“If you’re callin’ to tell me you don’t have the girl, we’re going to renegotiate the terms of your employment,” the grating voice on the other end of the line growled furiously, his usual succinct annunciations slipping, hinting at his Texas drawl.
The only terms of employment Barry knew of were either do the job and live or fail, which would naturally lead to the opposite. He didn’t have to be an Ivy League graduate to figure that one out. And that meant what Barry had to tell the crotchety bastard was going to likely put him in a world of hurt.
“House is up in flames and she’s gone, boss,” Barry said, quickly relaying the details in as few words as possible.
“Where is she?”
“Kogan got to her first.” Silence lingered on the line, but he didn’t dare say another word. He knew better.
“Which Kogan?”
“Trace,” he told the infuriated man.
And wasn’t that just the shit. Trace fucking Kogan—the absolute last man he’d expected to see—had come to the rescue, saving the girl from what should’ve been a quick snatch and grab. As for the explosion… That had been Dennis’s idea. A way to cover their tracks.
Barry swallowed hard, waiting for the tirade that was more than likely about to come. The guy who’d hired him to grab Marissa Trexler had a temper to rival all.
“Where’s Dennis?”
“Dead,” he answered simply. Barry wasn’t absolutely certain of that fact, but based on Trace’s deadly reputation and the flames licking high into the night sky, it was a relatively safe assumption that Dennis, his dumb ass of a partner—his most recent one, mind you—wasn’t in the land of the living any longer.
A heavy sigh sounded on the other end of the line, followed by, “I. Want. Her. Found. And I fucking want her found now. You’ve had more than enough time.”
A click sounded in his ear, signaling the end of the call. Setting the phone down in the cup holder, Barry stared at the orange blaze. The irritable asshole who’d hired him for this job was a first-class prick, but he was right about one thing: this had gone on long enough. Barry had been hired once again—after that failed attempt a year ago that had forced him to lie low for a while—to snatch Marissa and, like then, it seemed luck wasn’t on his side.
Getting the girl was the end goal, at least according to the prick who’d hired him, but it looked as though Barry had another target to get rid of before he could accomplish that.
Turning up the heat, he gripped the cold steering wheel as he shoved the gearshift into drive, flipped on his headlights, and started down the road. If he was right, he knew Kogan wouldn’t go far tonight, and Barry fully intended to beat the man to the punch.
As he drove, ignoring the house engulfed in flames in his peripheral vision, he let a plan form in his head.
Two
“What do you mean, we’re not going back to Texas tonight?”
Trace Kogan spared Marissa a quick glance before returning his attention to the road, his eyes scanning their surroundings—both what was in front and behind him, which, at the moment, was blessedly nothing. Not a single car accompanied them on the darkened road as they drove away from the fiery blaze lighting up the night sky.
“It means exactly that,” he explained, doing his damnedest to keep from expressing just how irritated he was. Not at Marissa per se. But definitely at the situation they’d found themselves in.
“Exactly what?”
Trace didn’t bother to elaborate.
Adrenaline still trickled through his veins, making him sweat despite the frigid temperature. His heart was finally beginning to resume its normal rate, and soon he’d be back in control. That hadn’t been the case a few short minutes ago when he’d been dragging Marissa out of that fucking house.
His heart skipped a beat at the thought of what could’ve happened had he not been there. He cast another look her way, taking her in from head to toe once more, just to assure himself that she was alive and well, although a little pissy at the moment.
He could deal with pissy. But he couldn’t deal with dead.
From the instant Marissa had appeared in the doorway of the safe house, everything in Trace’s entire world had unilaterally centered on her. Everything he heard, everything he saw, everything he smelled…
Getting her to safety had been his one and only goal, and now, as he eased the Escalade onto the empty freeway, he simply wanted her to be quiet for a few minutes. He needed to decompress before she pelted him with a million questions. Which, no doubt, she would.
“If we’re not going back, where are we going?” she asked, clearly frustrated.
He knew how she felt. He was equally frustrated.
“A motel.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. A motel? Why can’t we go to the airport?”
“No flights out.”
“Okay. Fine. Why can’t we drive through the night? I’m not even tired. If you need a nap, I can drive.”
Trace glared over at her only to find Marissa returning his stare with sheer determination in her glistening ice-blue gaze.
She looked haggard and, despite her claim, tired. Her usually silky golden hair was a mess of tangles around her face, her fair skin was chapped from the harsh wind, the deep purple shadows beneath her eyes said she hadn’t slept in days, her lips…
Okay, he was not going to focus on her lips. Or the fact that she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on even when she’d been dragged from a rigged house, thrust into the below-freezing temps in her pajamas, past a couple of bullets…
Nope, he wasn’t going to think about any of that shit right now.
“Trace?”
“Not gonna happen,” he told her, keeping his eyes on the road. “We’re not headin’ back tonight.”
“Why not?”
He half expected her to stomp her foot and pout, but this was Marissa Trexler. As spoiled as he’d accused her of being in the past, he knew that wasn’t exactly true. Hard-headed, yes. Spoiled, not so much.
“Because I said so,” he told her. “Now, could you please be quiet for five minutes?”
