by Nancy Radke
"Oh." She appeared devastated. "I see. Security doors aren't secure."
"No."
Her gaze flickered about the cold concrete walls as if seeing them for the first time— no longer as a fortress, but as a prison. "I've already told you, I don't have any antique chest."
"Mom said your dad had a cabin up in the mountains."
Mary's eyes widened, their gray depths questioning him with a look that tore at his heart. "Yes. He did," she whispered. “How does she know—”
He pressed his point, eager to prove himself. "She figures that’s where it’s at. Have you been there since he died?"
Mary frowned. "Yes. I didn't go through everything, though. It brought back too many memories. I briefly cleaned up and...."
"And?"
"It was too soon after his death. Too many memories. He’s got a trunk there, which I've never opened. Maybe it’s in there."
Connor saw Mary's expression change. A tiny bit of belief— not much, but it was a start.
Tiny droplets of water clung to her ears. Her heart-shaped face and lower arms were deeply tanned, but her feet were milk-white.
Connor clamped his jaw tight. To frighten Mary so much, tonight. Twice! Connor could feel her anguish almost as if it had happened to him. He should’ve brought some female along when he came to warn her, but he had been in such a hurry to find her, he hadn’t considered her reaction.
"You have to leave here before those thugs find this place." He guided her back into her apartment. "The sooner, the better."
“I am. I’m going to a friend’s place.”
Connor released Mary's arm, allowing her to stand free. The sweet scent of soap and shampoo rose from her body in an inviting fragrance— clean and soft and sweet and yielding. Alluring.
The feminine image overpowered his senses. He looked down at her, his pulse rocketing upward. She had the supple loveliness of a F-86 in flight.
He caught himself and looked quickly past her at the living room, which had every available light turned on. A quiet room, a neat room, a room of peace.
One a man could be comfortable in.
Taking a deep breath, he gazed back at her. "Maybe you had best get dressed," he suggested, finding he had to clear his throat to make the sentence come out evenly.
He paused, searching for better words. Finding none, he stepped away, giving her more space. "Hurry."
As Connor drew back, widening the distance between them, Mary felt an immediate lessening of tension. She reassessed the man standing before her, his back as stiffly straight as a soldier on duty.
Tall and strong, he remained a dangerous man, although the danger no longer seemed directed at her, but— as he claimed— toward the men out to get an antique chest. If so, he was the type of no-nonsense man she wanted around.
He looked big enough to take on any thugs. Someone who could help her escape, while keeping the black terror at bay.
"Will you take me to the cabin?" he asked.
"Well..." She still didn't trust him enough for that. What if he had gleaned all the information about her past from a friend of hers? Anyone who knew her well, knew her history.
She nodded. "Yes, but only if someone else comes along." She would ask Ryan.
"Fine. Anyone. You choose. I want to get there before those thugs."
"Why bother? They can have the chest as far as I'm concerned."
He stepped closer, his face sharpened with anger. "They'll get nothing if I can help it. Not after what they did to my mother. You should’ve seen her."
"If she hadn't resisted, they wouldn't have hurt her."
He frowned. "On the contrary, they probably would’ve killed her."
"For an antique chest? Nobody would—"
"Gangs kill people for their shoes. Or their coats. The only way to handle this type is to stand up and face them down. Hurt them so much they leave you alone."
"Violence doesn't work."
"It does with men like this, Mary."
Stubborn man! Her temper flared. "I don't want to fight them—just stay out of their way."
He rolled his eyes upward. "Then get going."
He leaned over and tried to pull the broken door upright, then shook his head at the mess.
“Do you always go around beating up poor defenseless doors?” she asked.
Connor looked at the wreckage around him. “Maybe I should try coming in again.”
“I don’t think that door could take another round with you.”
“No. Not if you put it that way. It’s already deader than a doornail.”
The phone, which had quit ringing earlier, rang again, refusing to be ignored, interrupting with the rudeness of a spoiled child demanding attention.
