and he pulled her closer.
* * *
Crouching low, he hid in the darkness between two fat bushes and watched them walk to the black SUV and get inside. He’d chosen this spot across the street because it was void of light; she’d never spot him, yet he could see every move she made.
Why didn’t you just open the box? Frustrated, he cast an agitated glare at her neighbor’s house, the cottage next door. It was that stupid kid’s fault. If she hadn’t interfered, Della would have found the package. He’d have seen her open it. There’s no way she would have walked away without opening it. He’d have seen her panic and felt her fear.
He thrived on her fear.
For six weeks, the anticipation had been building, clawing at his stomach, urging him to rush. Temptation burned so strong but he’d strained mightily against it and fortunately his leash had held—at least, thus far. Discipline, man. To win requires discipline.
It did. Enormous discipline. Della Jackson was not a fool. Yet neither was he. Each step had to be weighed, considered, calculated, the consequences determined from all sides. He’d planned down to the minutest detail. Created a backup contingency plan. Monitored and measured each act, each response, every possible reaction, and it was a good thing he had.
She’d picked up on him following her right away—amazingly fast, actually. He begrudgingly gave her props for that. The woman had skills and the instincts to make her as good an investigator as she had been with computers. Those instincts made her dangerous.
But his instincts and skills were stronger, more seasoned, perfected over two decades in a series of trials by fire. Soon she’d discover just how much superiority that gave him. Soon he’d see—
Three cars whipped around the corner and slid to a stop at the curb in front of her cottage.
So they weren’t cutting and running. Mason had stuck in his nose and called for backup. No cops. Military backup. A shudder rippled through his body, pressed his stomach into the cool dirt. Well, well. Interesting if mildly disappointing yet not wholly unexpected. He could deal with it. So he wouldn’t get to see her face when she saw what was inside the box. He could imagine her reaction easily enough.
Horror and then rage. Helpless and hopeless and then finally, finally...Della Jackson eaten alive with fear.
Inescapable, merciless, unrelenting fear.
He could wait. Not tonight, but before this was done he would see all those things in her and more. And when she was emotionally drained dry and wrung out with nothing left and too weak to run, then...
Then?
Then he would kill her.
Turning away, he slipped into the night.
* * *
“Della. Paul.” Major Harrison Beech extended his hand. “Good to see you, though I’m sorry about the circumstance.”
He was a big man with close-cropped hair and a bulky build dressed in his BDU—battle dress uniform. The camo was light, but most of it was now, since they’d been at war in the desert for a decade. “I’m not sure what the circumstances are,” Della said honestly. “I hope we haven’t troubled you for nothing.”
Beech motioned to his men to retrieve the box from the porch. “I hope you have.” He spared her a smile, grabbing a gear bag from his vehicle. “Any reason to expect explosives?”
“We haven’t examined the package,” Paul said. “But Della was the target of a mailbox bomb when she was active duty.”
“Yes.” Sadness crossed his face. “You were in theater, Afghanistan, but your husband and son...”
She nodded. Clearly he’d been briefed on her dossier on his way over. “The man who did it, Leo Dawson, wasn’t convicted. He was a mental patient they’d cut loose. So they sent him back.”
“Let me guess. He’s out now.”
Again she nodded. “About six weeks, though I just learned of it. But I’m not sure this package is from him. That incident happened over three years ago. He has nothing to connect me to North Bay.”
“As I recall, you weren’t stationed here when he planted the bomb.”
“No, I’d already left the base.” When here, she had officially been assigned to Personnel, but actually she’d been in a top-secret facility only those with extremely high clearances knew existed. They referred to it as the Nest. Her mission had been to protect the Nest’s computer assets. Not that she knew the facility’s purpose. Only the commander and vice commander had clearance for that tight need-to-know loop. “When my family was attacked, I was stationed in Tennessee but deployed to Afghanistan.” She crossed her arms. Talking about this dredged up all the old feelings, painful memories she didn’t want to relive.
Two of his men methodically tested the package. Della glanced back to Paul.
“There’s a discrepancy between the return address and the actual shipping label,” Paul told Beech. “One’s Tennessee, the other a Walton County zip code.” Waloka’s neighboring county to the east.
“Any credible suspects besides the mental patient?” Beech asked.
“Dozens,” she confessed. “Working my cases for Lost, Inc., I ruffle a few feathers.”
Paul smiled. “Della’s persistent about finding people who are lost—even those who don’t want to be found. Makes for some grateful friends, but for a few annoyed enemies, too.” He hiked a thumb toward the front door. “I’m going to check things out inside while you’re here.”
Beech nodded and Paul went into the cottage, leaving the door open.
Beech kept one eye on it and one on her. “You work for Madison McKay. Persistence runs through her whole agency.”
“I do, and it does.” Persistence flowed through every staff member’s veins.
He crossed his arms. “Any enemies in recent memory stand out from the rest?”
“No.” She’d reviewed all the cases she’d handled in the past six months, and the mess in her office showed it. Missing husbands, kids seeking birth mothers, runaway teens, the odd embezzler and witness. But after running updates on old and new cases, she hadn’t seen anyone with serious potential for doing something to her like this.
A few minutes later, Paul returned.
“Anything?” Beech asked him.
“Nothing at all.”
“Major Beech,” one of his men called out. “Package is clear. Permission to open it, sir?”
“Granted.” He turned back to Della. “Why did you call me?”
“I didn’t. Paul did.” She shrugged. “I would have checked it out myself.” He gave her a strange look, so she explained. “I’ve had military explosives training.”
“I see.” That apparently hadn’t been
