tremor in his fingers, a trickle of something wet and sticky running down his neck.
Before he could attach the second tourniquet, Johnson jerked him around hard, his pale, freckled face a mask of pain and desperation. He kept talking—seemed to be desperately trying to impart something significant—but his lips only moved. Seemingly frustrated when Jack didn’t respond, Johnson tried harder, appearing to scream. He said whatever it was again, gave him another little shake, then fell back against the ground once more. His eyes drifted shut.
Oh, no. No, no, no.
“Johnson,” Jack said, grabbing the boy’s shoulder. “Stay with me, Johnson. Dammit, don’t—”
A hand suddenly landed on his shoulder and Jack whirled and struck out, sending the medic sprawling. A second medic was right behind the first and a helicopter had landed in the street fifty yards from where they were located. Jack watched the blades whirl, belatedly noting the lack of sound. He frowned, his gaze darting from one person to the next, watched their lips move, saw the action and reaction.
Dread ballooned in his belly and his heart began to race even faster as the unhappy truth slammed into him.
PFC Heath Johnson had just uttered his last words … to a man who couldn’t hear them.
1
Six months later …
PERHAPS BECAUSE HE WAS now partially deaf in his right ear, former-Ranger Jack Martin was certain he had to have heard his new employers incorrectly. He chuckled uneasily.
“The Butter Bandit?”
Brian Payne—one of the three founding members of the infamous Ranger Security Company—nodded and shot a look at fellow partner Guy McCann. “That’s what Guy has dubbed him and, I’m sad to say, it’s stuck.”
Jamie Flanagan, who rounded out the triumvirate, flashed a what-the-hell sort of grin. “You’ve got to admit that it has a certain ring to it.” He pulled a face. “Besides, other than a few éclairs, cookies and bear claws, butter is the only thing this thief is stealing.”
How … bizarre, Jack thought. He was most definitely a fan of butter—who didn’t like it melting on a pile of pancakes or slathering it over a hot roll? He had fond memories of making it himself with nothing more than a little heavy whipping cream in an old mason jar and shaking it up until his arms were tired, the unmistakable “plop” against the side of the jar, signaling it was done. He’d learned the trick from his grandmother, who’d been more butter obsessed than Paula Deen.
But he couldn’t imagine even her stealing the stuff. It boggled the mind.
“Have there been any other butter thefts in the area?” Jack asked, trying to get his mind around the idea. Not a question he would have ever anticipated coming out of his mouth, but then again nothing about his recent life was anything he’d anticipated.
Leaving the military before retirement had never been in any plans he’d made—unless it had been in a pine box, which he’d been fully prepared to do—much less moving to anywhere other than Pennyroyal, North Carolina, upon retirement. He’d actually purchased property next to his parents there in his little hometown and had been toying with various house plans for years. Just something else he’d need to rethink at a later date.
At present he was just glad to have a job, to have had an alternative to sitting behind a desk for the rest of his career. The mere idea made him feel claustrophobic, hemmed in. While Jack knew there were many powerful men who did their best work from an office, he was not one of those men. He liked to move, needed some sort of physical action to coincide with his strategy.
Of course, sitting still had never been easy for him. Even in kindergarten his poor teacher had had to mark a square—with duct tape, the wonder material—on the floor around his desk to keep him there. If he came out of the “box” without permission, then he lost time on the playground.
While other people might think she was being cruel or unreasonable, Jack knew she’d had good reason. He’d given the poor woman sheer hell, had been virtually incapable of sitting still for any length of time. He could hear her, understand and learn without looking at her—while looking at something else or doing something else, like playing with a toy truck, for instance, he thought with a mental smile—but he hadn’t realized until much later that other people didn’t learn that way. With maturity had come discipline, but the underlying need to move was always itching just beneath the surface.
Even now.
That’s what had made the military so perfect for him. Action, reaction, strategy, purpose. It had been the ideal fit. And while Ranger Security wasn’t the military, it was run by former Rangers—men like himself—and, though he fully anticipated an adjustment, he knew he was up to the task. He almost smiled.
Even catching a butter thief, of all things, which was evidently going to be his first assignment for the company.
“No,” Guy replied to his question. “No other butter thefts in the area. Mariette’s store is the only one that’s been targeted. We’ve canvassed the area just to be sure.”
“Under normal circumstances we wouldn’t be taking this on at all, but after last night we just can’t sit back and do nothing,” Payne said, his tone grim. “Mariette’s more than a local business owner—she’s a good friend, as well.” He gestured to the other two men. “She’s provided many a cup of coffee, breakfasts and snacks for us over the past three years. She’s hosted our kids’ birthday parties—”
“For which we are eternally thankful,” Jamie added with a significant grimace.
“—and her shop is right here on our block.”
In other words, their turf, their friend.
Jack had actually noticed the little bakery when he first arrived here in Atlanta a week ago. It was a pretty redbrick with whimsical window boxes stuffed with yellow and lavender mums. “Raw Sugar” was written in fancy script from a sign shaped like a three-tiered cake. There’d been a teenage girl with Down syndrome sweeping the walk out in front and she’d looked so happy it had brought a smile to his lips.
“What happened last night?” Jack asked, a bad feeling settling in his gut.
The three men shared a dark look. “Mariette heard a noise and went downstairs to investigate—”
“She lives above the shop,” Jamie interjected, pausing to take a pull from his drink.
“—and interrupted the guy. Instead of running like a normal criminal who’d been caught, he picked up a dough roller and hurled it at her.” Payne’s voice lowered ominously. “It caught her behind the ear and knocked her out cold.”
Damn, Jack thought, anger immediately bolting through him. He’d like to take a dough roller to the jackass for throwing it at a woman. No wonder they’d decided to intervene. Even though she’d been assaulted this still wasn’t a case that was going to get high priority to an overworked local P.D. His grandfather, father and sister had all worn the uniform, so he should know. He’d thwarted tradition when he’d traded the badge for a pair of dog tags, a fact his father never failed to remind him of when he went home. Good-naturedly, of course, but Jack knew his decision