Marissa huffed, but she did as he asked.
Focused on their surroundings, Trace pushed the Cadillac Escalade as fast as he dared in the icy conditions, desperate to get them to their destination before they garnered a tail. However, in order to ensure they didn’t, he figured a few evasive maneuvers were needed. Might add a little additional time to their drive, but he figured it was necessary.
Not that he was too worried about the guy who’d been in Marissa’s house when Trace had entered via the back door—that poor bastard wasn’t going anywhere. Ever again. But in Trace’s experience, these jackasses didn’t act alone. And that was the sole reason they were heading west on I-84. It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier to get to the closest airport and figure out the itinerary back to Texas, but as Trace had learned, things weren’t usually easy for him.
Nope. Never fucking simple. And it didn’t look as though this time would be any different, hence the explosion and the bullets.
Maybe Marissa was right. Maybe they should keep driving. By his estimate, they’d be able to make it from Kent, Connecticut, to Dallas, Texas, in, oh, say, a day and a half, worst case. Glancing over at his now silent passenger once more, he noticed the way her hands were shaking.
Okay, so tonight wasn’t a good idea.
Tonight, they’d do as he’d originally planned: stay at an inconspicuous, cheap motel off the highway, grab a couple hours’ sleep, maybe a bite to eat. And tomorrow morning, they’d load right back up and continue on their trek to Dallas.
Trace’s cell phone rang, and he mentally cursed the damn thing, although, without looking at the screen, he had a pretty good idea of who was calling, and the last thing he should’ve been doing was cursing the man for being worried.
Trace had no choice but to answer. That or suffer the consequences later.
When he hit the talk butt
on, the phone automatically connected with the Bluetooth in the vehicle, broadcasting the caller’s voice through the interior speakers.
“Trace?” The hoarse, edgy voice was amplified through the SUV.
“I’ve got her,” Trace told the concerned man on the other end of the line. “Your daughter’s safe and sound.”
“Can I talk to her?”
Of course he could. Bryce Trexler could do anything he damn well pleased. As one of the owners of Sniper 1 Security, Bryce had established a reputation over the years as being a man you didn’t want to find yourself up against. Trace wasn’t scared of Bryce, but he did respect the hell out of him.
“Hi, Daddy,” Marissa said, sounding significantly more lively than she had a moment ago. After everything that’d just gone down, Trace respected her ability to put on a brave face—or voice, as was the case now. “I’m in one piece, so all’s dandy on this end.”
A thick silence hung heavily in the car, and Trace could sense Bryce’s relief without the man having to say a word. When Trace had initially informed Bryce that he was personally taking on the most important assignment Sniper 1 Security had ever handled to date, he’d seen the relief in the older man’s eyes. Relief that was mixed right in with concern.
“I’ll see you in a few days?” Bryce asked, his question not directed at either of them, so Trace glanced at Marissa, urging her to answer by nodding his head.
“Yes. We’re making our way back now,” Marissa informed him, shooting a glare in Trace’s direction.
Ornery. That was another word to describe Marissa.
Trace rolled his eyes and returned his attention out the front windshield.
Trace despised the bitter cold of the northeastern states. He much preferred the nearly tropical winters in Texas, where he’d been born and raised. At least there was one positive in the whole fucking mess… It had stopped snowing. For the time being anyway.
“Good. And Trace?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Call your father. He’ll want an update.”
“Will do,” Trace told Bryce and then the phone disconnected.
Calling his father, Casper Kogan—Bryce’s partner, and the other creator of Sniper 1 Security—would have to come later. As in much later. Getting Marissa safely set up somewhere for the rest of the night was Trace’s only plan. And until he could make that happen, he wasn’t interested in chatting it up with anyone.
Thankfully, Marissa managed to remain silent for the next half hour, giving Trace a fair amount of time to think. They made it farther than he’d initially intended, but he’d take it. Now, exiting the highway, Trace followed the sign for the Holiday Inn Express up the road.
When he pulled into the parking lot, he took stock of the parking lot’s contents, starting with the four cars—an older-model white Nissan Sentra with a dented rear bumper, a rusted brown Ford pickup with a cracked rear window, a fairly new black Toyota Camry, and last, but certainly not least, a dark blue Chevy Malibu with a broken windshield wiper backed into one of the parking spots. All of the cars, with the exception of the Malibu, had at least several inches of snow on the top, which meant…
What were the fucking odds?
He didn’t know for a fact that the Malibu was someone waiting for them or if it was just a weary traveler who’d spent most of the night driving before stopping for a rest, but he wasn’t going to take the chance either way.
“Where are we going now?” Marissa’s head snapped around as Trace circled the building and pulled back out onto the service road.
“A little farther.”
“Paranoid much?” Marissa muttered. “I don’t suggest you read Stephen King then.”
“What?” Glancing her way, he frowned, trying to understand what the hell she was talking about.
“Never mind,” she answered. “It’s because of the blue Malibu, right?”
Trace smiled. “Still as perceptive as always, I see.”
“I try. Hard not to notice all the little things when I grew up with people like you my whole life.”