"Shall I answer it?" Connor asked.
"I will," she said. "It's probably the same person who called before."
He stepped aside and Mary moved the few feet to the phone— a regular, no-nonsense, corded type. A gift from her father when she had first moved in with Robyn and Alison. What she wouldn't give for his advice now. She felt trapped, caught up in a maze not of her choosing— a labyrinth without any rules.
She had to make the rules. Take charge. As soon as she answered this, she’d call the police. Get their advice. Go to Ryan’s as fast as she could.
"Hello," she said.
"Mary Brown?"
"Yes. Who’s this?"
No answer.
"Hello?" she repeated.
Click. The dial tone sounded surprisingly loud, accelerating her heartbeat. Mary pulled the receiver several inches away from her, mesmerized as if by a snake ready to strike. A small cry escaped her lips before she could stop it.
Instantly alert, Connor stepped closer, wanting to lash out at whoever frightened her. He took the phone and held it to his ear. The clear monotonous hum of the dial tone mocked him and he dropped the receiver back onto its cradle.
"Who was it?" he demanded.
"I don't know. Somebody... nobody.... They hung up." She swung an anxious gaze to him. "Do you think...?"
Connor didn't need to think. "Get dressed."
"My suitcase. It's in my closet, upper shelf. You'll need to lift it down for me. I’ve laid out some clothes—"
"You have three minutes."
While Mary dressed in her bedroom, Connor called his mother to see if he could bring Mary to her hotel.
“Yes. Certainly.”
“How you feeling?”
“Much better. I called the Renton police detective handling my case and urged him to send someone to Mary’s home. You might want to wait for him."
"I don't think so. At least, not inside. We can wait in my car and stay hidden until he arrives."
Mary came out in under three minutes, drying her dark hair with the towel. Passing her, Connor entered and threw open the closet door. Her battered suitcase was under a sizable array of boots, backpacks and other camping equipment.
The outdoor gear contrasted sharply with the lace and ruffles decorating her bedroom. A feminine room for a highly feminine young woman. He glanced around as he tossed the case down beside a pile of clothes on the floral comforter, seeing a room that radiated the warmth of its owner. A cozy haven that shone with all the love a home should have.
It contrasted sharply to his small cabin aboard ship. He had stuck up a picture of his mother, another of his college football team with him holding the winner’s trophy. The rest was U.S. Navy issue— impersonal. Sterile.
Mary's room glowed with a woman’s touch, from the tied-back curtains and matching comforter to the cosmetics setting on the vanity. There was no comparison.
His wandering life had been pretty much void of a woman's love, although two times he had thought he was in love, and that he had found the right woman— and two times found himself unable to take the final step toward marriage. Something always held him back.
Yet he longed for a room such as th
is one waiting for him, and a woman, soft and yielding, also waiting, able to remove the loneliness. A godly woman who’d stay true and faithful while he was at sea. Who would love him deeply and raise their children. One able to handle the emergencies of life when he wasn’t around.
That kind of woman was hard to find.
Grabbing the feminine pile of clothes on the bed, he tossed it into the suitcase, instantly visualizing the beautiful garments adorning her. Angry at himself, he shook the vision away, then searched her drawers for sweatshirts, socks, t-shirts, and jeans.
Mary had decorated her room in mauves and grays the color of her wide-set eyes— eyes that had blazed with determination as she demanded he explain himself.
He hadn't wanted to scare her. Those two thugs, whoever they were, weren't fooling around. They would have killed him except for his military training. He wasn’t an expert, but his martial arts had been sufficient for them.
Perhaps he would get a chance to know Mary. He had two more days before his ship left port. He’d like that. But right now he could feel each second ticking away like the clock at the end of a game.
He slammed the case shut. Enough.
Mary screamed.
6
Connor heard Mary just as her bedroom door exploded inward. It banged against the wall and rebounded back on the man who had kicked it open.
