by Kris Norris
She feigned a half smile, gathering her coat off the chair. “Actually, I’m not feeling well. The truth is, I went out with some friends last night. You remember Rhonda? She’s getting married, so we gave her a surprise bachelorette party. I’m afraid I drank a bit too much. I thought I was okay, but it turns out, I’m really nauseous. Would you be upset if we rescheduled? I know you’re busy, and you go to a lot of trouble to arrange all this, but…”
Her stomach gave a short heave, and she had to palm her mouth to keep from throwing up, again. Right there on the table.
Henry sighed. Just like in the room. Like before. God, it made her want to heave twice as much. “Of course. Why didn’t you just tell me? You could have called. You’re young. You’re supposed to go out then wake up with a few regrets the next morning.”
“I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
“Not possible. I do remember what it was like to be your age, you know.”
She feigned that smile, again. “Thanks. I promise I won’t go drinking the night before, next time.” She pulled on her coat. “I’ll call the house. Tell Gladys what Sundays I have free. Like I said, the new contract…”
“Can I have Thomas drive you home? He’s just tidying up in the back office.”
She knew the color bleached from her face. She felt it. Like her skin just turned to ice. Frozen. Dead, like the man in the office. “No. I already called a cab in the bathroom. I’m just going to go home and sleep this off.”
“You really do look pale. Please, promise me you’ll take better care of yourself. Not work so much.” He smiled. The kind he’d given her as a child. The kind that had always made her look beyond the surface. Only now, all she saw was that room. That man. “I worry about you.”
“I know.”
He shifted on his feet, looking slightly…suspicious. “You sure you’re not really going to meet this ‘friend’?”
“What? No. He’s off-limits. And I’m in no condition for company.”
“Still…” He took a step toward her. “You know, you can tell me anything. I only want you to be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“Nothing to tell. Promise. I’m going straight home. Alone.”
And by home she meant her studio. No question that he’d have someone check up on her, now. And she couldn’t risk he’d discover her loft.
She moved past him, using her impending bout of puking as an excuse not to kiss his cheek, again.
“Take care, honey. I’ll see you, soon.”
She nodded, aware if she opened her mouth that scream she’d somehow suppressed would break loose. She’d probably shatter all the glasses. Hell, maybe create a concussive shock wave. Instead, she walked a quickly as she could without looking as if she was escaping. The cold air bit into her skin as she hurried across the road then around the corner. As far as she could get before bending over—puking, again.
Images of the man flooded her mind. The blood. The white cast of his bone through his jeans. The way he’d slumped against the ropes. And she knew, she’d just jumped down the rabbit hole. That there was no coming back. No more pretending. It was time she decided which side of the line she was on. And what the hell she was going to do to stay on that side.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Ya know, if you keep coming in here, my regulars are going to think we’re a couple.”
Russel smiled at the bartender—Cynthia or Cyn to most of the men—ordering his usual soda. He hadn’t caught her name that first night but had corrected that oversight when he’d walked back in a few days later. “Didn’t I see you leaving here with Sean the other night?”
She blushed, wiped off a dry part of the counter, then smiled. “It’s…”
“Complicated? Yeah, that seems to be the default answer of every woman in Seattle.”
Of course, by every woman, he meant Quinn. It had been nearly three weeks since he’d been forced to drive away—leave her to what she claimed was a family brunch. Though, after digging as deep as he could, he hadn’t found any family associated to her.
He released a weary breath as he paid for his drink then made his way over to a small table off to one side. It wasn’t a great location, but it afforded him the best view of the entrance without allowing him to be seen too easily. The last thing he wanted was to have Quinn spot him before she’d gotten more than a foot inside the bar then bolt. He didn’t want to have to chase her into the parking lot—look like some kind of crazed predator. But he would if it came to that. He’d do just about anything to get some answers.