“It’s not a bad thing,” he informed her.
Marissa didn’t respond, merely turned her head and peered out the window once again. They drove in silence for another half hour before she took his cell phone from the center console and pulled up the navigation. Trace glanced over at her a few times, watching as she keyed something in and then held up the screen for him to see.
“Ten minutes?” he asked, referring to the motel information she had pulled up.
“Yep. And it’s off the highway in a small town. I’m sure we’ll be safe there for a few hours.”
Trace wasn’t sure that he would ever be safe with Marissa, let alone while they were isolated in a motel room, but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. As for being safe from whomever was after her, he wasn’t going to argue. He knew she needed to sleep, and a combat nap wouldn’t hurt him, either.
Without a word, Trace continued as the computerized voice instructed until he was pulling into the deserted parking lot of a backwoods motel. There was one car with several inches of snow encasing it, carelessly pulled into a space near the front doors. He figured that belonged to the night clerk. If there was a night clerk.
“I can stay here while you go in,” Marissa told him when he pulled alongside the 80s-model Firebird that had seen better days.
Trace played out several scenarios in his head, something he always did when he was facing a decision that could go terribly wrong. Since he knew someone was actively looking for Marissa, and likely they knew he was heading back to Texas with her, he had to plan accordingly.
“I know how to use a gun,” Marissa told him with a huff. “Just give me your backup piece, and I’ll sit right here while you go get us rooms.”
Trace knew Marissa wasn’t lying when she said she knew how to use a gun. Ever since she was little, she’d been good with firearms, something both her family and his were very actively involved with. Although Marissa hadn’t followed in everyone else’s footsteps and pursued a position within Sniper 1, she was one of the best shots in both of their families.
Reaching over, Trace pulled the lever on the glove box, allowing it to fall open in front of Marissa. She smiled as she leaned forward, reaching for the S&W .45 ACP.
“This is your backup piece?”
Glancing down at the gun, Trace smiled. “One of them. Trust me, I’ve got more.”
“Of course you do,” Marissa said, chuckling softly, although it sounded forced.
“Make sure you’re prepared to use it, Marissa,” Trace told her gravely. “And if you pull that trigger, make damn sure you don’t miss.”
“Trust me, I won’t. Miss, that is,” she assured him.
“I’ll be back in five. Maybe less.”
Marissa nodded and Trace took a deep breath before heading inside to get a room for the night.
One room. Only because he wasn’t going to let Marissa out of his sight for a second.
As it was, Trace wasn’t sure what he was more worried about. Spending the night alone with Marissa or keeping her safe from the bad guys.
Either way, he wasn’t sure she’d be safe.
□«»□«»□«»□
Marissa watched as Trace disappeared inside the crappy little motel lobby. With the lights on inside, she could see everything that was happening, right down to the swagger of the older woman who’d been sitting on a worn brown sofa when Trace entered the building. The instant he was inside, the too-thin woman leapt from her spot and waltzed over to the desk, adding a little extra sway in her narrow hips as she passed Trace.
For whatever reason, that amused Marissa. Maybe because she’d seen it happen all too often, or possibly because she was too fucked up to know better. It’d been a hell of a night.
Either way, it was entertaining to watch the myriad of expressions rotating across Trace’s face as he stared back at the woman. Marissa could practically hear the conversation now.
�
�Can I help you?” the woman would ask.
“Two rooms,” Trace would say curtly.
“Sure thing, handsome. Will you be needing company tonight?”
Trace would roll his eyes at the woman, ignoring her question altogether.
Typical.
Growing up with four brothers, as well as the Kogan clan, Marissa was all too familiar with the sideways glances that women gave men. And she’d seen plenty of women give Trace Kogan an appreciative second, even third, look. Hell, she was one of those women.
Not that she cared to admit that to anyone. Not even to herself.
No, Marissa knew from experience that it was in her best interest to pretend she wasn’t attracted to Trace. Rejection was a bitch, and Marissa had been down that cruel road before. Repeating history … so not her thing. The current situation notwithstanding.
It wasn’t an easy feat. Trace wasn’t an easy man to ignore. At six foot two inches, he was a force to be reckoned with. He kept his light brown hair short—military short—and combined with those unusual white-gray eyes, slightly crooked nose, and the stubble that always lined his sexy, angular jaw, the man turned heads. In fact, he made women forget their manners, as was proof by the way the skinny chick inside continued to flirt with him although he looked as though he were ready to knock her over the head just to get her to shut up.
It was a look Marissa knew all too well.
Marissa gave a cursory glance to her surroundings, checking to make sure no one had arrived in the parking lot—either by car or on foot. The latter would be asinine considering the temp was hovering at six degrees, made impossibly colder by the vicious winds, but she wouldn’t put anything past the guy who was clearly after her now.
All was quiet for the time being.
And maybe that was why Marissa noticed that her hands were still shaking, her heart pounding hard enough to crack a rib. She continued to replay the events of the night over and over in her head, right down to the point when the quaint little two-bedroom, one-bath rental she’d spent the last two and a half months in was blown to smithereens.
Wait for Morning (Sniper 1 Security #1) Page 2