The man knocked it aside with a curse and stepped through the doorway. He wore black clothing— a heavy ribbed sweater, tight jeans, and boots. He immediately aimed his Baretta at Connor, the desire to shoot raging wildly in his dark eyes.
This thug had held a gun on Connor's mother while the other one hit her. A vicious man, short, with long black hair slicked back— his thin face and long nose had reminded Connor's mother of a weasel. She had described him as such to the police, for Connor had knocked his gun aside, punched him in the face, and ripped off his mask.
The thug had a deep gash over his left eye and a swollen nose— souvenirs of his encounter with Connor’s fist. He wore no mask this time, evidently not caring if he was identified or not.
So it would go from robbery to murder.
"You!" Connor exclaimed, his gut tightening to ward off the shock of a bullet. He looked down the black hole of the Baretta’s barrel. He stood seconds away from dying.
The thug alerted to flash-point, ready to kill, his hand shaking with the force of his intent. He kept the Baretta aimed directly at Connor, and smiled— a smile that transformed the warm coziness of Mary's room into shards of crystalline ice.
"Well, lookee here." His thin lips cured back in a travesty of a grin as he gloated. "My lucky day."
"Shoot— and all the neighbors’ll come to see what’s happening," Connor warned.
"If I shoot, they'll think it's on TV," the thug said, smirking, but Connor could see caution infiltrate the wildness in his gaze. “They always do. Don’t wanna git mixed up in anything that would hurt ‘em.” He scowled at the suitcase. “What’re you doing?”
“Packing Mary’s things.” Connor stepped closer to it. He could use it to deflect the barrel. He only needed to get close enough to use his martial arts.
"Wes?" A man's voice snapped out from the other room. "Find anyone?" It was a voice used to command— the type of voice Connor used on the men serving under him.
"Yeah. That bozo Ramone and I ran into earlier. You want I should waste him?"
Connor tensed, ready to grab the suitcase.
"Not yet. Bring him here."
Frowning, his desire for revenge put on hold for the moment, Wes motioned toward the other room with his head. "You heard the boss. Now move!" Hate boiled in his words as he moved away from the door, not giving Connor a chance to attack.
Connor cursed himself silently for not grabbing Mary as soon as he saw her and hustling her out the door. She would have screamed bloody murder, but he might’ve gotten her away.
It was what he had wanted to do, what he should have done. Anger raged through him— anger at this evil man and anger at his own hesitation, which had failed to remove Mary from danger.
Defeat was unacceptable to him— he had never been beaten in anything that mattered. He stepped through the doorway and quickly assessed the situation. Two more men stood in the living room— a tall lanky man standing guard just inside the door and a heavy-set man with bull-dog jowls about the same height as Connor himself, positioned in front of the kitchen nook. Connor didn't think either of them was the man he had seen at his mother's home— but that one had worn a mask.
Three men. Two armed with handguns and the third with a knife. With his Navy combat training, Connor knew he might fight and overpower two before they could kill him, but not three. And not with Mary as a potential hostage.
If he hadn't broken down the door, he and Mary might’ve heard the men as they tried to get in. It would’ve warned them sufficiently to flee out the back window.
Some rescuer he’d turned out to be.
Mary stood near the bathroom door, her arms crossed in front like a shield. At least she’d had time to dress in jeans and a shapeless white sweat shirt, even if it did have a teddy bear embroidered on the front. He didn't want these scum-bags having the same image of her that he carried in his mind. Her comeliness had aroused more than just his protective instincts.
Terror shadowed her lovely gray eyes, but he knew she no longer feared him. In response to her unspoken plea, Connor continued across the room to where she stood, ready to impose himself between her and these goons. She hurtled herself into his arms as he reached out to her, then clung with all the desperation of a lost child. Sharp tremors shook her body as he clamped her securely against him.
