Targeted. Becky Avella

door of a blue patrol car with “K-9” painted on the side.

      “Watch your head,” he said.

      She backed down onto the passenger seat facing out. Rick kept his hand on the door and knelt in front of her. His nearness and direct gaze made her squirm. “Did Hale hurt you at all?”

      She blushed and shook her head. “No. Julian had just arrived. He hadn’t even stepped out of the doorway before you came.”

      “Did he say anything to you?” Rick eyes roved across her face, looking as if he thought he would be able to read what he wanted to know written there. But she didn’t have any answers. She didn’t know what he needed her to tell him.

      “I don’t know. He said that you knew what he was planning to do next, or that you knew what he had already done, or something like that.” She closed her eyes trying to remember more, anything that would be useful.

      “Did he say where he was going? What his plans were specifically?”

      “No. I told you, Rick. I don’t know anything. He wasn’t making any sense. When I asked him what he was talking about, all he said was that I would know soon enough, and then he ran down the hall.”

      “That’s it? You’re sure you can’t remember anything else? This is important, Stephanie.”

      It felt as though he was interrogating her. “I told you everything I can remember. There wasn’t time for anything else.” She looked down into Rick’s upturned face. His expression was hard, his mouth a straight line. She knew he wanted her to give him some clue, but she wanted some answers of her own. “Rick, you need to tell me what is going on.”

      He stood up and leaned in close so she could hear his words above the racket. “I need to talk to these guys and then we’ll get out of here, okay?”

      “Okay,” she said, turning forward so her feet were in the car. Then the door slammed shut, leaving her alone in the silence to try to sort through all of the activity happening around her. He hadn’t answered her question.

      She scanned the bustling crowd outside the car and found Rick’s tall form. He stood side by side with two other Seattle PD officers, each with their arms crossed over their chest, deep in serious conversation. Set in this scene, Rick’s natural presence and rugged good looks made it easy to pretend he was the star of some crime show on prime time. But this was real life, and somehow she was involved in it. How had her quiet afternoon of lesson planning morphed into a TV drama?

      Rick’s dog waited at his side. His alert ears and long black snout reminded Stephanie of a German shepherd, but his coloring was a light brown and he seemed too small for a shepherd. Whatever breed he was, Stephanie could read the mutual devotion dog and handler had for each other. This dog didn’t fit the image she had of intimidating and snarling K-9 dogs. This one looked more like an overgrown puppy with his tail in constant wag mode.

      For the briefest moment, Rick’s gaze held hers through the windshield. Her stomach tightened, and she held her breath. Time stretched, feeling longer than four heartbeats. What was he thinking? Had they caught Julian?

      Rick’s eyes remained fixed on where she sat watching him inside the car. He finished his conversation and walked away from the other officers, his dog jogging along beside him. Finally, he’ll be able to tell me what is going on.

      Rick opened the rear door, allowing the dog to jump into the kennel in the back of the car. “Stephanie, meet Axle. Axle, meet Stephanie.”

      Stephanie smiled over her shoulder. “Hey, Axle. Nice to meet you.”

      Rick climbed into the front seat next to her. Stephanie turned her smile to him. “I’m not sure what all of this is about, but somehow I think I need to thank you for coming to my rescue.”

      “My pleasure, Miss O’Brien,” he said in a bad impression of John Wayne. Rick’s smile was wide and genuine, revealing a dimple in his left cheek she hadn’t noticed before.

      “Did you catch Julian?” Are you going to tell me who he really is? What you want him for?

      Rick’s smile faded. “No, he got away from us for the second time today.” He maneuvered the car out of the parking lot. “Our job’s not done yet. He’s still loose, and he’s still a threat.”

      A stab of guilt hit Stephanie. Maybe Rick could have caught Julian if he hadn’t stopped to take care of her first. “I’m sorry I kept you from going after him.”

      “No. Don’t be sorry.” He averted his eyes and quietly added, “You have no idea how happy I was to find you safe, and not...”

      Stephanie waited for him to fill in that blank, but he let it drop. “Not what?” she probed.

      Instead of a direct answer, he started the car’s ignition and said, “I’m under strict orders to deliver you to Terrell. He’ll fill you in on everything when we get to his house.”

      Then he winked at her, and his dimple made its second appearance. “Right after he finishes yelling at you for not charging your cell phone.”

       THREE

      Rick maneuvered around the tricycle blocking the walkway leading up to the Watkinses’ modest blue bungalow. He gestured for Stephanie to climb the steps to the front door ahead of him. Savory aromas wafted out to them like a welcoming committee. Rick’s stomach contracted, begging him to feed it. It had been a long day with no food, and his shift didn’t end for another two hours, and that was only if he didn’t get held for overtime. Rick couldn’t help but hope Val would feed him before he rejoined the search for Hale. Nothing he could make for himself or grab at a drive-through window would compare to her cooking.

      Valencia Watkins came from a long line of Latina women famous for their skill in the kitchen. She did not believe a single bachelor could cook well enough to keep himself alive. All six feet five inches of her well-fed African-American husband revealed how Val loved people. She fed them, and one bite of her cooking had forever convinced Rick he would never turn down an offer to eat at her table.

      “Mmm. I can smell Val’s cooking all the way out here,” Stephanie said. She gave him a crooked half smile. The urge to do or say something to make that smile reach her eyes, to light up her face as it usually did, hit him hard.

      It relieved Rick to deliver Stephanie here. With Hale loose, she wasn’t completely safe, but he couldn’t imagine her being in much danger in this place. This little blue house full of good smells and toys underfoot always felt like a haven to him.

      The Watkinses’ six-year-old son, Joash, answered the doorbell. His dark eyes lit up when he saw Rick and Stephanie standing on his front porch. The boy hugged Stephanie, then he turned to Rick and lifted the baseball mitt on his left hand. “It isn’t raining as hard now. Wanna come out and play catch with me?”

      “Sorry, Joe. Can’t today, I’m working.” As he ruffled the boy’s black hair, the gesture left him hollow. Although he often ruffled the fur on top of Axle’s head, this time the motion reminded him of someone else.

       Allie.

      Rick hadn’t allowed himself a conscious thought about his former fiancée in a long time. It was always safer to block memories after she called off their engagement, but every once in a while a stray one like this floated to the surface before he could stop it.

      Allie had always been so proud of her glossy dark hair. She would spend hours fixing it with a pile of products and styling tools Rick couldn’t imagine counting. Sometimes he would be a pest and mess up her hair on purpose, but other times it was simply an unconscious show of affection. Regardless of what his intentions might have been, Allie’s response had always been the same: ducking, slapping away his hand and moaning, “Knock it off, Rick, I just fixed my hair.” He figured the rich, ambulance-chasing attorney that Allie had married this past