Because, even with Hank’s connections—with Russel calling in just about every damn marker he’d made while in the military—all he’d unearthed was her name—Quinn Scott—and that she was a photographer. He grunted. Fifteen years in the service. Fifteen years of dragging his ass through enemy territory. Reading maps. Gathering intel. Fifteen years, and he hadn’t been able to get so much as an address of where her studio was located. Everything came back to a digital PO Box and an email.
No cell. No permanent residence.
And, if that wasn’t bad enough, the few pieces of ID they’d unearthed not only had bogus addresses, they had all started ten years ago. Before that—nothing. Not a birth certificate, not so much as a library card in her name. As if she’d just appeared one day.
Which meant he’d been right. She was hiding. He just didn’t know from what. Or who.
He’d gone back to her apartment. Had spent more than a few nights waiting for her to make an appearance, but it was as if she’d vanished. He’d finally managed to peek into her garage, only to curse when he realized her bike was missing. He just hoped she hadn’t skipped town. Changed her name and left him with absolutely nothing to go on. No hope of ever finding her, again.
And, damn it, he needed to see her, again. Needed to hold her in his arms, taste her lips. Feel her pressed against him. Proof he hadn’t left her behind to die at the hands of some madman. If he’d learned anything during his years as a PJ, it’s that family didn’t guarantee you were safe. He’d treated almost as many civilians in the field who’d been harmed by their kin, than he had actual soldiers. Not every culture saw blood the same way he did. And he couldn’t stop from picturing all the ways her meeting could have ended. All the ways she could have been hurt. And all because he’d done what she’d asked and driven away.
He pounded his fist on the table. Fuck, he hated this. Hated feeling out of control. He’d only been a civilian for a few weeks, and already, he felt like a complete failure. If it wasn’t for Hank’s help, Russel wouldn’t have even gotten Quinn’s last name. He was starting to see why his buddy, Midnight, had joined up so readily. Hank and his men were top-rate. Russel had been scheduled to take on a few new security cases, but Hank had given him a hall pass—told him to see to Quinn’s safety before he ventured back to Montana. Had gone so far as to threaten to kick Russel’s ass if he showed up without proof he’d finished his job here.
Except, there wasn’t a job. Just Russel’s paranoia. The one that couldn’t stop thinking about a girl he’d known for less than twenty-four hours. One who had told him to leave and not look back. One who had messed more with his head in those few hours than any other woman in his life.
Maybe the Air Force had been right? Maybe he wasn’t fit to be a soldier, anymore. Hell, he couldn’t track down one temperamental woman—what good would he be still traipsing across the desert if his brain was this fried, already?
Russel leaned back, sipping his drink as he scanned the room. Left with few alternatives, he’d returned to the bar damn near every night, hoping she’d come back in. That she’d planned on using this place as a safe haven of sorts. But he’d struck out every time. And, after two weeks straight, he was starting to lose faith.
The night wore on, each passing hour adding another layer of tension to his shoulders. He’d probably drunk a gallon of soda by the time the clock finally registered eleven-thirty. Chances
were, she wasn’t coming, now. Not this late.
He pushed back his chair then rose, leaving the last empty on the table. He made a quick trip to the men’s room before stopping at the long hallway to take one more look around. The guys he’d threatened that first night had ambled in a couple of hours ago, but they’d stayed to the other side of the room. Only occasionally glancing his way.
Not that he cared. The assholes could stare all they wanted. Try to ambush him in the parking lot. The way he felt, he could take on the entire bar and not work out his frustration. He was running out of time, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
He fisted his hand against the wall, stemming the need to punch a hole in it when a swirl of cold air breezed through the bar. He looked up and froze. Just like that. Rooted to the spot, eyes wide, breath held. He’d never frozen before. Not standing at the open door of a plane, waiting to jump into utter darkness on the wrong side of a border. Not when a teammate was down and bullets were flying. But standing there, staring at her… It was all he could do to draw in air then push it back out.
