lashes untouched by mascara—soft brown eyes that refused to cry.
And faintly pink lips without a trace of lipstick. Firm lips. No-nonsense lips. Lips that hadn’t trembled even when she’d believed she was about to be raped and killed. Lips he’d give a sizable chunk of his next paycheck to discover if he could soften under his.
You’ve got no business daydreaming about her, he warned himself with stern resolution. He’d barely managed to relegate her to a corner of his mind when a slight movement caught out of the corner of his eye made him look up. Walking toward his office was Trace McKinnon. And right beside him was the woman with the unkissable lips Cody wanted suddenly—and urgently—to kiss.
Cody stood at the firing range in the soundproofed subbasement of the agency. Safety glasses and noise-canceling headphones in place, he raised his right hand and fired his Glock 17 at the silhouette target fifty feet away until the 33-round high-capacity magazine was empty. He reeled the target in, noting with disgust that roughly half his shots weren’t in the ten ring, although he had nothing outside a nine.
He liked the Glock better than the standard-issue revolver he’d carried when he’d been the sheriff of Black Rock—more accurate at a greater distance and more firepower, even without the high-capacity magazine—but guns had never been his thing. Knives had always been his first love, ever since he’d been a kid.
Cody could remember practicing until both arms were sore and aching, and then practicing some more until he was nearly as good with his left hand as he was with his right. He hadn’t even stopped when his father had roughly told him that knives weren’t much use anymore, not when throwing a knife left you disarmed and gave your attacker a weapon to use against you.
That had just added to the challenge. Even as young as he’d been, Cody had figured out that if you were deadly accurate, you didn’t have to worry about having your own knife turned against you. A well-balanced knife in the hands of a marksman was a potent weapon.
Knives also had other uses, as he’d known when he’d used his to pry open the warped window the night he first met Keira. Using a good throwing knife as a pry bar didn’t do much for its balance, but it sure came in handy.
And knives could be concealed more easily than guns.
He glanced down the line at the other two agents on the firing range. McKinnon was doing rapid, five shot strings with a SIG SAUER P226; Keira was using the two-handed Weaver stance to empty her smaller, compact Glock 19 with deadly precision.
Unlike the FBI, the agency didn’t have a standard-issue firearm—each field agent requisitioned his or her own weapon based on fit and functionality, the agency’s position being that what worked for one agent wouldn’t necessarily work for another—but they did keep records of all guns issued.
And every field agent was responsible for staying sharp with the weapons of his or her choice. Cody was sure Keira and McKinnon didn’t need today’s practice rounds, but with special rule seven invoked...and it wouldn’t hurt, anyway; you never knew when just the tiniest fraction of an edge might make a difference.
One of the great things about working for the agency was that a lot of the bureaucracy and red tape involved in requisitioning assets for a covert operation had been minimized or eliminated entirely. And the agency had a whiz of an acquisition and supply team. Cody couldn’t recall a time when he had requested something he needed for an op that hadn’t been forthcoming in less than twenty-four hours.
His small team already had in their possession most of the assets the three of them had figured they might need, and he’d been assured the rest would be ready and waiting for them first thing in the morning, along with the two vehicles they’d requisitioned. Neither vehicle would be new enough, or old enough, to draw unwanted attention, he knew without asking. But under the hood—where it counted—both would be impeccably maintained. McKinnon and Keira would drive the truck with its retractable, locking tonneau cover over the truck bed, concealing their gear. Cody would drive the SUV, chosen more for its power, agile handling, corner-hugging ability and near-perfect manual transmission—things a vehicle needed in the mountains around Black Rock—than for its amenities.
Even though everything was lined up for their early departure tomorrow morning, Cody chafed at the delay. When he’d called Callahan back to let him know they wouldn’t be arriving until midafternoon the following day, the other man’s disappointment had been obvious.
“That the best you can do?”
“Just about, unless you tell me something more than you’ve told me so far,” Cody said reasonably. “Which, in essence...is nothing.”
“Okay.” Callahan wasn’t one to waste time on nonessentials. “I’ll be waiting.”
* * *
Mandy Callahan had just laid her sleeping daughter in her crib when she heard the front doorbell ring, and then ring again. She glanced at her watch as she went to answer it, wondering who could be stopping by way out here at this time of night. The hallway light was out, and she didn’t bother turning it on. But the living room was also shrouded in darkness when she entered, and her brows wrinkled into a puzzled frown. I thought Ryan was in here reading the paper. I wonder where he—
A hand closed over her mouth, and her husband’s arm encircled her waist. “Shh,” he mouthed against her ear. “Stay here and don’t move.”
Mandy froze. No! she thought as her pulse began to race, memories of six years ago as fresh in her mind as if they had occurred yesterday—firebombs ripping her world apart, vengeful murderers after her husband. Not again. Her thoughts flew to the bedroom she’d just left, where her innocent daughter, Abby, lay sleeping; and the bedroom next to it, where her two sons, five-year-old Reilly and little Ryan, only three, were asleep in their bunk beds. My babies, she thought frantically, wanting to run back to protect them, to throw her body over them and shield them from whatever danger threatened, but she knew better than to disobey her husband when his voice sounded the way it had.
His body pressed against hers for a second more, and Mandy could tell her husband was already strapped—the leather holster and the gun it contained had once been Ryan’s constant companions. But it had been years since he’d felt it necessary to be armed to the teeth in their home.
Mandy swallowed hard. She wanted to ask him why, but she was afraid she already knew the answer. Ryan hadn’t said anything, but something had been weighing on his mind this past week. She’d just been so tired and distracted trying to wean Abby, she hadn’t taken the time she normally would to demand he tell her what was going on. And now...now it might be too late....
Her husband took her right hand and wrapped it around something cold and hard—the butt of a pistol. “Use it if you need to,” he whispered. “I’ll be right back.” With that, he was gone, moving down the hallway like a shadow, slipping out the back door into the night.
Her eyes flickering every which way, straining against the darkness and starting at every creak, she waited for Ryan’s return. Not my husband, God, she prayed as she waited. And not my babies. Please, don’t let anything happen to them. Please.
She sensed more than heard movement on the front porch, and her heart began hammering in her breast. Then she heard a low, pained moan, and she almost screamed, thinking it could be her husband making that sound. She darted to the front door, stopping herself just in time
