip so she could get her shotgun back. That man could still do something.
“Shh,” Grant said, wrapping both arms around her. “Shh. You don’t want to be holding a gun when the cops burst in.”
At some level she recognized he was right, but she was shaking so hard, and terrified now that the adrenaline that had supported her had abandoned her. “Oh, God,” she said, her voice taut with terror.
Her bedroom door was open, and a horde of cops poured through it.
“Down! Down!” they shouted pointing gun barrels and flashlights in every direction.
Grant started to ease down with Trish in his arms, but then a voice stopped it all.
“I think,” Gage said from the doorway, “that our bad guy is already down.”
He was answered by an agonized groan from the floor.
Chapter 12
Red, blue and white stobe lights filled the usually quiet street in front of Trish’s house. With a blanket around her shoulders and Grant supporting her, she stepped out into a swirl of activity that must have attracted attention for several blocks. And she hadn’t known the county had four ambulances.
But there they were, lined up at the curb, taking on two injured police officers and the man she had shot.
I shot a man. She couldn’t absorb the thought and wondered if she ever would. I wanted to kill that man. Ugliness she had never before found in herself.
One of the ambulances was apparently for her, and no one heeded her protests that she was just fine. “Just go,” Grant said. “This is going to hit you harder than you think, and probably very soon.”
He would certainly know about life-altering events, she thought a bit hazily.
So she let them put her on a stret
cher and wrap her in even more blankets. When she didn’t want to let go of Grant’s hand, they let him climb aboard, too.
She clung to his hand, annoying the medics who were trying to get readings. “You saved me,” she said.
“You saved yourself.”
“No.” She shook her head and tried to raise it.
The EMT tut-tutted and pushed her back down. “Stop fighting,” he said.
But she was focused on Grant. Completely and totally. “You believed the impossible, and you saved me. Remind me to tell you what a miracle that is.”
“I think you just did.”
The EMT elevated her feet just as the world swam out of view and darkness caught up.
Gage had to step in. The FBI had arrived, along with some even more serious-looking guys who were from the Defense Department, and none of them wanted to let Trish out of the hospital bed until she’d answered all their questions. Not even the doc could persuade them to wait, nor could Grant, who tried to make himself a human wall between her and the invaders.
It was Gage, wearing his uniform for once, who turned the tide. “Look,” he said, “I’ve got an envelope of information on my desk for you guys from Ms. Devlin. You can spend the night looking over that. Meanwhile, she’s just been through hell and needs a little time. I’m sure she’ll talk to you tomorrow. Go bother the guy she shot.”
As he shooed the last of them away, he turned to Trish. “I’ve got a deputy standing by to take you wherever you want to go as soon as you’re released.”
“Thanks.” She was feeling so drained now that she could hardly move. “What about the killer? Is he talking?”
“Let’s just say that he doesn’t have medical insurance. Apparently it doesn’t come with his job.”
“So?”
“So I told him that if he ever wanted to be in any condition to father children, he’d have to rely on the county to pay his medical expenses. Fast. And I’d only authorize that if he talked. Otherwise he could settle for basic emergency treatment before he got transported to my jail.”