A tremor worked through his hands, and he swore it was the first time they’d ever shaken. Countless firefights. Rescues where he’d had to work huddled over a bleeding soldier while trying not to get his ass filled with lead, and he’d always had a steady hand. There was a reason he’d been nicknamed Ice—nothing got to him. Ever. He was always stone-cold focused. Yet, seeing Quinn walk into the bar—alone—had him looking like a junkie needing a fix.
Quinn picked her way to the bar, glancing around until Cyn approached her. Quinn’s lips moved, and Cyn nodded, handing over a bottle. Quinn reached into her purse just as Cyn looked over at him, eyebrow arched. Russel shook his head. He wanted to approach Quinn after she’d settled in. When she wasn’t twenty feet closer to the door than he was.
He slipped back into the shadows, waiting until she’d headed for the same table he’d been sitting at before melting into the crowd. He’d watch her for a while, let her relax a bit before confronting her.
Quinn slid into the chair he’d been sitting at just minutes earlier, cooler clasped in one hand as she scanned the crowd. It looked innocent enough. Every woman there had taken stock at some point during the evening. But the way Quinn’s gaze paused at each face, a small purse of her lips shaping her mouth before she moved on to the next person, was anything but routine. She was searching the crowd; he just didn’t know if she was looking for him, or someone else.
Creases formed along her brow, those green eyes of hers refocusing on her drink as her chest heaved, her shoulders slumping. She took a pull of her cooler, staring at the bottle as she thumbed the label. She’d left her hair down, the auburn mass cascading over her shoulders—a few bouncy curls grazing the top of the table. Her skin looked paler than he remembered, and he noticed the dark smudges beneath her eyes—not from a hangover. These were darker. As if they’d been etched into her skin. And he doubted she’d slept much since that night three weeks ago.
God, he hated being right. Hated that she was in danger. That she hadn’t felt she could confide in him. Sure, he was essentially a stranger. But she had good instincts. He didn’t doubt that, now. He’d been undecided if she really could sense trouble. If she’d actually read him that night or just lucked out. But standing there, watching her, he knew it hadn’t been luck. The way she studied the other patrons, stopping at anyone Russel considered a possible threat to the other women in there, eyeing them as if mentally noting not to get close, assured him she’d developed highly attuned senses. Which only solidified his theory that she’d grown up amidst violence. Had learned to read people out of necessity. As a means of survival.
Well, those days were over. She was done living in the shadows—looking over her shoulder. Russel hadn’t known how to help his mother all those years ago, but he’d learned. And all Quinn had to do was trust him.
His chest tightened at the thought. If he’d thought finding her had been difficult, convincing her to let him help her was going to be next to impossible. She seemed to have this notion she’d get him hurt. And maybe if he hadn’t spent his entire adult life learning how to deal with threats—with people who’d trained just as hard and long as he had to be deadly—she’d have a point. But there wasn’t an assignment he’d ever turned down, and right now, she was his mission.
He switched into PJ mode. Tactics, first. He was good at that. Planning then executing. He never went in blind, and this situation warranted the same thorough thought process. She was already on her second drink, which meant her inhibitions were starting to slide. He didn’t want her to be mentally compromised. But waiting until she’d downed half of her cooler wasn’t a bad idea. Let her relax a bit. Less likely to just up and run the second she saw him.
Next, he’d slide into the chair beside her. He’d make sure she wouldn’t even know he was there until he cupped her arm. He’d have to be prepared for an elbow or maybe the mace or the cooler bottle aimed at his face, but that was minor. She could draw a knife, and it wouldn’t faze him. He was already running through a dozen deadlier scenarios, most of which weren’t really possible, but he planned for them, just the same.
He’d talk calmly. Use language that made her feel like she had some control. Which she did. It wasn’t like he could hike her up on his shoulder and carry her out of here like some kind of caveman. God knew, he wanted to. Wanted to eliminate all the talking and compromising he knew was ahead and just take her away—ensure she was safe.
