going to be sorry you messed with me,” she threatened, already trying to work her way free.
“What’s your friend’s name?” Dalton demanded. Her immediate silence surprised him. He should’ve been grateful for the reprieve.
He glanced out the window once more. The blonde bomber’s cohort was skirting the shed with a gun clutched in his hand. Armed paparazzi or kidnappers hoping to extract a big ransom? It didn’t make sense for them to blow up their own getaway vehicle.
Dalton may have briefly forgotten the Coast Guard’s motto, Semper Paratus, Latin for Always Ready, but having a gun in his hand again brought his training to the forefront. His muscles twitched in anticipation, not unlike the first time he’d boarded a vessel in the Gulf of Mexico and helped his team seize a shipment of cocaine bound for the United States.
He slipped off the safety and approached the open doorway. Glancing once more at the troublesome woman, he stifled a brief flicker of guilt over leaving her without a way to protect herself. But she’d already burned through his goodwill. Judging her an enemy instead of an ally was self-preservation in its simplest form. As jaded as it sounded, it was easy to slip back into the role that had shaped his early life.
Chair legs scraped across the floor, but he didn’t have any more time to waste on her. He needed the landline downstairs and it would take a minute to push his way to it. Phone, firemen and, unfortunately, another round with the police. Maybe it was time to hire some private security and stop depleting the sheriff department’s resources. Then again, his donations had already funded two new patrol vehicles and trained a K-9 dog. What next?
* * *
Smoke billowed in an upward spiral close to the house, tainting the breeze, which had earlier carried the scent of autumn. Kira’s head pounded an irregular rhythm, and she squeezed her eyes shut in an effort to overcome the nausea bubbling in her stomach. Convincing herself that being sick wasn’t an option, she tried piecing together a plan. This was the place, she was almost certain. That shed outside hadn’t been here before, but there was something familiar about this room.
Why hadn’t she blurted out the question she wanted answered? Do you know Joshua Kincaid? That’s what normal people did—they asked questions. She was terrified the man would say no, because she’d run out of options, chances and luck.
Nothing to lose. She wiggled in the chair. The tiny thumb drive wedged in her bra beneath her left breast pinched, confirming it was still in place. Considering her jarring fall to the floor and being manhandled by the impatient ogre in a lumberjack shirt, it was a miracle. Maybe ogre was an exaggeration, but he looked and felt solid enough to play the man in the Brawny commercials.
Most people backed up their computer files. But some people, like Kira, went a little crazy. She had an external hard drive for her home computer and several flash drives she rotated through. The FBI thought they’d confiscated everything, but they didn’t know about the online backup site she used. Some secrets would always be safe as long as they didn’t fall out of her bra.
Straining her neck to the right, she shifted enough to see past the valance hanging lopsided from one of the two front windows. A six-inch pane of glass remained intact, but the rest was reduced to various sized pellets littering the hardwood floor.
Nearly four years had passed since she and Josh had spent the weekend here and he’d proposed. If Kira thought too much about how she’d arrived back here, she’d never dig herself out of the darkness.
Josh had effectively fallen into a black hole. She had no idea where he’d gone after their separation, and she had to find him. Her desperation had led her to the obituaries, numerous social networking sites and every phone number for every Kincaid in the Midwest. No one knew him or was related to him. Josh couldn’t have disappeared without a trace. Okay, she’d found a trace in the form of a joint tax return he’d filed, managing to collect a refund.
He had also worked for one of Griffin’s shell companies. The entire time Josh and Kira had been together he hadn’t been the struggling artist he’d portrayed. He had earned nearly twenty thousand dollars and hadn’t shared a dime with her. Not only were the Feds breathing down her neck, but since her arrest five weeks ago she’d acquired a shadow. If there were two feelings she’d never quite grown used to, they were being watched and being alone.
What had Josh gotten mixed up in? And why had she worked twelve-hour days to put food on the table while he’d spent their extra money on studio time? She’d seen only one of his paintings, and it hadn’t inspired confidence that he’d ever support their expanding family.
Learning he had money and yet hadn’t offered to do more shouldn’t have surprised Kira. He’d never been a college student, either, at least not in Kansas City. The number of lies he’d told her expanded into double digits. When she finally tracked him down, she’d be armed with plenty of persuasive evidence to encourage some honesty. And a quick divorce.
Kira rocked the chair from side to side, determined to free herself. Tight bindings cut into her wrists. Swallowing a groan, she fought against the material holding her hands and legs in place.
Her truck was gone. Technically, it wasn’t hers, but she assumed the obnoxious rental car manager wouldn’t mind garnishing her wages for the next decade.
What did it matter? She’d be in prison, anyway... Which was negative thinking. She was supposed to send good vibes out into the universe and be rewarded for her efforts. Obviously the ogre wasn’t a fan of Dr. Phil.
“I can absolutely, positively free myself,” she chanted. Her fingers found an opening in the bindings, and on the third try, the knot was gone and she was free. She heard noises downstairs and hurried to detach the bindings from her legs.
She stood and grabbed the chair, steadying herself while her head spun with troubling theories of escape. She couldn’t stay here. The Brawny guy was determined to call the fire department, and probably the sheriff’s office to charge her with trespassing. If she was arrested, they’d ship her back to Kansas City to face all the original charges, plus bail jumping.
A rush of adrenaline forced her awareness to strict survival skills. She needed a weapon.
Feathers from a down-filled pillow covered most of the floor and the box springs clung precariously to one side of the metal bed frame. Kira stepped closer and yanked at the center support bar underneath. It popped loose and one end dropped to the floor with a resounding clunk. She froze.
What if Brawny heard?
Seconds passed. No footsteps.
The four-foot piece of metal she held was heavy, awkward and difficult to grip. But she managed to swing it a couple times and pictured herself landing a blow to Brawny’s kneecaps. Then she could retrieve her gun. She hated guns, but after the explosion, she needed all the help she could get.
A board squeaked and she scampered to a side wall. Her heart hammered as she tried breathing without making any sound. She needed the element of surprise on her side. A partial shadow crept across the floor. She swung, aiming low, pouring every ounce of her strength into connecting with his kneecaps.
But the man who came through the door wasn’t Brawny.
And she hadn’t hit his kneecaps.
The new man howled as he doubled over, firing off three quick shots before collapsing to his knees. Kira swung at his shoulders, hoping to
