on-site. Darius slipped through the tangled vegetation, following a trail of broken branches and crushed grass, the Glock a comforting weight in his hand.
He’d spent four years as a Navy SEAL working in enemy territory in Afghanistan searching out top-ranking al Qaeda operatives, and he’d never gotten tired of the hunt. Even now, stateside and working as a security contractor, he loved this part of the job the most.
Cat and mouse.
Hide-and-seek.
Him against the enemy.
He followed the trail deeper into the field, then back through sparser growth and out into Catherine’s property. An old farmhouse jutted up from the middle of an overgrown yard, its front door swinging open.
Darius approached cautiously, his senses alert, his nerves alive with anticipation. Cans of paint sat on the porch, a gray paint roller abandoned beside them. A red shoe print marred one whitewashed floorboard, and letters were painted across the width of the porch floor. Someone had covered them with a thin layer of white paint, but they were still easy to read.
Murderer.
Had the person who’d attacked Catherine vandalized the property first? He frowned, stepping into the foyer, heat pressing in on every side. No breeze to cut the oppressive air. No open windows to clear the heavy scent of cigarette smoke.
Sweat trickled down his temples and rolled into his eyes. He ignored it, his attention on the creak and groan of the old house, the moan of settling wood. Life had a different sound, a different feel, and he walked through a small living room, knowing it was empty. The dining room was empty, too, a nicked wood table and an old china cabinet the only furniture. No chairs. No painting. No curtains on the windows. Everything spare and worn.
The floor creaked as he walked back through the foyer and into what might have once been a family room. The room held a fireplace on one wall, a hospital bed, a dresser and a chair. A small refrigerator sat on the floor, a half dozen medicine bottles sitting on top of it. Someone had installed a window air-conditioning unit, and it hummed softly as Darius checked the closet and a small bathroom.
Empty.
The kitchen was the same. Nearly gutted with nothing but an old oven and a chipped sink, it had seen better days. Tools lay on the floor and paint peeled off the windowsills. Someone had been working hard, but the house still felt tired and old as if the life had been sucked out of it. Lived in, but already abandoned.
The front door opened, the floorboards in the hallway creaking. Footsteps on stairs and someone walking above his head. Not the police. They’d follow protocol and announce their presence.
He eased up the stairs, slowly, quietly. Whoever was in the house wasn’t being quiet about it. Drawers opened. Something slid across the floor.
Searching for something?
He followed the sounds, lunging as a figure darted from the room at the far end of the hall. His bum leg screamed in protest, phantom pain spearing up from the place where his calf had been, but he didn’t hesitate, didn’t let the pain stall his momentum. He slammed the perp against the wall, his forearm pressed across a soft throat as he looked into a bruised face and dark blue eyes.
Catherine.
“You’re supposed to be at my place,” he said, biting back the harsh words that were on the tip of his tongue.
“I have to get to the hospital.” Her voice shook, but it was the only indication of her fear.
“Not at the risk of your life.”
“The person who attacked me would have to be crazy to hang around.”
“The police were okay with you walking off?” Because, he wasn’t.
“There are officers all over the road looking for evidence. I was safe enough,” she hedged.
“You didn’t get permission to leave, did you?”
“I was waiting to be interviewed. It was taking too long.”
“You can’t do your grandmother any good if you’re dead.”
“I’m not, so it’s a moot point,” she said, her cheeks heating, her eyes flashing.
“It doesn’t pay to take chances.” He tried to keep the exasperation out of his voice as he followed her down the stairs.
“I need to get to the hospital.” She grabbed keys from a small table in the foyer and shoved them in her pocket, her hand shaking.
She put on a good show, but she was terrified.
“You’d better let the police know that you’re leaving.”
“They’re smart. I’m sure they’ll figure it out.” She walked outside, and he followed, ignoring her dark look. “Thank you for your help, Mr....?”
“Osborne. Darius.”
“Catherine Miller, but I’m sure you already knew that.”
“I’ve seen the news stories.”
“Who hasn’t?” She smiled, her eyes empty and quiet. “You saved my life, and I don’t take that lightly, but I’m fine now, and I need to get going.”
So did he. He’d planned every minute of his two-week vacation. Paint the house. Strip and refinish the hardwood floors. Fix the leaking kitchen sink. Get the house he’d bought three months ago in order so it seemed more like a home and less like a place to stay.
But the bruises on Catherine’s face, the welts on her neck, the quick beat of her pulse in the hollow of her throat made him hesitate. “How about you let me give you a ride to the hospital?”
“I have a car.”
“So do I.”
“What—”
“The police are here.” Darius cut her off as a police cruiser parked on the cracked and crumbled driveway. A tall dark-haired officer got out. Darius knew him. Deputy Sheriff Logan Randal. They’d run into each other on a couple of cases, and Darius had liked the guy.
“Catherine!” Randal called. “You were supposed to stay inside and wait for me.”
“I told you my grandmother needed to be picked up.”
“I can send an officer for her.”
“And scare her to death? I don’t think so.”
Randal sighed and took off his hat, running a hand down his jaw. “Osborne, you were there when everything went down?”
“I heard Catherine’s screams, but I didn’t see the perp. No sign of him here, either.”
“I need to leave.” Catherine sidled past, and Randal grabbed her arm.
“Whoa! Slow down, Catherine. I can’t let you walk away unescorted. We don’t know who attacked you, why he did it or
