the back offices and break room and into a hardware store.
Her gaze fluttered wildly about the building. Where now? Where could she hide?
The black sedan flew past the front windows of the store. They knew she’d come this way. Now what did she do?
She crouched down, waiting until the car disappeared.
Then she sprinted out the front door and toward the opposite end of the row of shops. What store had that other delivery truck been stopped behind? She pictured the design on the truck. Pastries.
Taking a guess, she slipped inside a drug store, running until she reached the back.
“Hey, what are you doing?” A man in a cashier’s smock held up a hand to stop her as she charged into the door marked “Employees Only.”
“Sorry.” She didn’t stop to hear his response. She went straight to the back door. She paused there, slowly peeking around the edge of it.
She spotted the black sedan parked haphazardly beside her car. A man jumped from the vehicle and ran in through that same delivery door and into the hardware store. It was only a matter of moments before they found her and killed her. She couldn’t let that happen.
The other delivery truck wasn’t far away. Only a few feet. The driver had packed up and was climbing into the front. That truck seemed her only hope at the moment.
She crept outside, concealed behind a Dumpster. If she ran, she might make it onto the back of the truck before the driver realized what was happening. She had to. It was her only chance.
Staying low, she slunk toward the truck. The engine started. She didn’t have much time. If she was going to make a move, it had to be now.
Lord, help me.
She lunged toward the back door. Her hand connected with the handle.
It opened. Praise God, it opened.
She swung into the back of the truck, colliding with a rack full of prepackaged donuts and cupcakes. She closed the door just as the man in black exited the hardware store.
She was going to get away, she realized.
But her heartbeat didn’t slow as she wondered if her brother and nephew would be so fortunate.
* * *
Christopher Jordan ran a hand over his face, weariness from a long, hard week of work compounding until a pulsing headache thumped at the back of his head. He’d worked too late—again. Now darkness surrounded his car as he drove the hour back to his house.
He really should buy a place closer to work. But this house had lots of memories for him, and he couldn’t give those up yet. He needed those memories now. He needed good memories to push out all of the bad ones.
He turned off the highway, and the streets became quieter, darker. Just like his soul, he thought. Ever since he returned from war, he hadn’t felt like himself.
Just how was he going to remedy that?
Good memories, he thought. He just needed to hold on to the good. That, along with his faith in God, would help to pull him through his inner turmoil.
Finally, he turned onto his street. All he could think about was getting home for the weekend, being alone and not doing anything for as long as humanly possible—which meant until Monday came and it was back to work again.
He knew his stress was from more than just his work. He’d only been back from the Middle East for three months, and memories of the place still haunted him. Every night, nightmares jolted him awake. Too many images stained his mind. It seemed as if they’d been imprinted on his soul, and for the rest of his life he’d carry the burden of his time deployed.
He’d gotten out of the military, taken a job as a training specialist at the private security contracting firm Iron, Incorporated, also known as Eyes. He taught tactical training, such as sharpshooting and use of force to law-enforcement groups that came to Eyes for instruction. Eyes worked with both local law-enforcement communities, as well as the Department of Defense, in training personnel, developing programs and equipment, and for other special assignments.
He’d taken the job in hopes of repairing some of the damage his psyche had suffered. He’d thought he was stronger than all of this. But the deaths of those around him had begun to take their toll on him, and now he wondered if he’d ever be the same.
He’d poured himself into work at his new job, hoping to erase the pain. But it was always there, cold and achy and throbbing.
The two-story house that his grandfather had left to him came into view. The place was out in the middle of nowhere. Some would call it isolated. Christopher called it breathing room. He slowed as he turned into his driveway, his headlights skimming the front of the house.
His foot pressed on the brakes. Was that something on his porch? In his rocking chair?
In the dark, he could hardly tell. Something was out of place, but whatever was on the rocking chair only appeared to be a shadow.
He should have left the porch light on, he supposed, but he hadn’t thought about it when he left home this morning. Now all of his instincts were on alert. Could it have to do with his SEAL team bringing down the leader of that terrorist group? Had their names been leaked? They’d all be logical targets in the aftermath of the terrorist group’s demise.
But especially Christopher. He’d been the one to pull the trigger.
He reached under the front seat and pulled out the gun he kept there. He carried it with him at all times as a part of his job.
Slowly, cautiously, he got out of his car. Yes, there was definitely something on his porch. Or was it...someone?
He crept toward the steps. The bitter cold air filled his lungs, heightening his awareness even more. Who would be hanging out on his porch at night? Had one of the terrorists found him?
With his other hand, he fingered the phone in his pocket. Should he call for backup? No, not yet. They’d only think he was paranoid, only push him harder to get more counseling for PTSD. The last thing this soldier wanted to do was talk about his feelings, especially with a stranger.
He scanned the usually welcoming porch again. The railing still looked intact. Even the strands of evergreen that he’d draped there, complete with red Christmas bows, were in place. He didn’t see anyone lurking behind the bushes or peeking around the corner of the house.
With the skill of a trained fighter, he climbed the steps, his gun pointed at the figure on his porch. He couldn’t see a face. The person appeared to be hiding underneath a coat—arms, legs, face and all.
He cocked his gun, all of his instincts on alert, each of his muscles poised for action. “You have three seconds to show yourself before I fire.”
The figure flinched, and a mad fluttering of limbs ensued. Finally, a head popped up. Familiar eyes stared at him, wide with fear. The facts hit him one by one. Honey-blond hair. Oval face. Slim build. He couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but he instinctively knew they were blue.
The woman raised a slender hand. “Please,