He didn't blame her for trembling. He held her tightly, feeling the warmth of her body against his. He breathed in the sweet jasmine fragrance of the shampoo that still lingered on her long dark hair and ached with the urgency to get her out of danger.
He had her trust at last— now that it was too late.
He must not act cowed by their show of force. Connor raised his head and glared at the lanky man standing in front of the door.
"What do you want?" he challenged. The act of fighting back, even if only with words, helped push away his fear, leaving him clear-minded. The police were on their way. All he had to do was keep Mary and himself alive.
The thug nearest the kitchen answered— the same commanding voice, only this time tinged with contempt. "You know what. The chest. Don't try to stall."
Connor turned toward the speaker, an ox-like man with broad shoulders and a head somehow attached without any neck. He looked to be in his early forties, his dark hair contrasting with a pallor Connor figured came from prison. His dark brown eyes scorned a gentle expression and his thin lips looked to have never known a genuine smile. His huge hands encompassed a Glock 17 which he wagged threateningly as he spoke.
"There’s no chest here," Connor told him, knowing they wouldn’t believe him, especially since he was here with Mary. That would leave no doubt in the killer's mind.
And kill he would. None of these men wore masks.
"We know better. The letters said Warren Brown had it. Where is it?"
"Not here. Mary’s never seen it. What’s so important about it?" he added, trying to defuse the situation by getting the killer talking.
The man sneered, malice cloaking the intelligence in his half-open eyes. "None of your business. Now, tell us where it is, or we take you apart, piece by piece. And since we need her to talk, we'll start with you." He turned toward the lanky man. "Ira. Use your knife." Eager anticipation edged his harsh voice.
"Sure, Judd." The thinnest of the trio stepped toward Connor, unsheathing a long throwing knife. Slim and deadly. Well balanced. Matte gray to prevent shine.
Connor felt Mary stiffen and knew what she was going to say even before she spoke. With her childhood tragedy, Ira's knife had to be a worse threat than a gun.
"No! I’ll
tell you," she cried.
Connor clamped his arm tighter around her. "Don't tell them anything," he commanded.
"I'll tell you. Just leave us alone," she pleaded, not heeding Connor's admonition.
"As soon as we get the chest," Judd snarled. He spoke with the conviction of someone used to getting what he demanded.
"No!" Connor repeated. He made up his mind right then to fight them. He would probably get hurt, seriously, but it’d be worth it, if Mary could escape.
A person had to prepare himself, mentally, to be hurt. Only then could he withstand an attack. Expect pain. Block it out. Move through it, regardless. Don’t give up.
He hugged Mary to him. "Let me do the talking."
The knife man chuckled. His straight blond hair, cropped short, revealed a jagged scar that ran diagonally from his hairline— across his right eyebrow— to his upper right cheekbone. It pulled his brow out of line, giving him a twisted look.
"That's right, miss,” he said. “Just tell us where it’s at and we'll tie you up and leave you alone. All we need is a good head start."
"Don't believe him," Connor warned, but Mary spoke again.
"You must promise to leave."
Connor drew his breath in with a hiss. Why wouldn't Mary listen to him? "Don't tell them—"
"Shut up," Wes commanded.
Connor heard Wes move behind him and stiffened, but still wasn’t prepared when Wes jabbed the Baretta in his back, hard enough to drive the air out of his lungs and bruise his spinal column. He gasped in spite of trying to stay silent.
Prepare mentally to be hurt. Evidently he hadn't done a good enough job. He took himself in hand, willing his mind to ignore the pain.
"Can I shoot him now, Judd?" Wes asked, his voice pleading. "Save us a lot of grief."
Mary felt the force of the blow through Connor and cringed. She threw back her head, her breath coming in short, quick gasps.
Connor had been trying to help her, all along— and she’d done nothing but resist. If she had believed him earlier, they could’ve been well away from here. Her fears, her hesitation to act, had put them both in danger. She couldn't let him be killed.