a blotched blob of black against the parchment-colored paper, completely ruining the effect of the old-fashioned script.
She wanted everything to be perfect for the upcoming gala. A thank-you celebration and to show off the recently acquired artifacts for the American Museum, a newer, privately held institute in the metro Washington, DC, area.
“Ugh!” Mad at herself for overreacting to the sound, she crumpled up the square sheet of card stock and grabbed a clean, blank one from the stack sitting on her mahogany desktop. “It’s Brad doing his rounds.”
Any second now the older gentleman would pop his graying head inside her office to check in with her. There was no reason to freak out.
Yet, the fine hairs on her arm slowly stood on end. A voice inside her mind mocked, Girl, as long as Mark draws breath, there will always be a reason to freak out.
On a shudder, she whispered, “Lord, I need Your peace right now.”
Blowing out a cleansing, calming breath, she refocused. She had so much work to do to make the gallery party a success. Her boss had gone on a weeklong vacation that morning, leaving her to do the majority of the planning. As the junior curator, part of her job was to seek out donors as well as valuable collectibles such as the ones currently on display.
The crown jewel of the newest collection was the beautiful Golden Arrow. The gold-plated, two-foot-long relic had once belonged to General George Washington, the first president of the United States of America.
A priceless piece of history.
Glass shattering jerked her attention to the closed office door.
Had Brad fallen? She needed to go help him.
Stepping out of her office into the gloomy innards of the museum, she faltered. Which part of the vast building did she check first?
The low lighting helped preserve the numerous relics and artifacts that lured many tourists and visitors away from the more famous galleries, but did little to dispel the shadows in the hall. She wished she had a flashlight.
All was quiet. Still. A chill hung in the air. The surreal sensation of being frozen in time and space, surrounded by bits of history dating back to the first settlers in Jamestown, assaulted her.
Normally, she loved to roam through the gallery, loved knowing the story behind each piece of art, loved presenting the story to the world so others could enjoy the heritage that came before them. But a strange eeriness invaded the space, leaving her breathless. Fear crept up her spine.
Overhead, the skylights revealed a black sky. The soft pinging of rain against the windowpanes made her think of the childhood nursery rhyme her mother would sing about April showers bringing May flowers.
Suddenly, a flash of lightning illuminated the main chamber, bouncing off shards of glass littering the floor beneath the case where the Golden Arrow rested on a swath of deep red velvet.
A big, bulky man, dressed from head to toe in white, hunched over the display case.
Lana’s pulse stalled. Thunder rumbled in her ears, and then rattled the windowpanes. The noise was real, outside of her head. Another flash of lightning revealed the man reaching for the arrow. Her eyes widened in horror. Adrenaline pumped in her veins and anger fueled the fire within. “No!”
Six months of martial arts training making her reckless, she charged the man, her sole focus on preventing him from taking the arrow. “Leave that alone!”
The man spun around. Large, round reflective sunglasses concealed his eyes, while a white ski mask covered the rest of his face. As quick as a snake, his hand grasped the arrow and yanked it from its bed. He hefted the arrow in large gloved hands like a baseball bat.
The slick soles of her pumps skidded on the marble floor in a futile effort to stop while velocity propelled her forward. Her only option was to get in close and strike the pressure points in simple attack mode to hopefully disarm him or at least make him back off and run away—without the Golden Arrow.
He swung. She ducked. A forceful current of air swept over her. He’d barely missed.
He released one hand from around the arrow’s shaft and latched on to her arm before she could jump away. With purposeful aim, she targeted the arrow-wielding hand and delivered a hard blow to the pressure point of his forearm muscle between the elbow and wrist with the sharp outside edge of the radius bone in her forearm. His grip loosened but he didn’t release the arrow.
Using the same hand, she immediately curled her fingers and used her fist in a hammer shot to his left rib cluster points. He doubled over, but recovered quickly and clutched a handful of her hair, yanking her close. She screamed and stomped down hard on his instep with the heel of her pump. The man grunted.
From the corner of her eye she saw the Golden Arrow swing toward her face. By reflex she raised her arm to ward off the blow. Too late. The hard metal connected with the side of her head in a sharp explosion of pain. Then all went black.
* * *
K-9 Officer Adam Donovan’s cell buzzed inside the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. He halted, staying out of the rain beneath the overhang covering the entrance to the E. Barrett Prettyman Federal Courthouse.
“Sit,” he murmured to his partner, Ace, a four-year-old, dark-coated, sleek Doberman Pinscher. The dog obediently sat on his right. Keeping Ace’s lead in his left hand, he answered the call. “Adam Donovan.”
By habit Adam scanned the crowds of tourists flooding the National Mall, on alert for any criminal activity. Not even nighttime or an April drizzle could keep sightseers in their hotels. To his right the central dome of the US Capitol building gleamed with floodlights, postcard perfect.
“Gavin here,” came his boss, Captain Gavin McCord’s deep voice. “You still at the courthouse?”
Adam had had a late meeting with the DA regarding a case against a drug dealer who’d been selling in and around the metro DC area. The elite Capitol K-9 Unit had been called in to assist the local police during a two-hour manhunt nine months ago. The K-9 unit was often enlisted in various crimes throughout the Washington, DC, area.
Ace had been the one to find the suspect hiding in a construction Dumpster outside of the National Art Gallery. The suspect took the DA’s deal and gave up the names of his associates rather than stand trial, which had been scheduled to begin later this week.
A victory on this rainy spring evening.
“Yes, sir.” Adam spotted a group of teenage boys huddled together giving a group of teen girls furtive glances. Ah, to be that young and impetuous again. He remembered his own junior high school field trip from Colorado to the nation’s capital. He’d fallen in love with DC that week. Never in his wildest imagining had he thought he’d end up working in the iconic city.
“There’s been a break-in at the American Museum and two of the museum employees have been assaulted,” Gavin stated.
“Injured or dead?” Adam asked, already moving down the steps toward his vehicle with Ace at his heels.
“Injured. The intruder rendered both employees unconscious, but the security guard came to and pulled the fire alarm, scaring off the intruder. Both have been rushed to the hospital on Varnum Street.”