But kidnapping her didn’t seem like the best way to convince her he was still one of the good guys. That he was better than whoever had put the fear in her eyes—had made her beg him not to stay. That she could trust him to keep her safe. That he wanted to keep her safe. So, he’d use every trick he knew to slowly topple her walls until she came to the same conclusion—that he was her best shot.
Russel wiped his palms on his pants, cursing at the clammy feel. He wasn’t used to being nervous. Fear had been beaten out of him in week after week of training. He’d faced each mission prepared to die. No regrets. No second thoughts. Feeling a cold sweat break out across his skin, his stomach clench at the thought of her turning him down—it hit him hard. Just how hard he wasn’t ready to acknowledge. He barely knew Quinn. Had nothing but a bunch of circumstantial evidence and one hell of a gut feeling that she was even in trouble. And yet, the thought of failing her, of not protecting her, stole his breath. Made it hard to do his job—to scour the crowd for any threats. To work through all the possible outcomes. To focus on anything other than finally holding her in his arms.
He realized a part of him had feared the worst—that she was dead. That he’d willingly driven away when he should have been busting through the door. He had a few weapons stashed in his truck—a Beretta M9. Walther PPK and an M5. And he always carried a couple of knives on him. But he hadn’t been facing an insurgent camp in Afghanistan. He’d been in the middle of downtown Seattle. He couldn’t just waltz into some café, armed to the teeth, because he had a “feeling” she’d been in danger. The rules out here were different. And Russel needed to learn how to navigate this new world. How to keep those he valued safe without starting his own private war.
He scrubbed a hand down his face. He’d do one more loop of the bar then go in. Pray she’d listen to reason because he really was considering hoisting her onto his shoulder and carrying her out if she refused.
He started toward the bar then stopped. The hairs on his neck prickled, a heavy feeling building between his shoulder blades. Russel changed direction mid-stride, quickly disappearing into the shadows along the hallway, again. Something was off.
He searched the crowd, pausing on three men who had appeared on the opposite side of the room—close to the employee entrance. They were new. Russel had already memorized every face in the bar. Had watched each patron enter and leave, mentally adding or removing them from his list. But these guys—they hadn’t walked through the fron
t door.
He did a quick body sweep. Bulges beneath their armpits. Hard edges to their faces. A light sheen reflected off the overhead lights, making their skin glow. They were sweating.
Shit. Armed and nervous usually meant something was going down. Either they were here to rob the place or they were hunting. The thought had him moving. Had him circling around. He doubted they’d make a scene. No way they were packing enough fire power to take out everyone in the bar. They’d need bulkier clothes to hide those kinds of weapons. Which meant they’d play it safe. Wait. Watch. Execute their plan at closing time or when their target left or headed for the washroom.
Russel settled in off to their right. They’d commandeered a table in the far corner—one eclipsed in shadows with a fairly good view of the bar. He wanted to know if he should have Cyn call the cops or see if he could figure out who their mark was before making his own move. The last thing he needed was to get caught in the middle of something as he was trying to get Quinn out the door, assuming they weren’t after her.
They ordered a beer then sat there, constantly shifting their gazes to…
Fuck. It was Quinn.
They could only see half of her, but there was no doubt she was the focus of their attention. Especially the taller guy with slicked back brown hair. He looked fairly polished—hair styled, nicely fitted clothes. Not quite out-of-place in the bar, but definitely not the typical fair. But Russel recognized the look in guy’s eyes. The lack of compassion. The cold determination. Functioning sociopath was one of the clinical names. And Russel would bet his life this was one of the “colleagues” Quinn had mentioned.
Time to switch tactics. Plan A was gone. Obliterated. He wouldn’t risk having them see him talking to Quinn. Hell, he wouldn’t risk having them stare at her another minute. Which meant shifting to Plan B.
He made his way to the bar, careful to avoid being seen, not that they were really looking anywhere other than Quinn, now. Big mistake. Not surveying the establishment. Not considering they might face resistance. Russel knew how to capitalize on mistakes.