Explosive Alliance. Susan Sleeman

a thump. By the back door leading to the deck. Her imagination shot into overdrive. Could the bomber have found her?

      Fear coursing through her body, she raced to the hall closet and lifted the door to the crawl space. She felt around for the tote bag she’d hung from a hook and tugged it out.

      Her fingers trembled but she managed to open the long zipper and grab her father’s old gun. The metal felt cold and reassuring in her hand. She’d spent hours at a gun range with her father and knew how to handle a gun, but never once did she believe she’d have to use it. Still, the training came back. She flipped off the safety and hurried to the back door.

      She switched on the exterior light as her heart thundered in her chest. She held her breath and peeked through the blinds.

      A raccoon hopped off a turned-over lawn chair and scurried off the deck. Krista sagged against the wall and pulled in gulps of air. Her heart continued to pound, and suddenly, she was back four years ago to a different house she’d shared with Opa after Toby died. To the neighbors who thought she was a murderer. Protesting outside. Breaking in and spray-painting horrible messages on the walls. Trashing the house. Threatening more attacks if she didn’t move out of their neighborhood.

      It could all happen again. Easily. Quickly, if Parsons dug deep enough and discovered her real identity. She didn’t know if she could survive targeted attacks like that again, but when she’d decided to move back from Georgia to take care of Opa, she’d known it was a possibility. Known she might someday have to take off again, though she hated the thought of leaving Opa behind when he was still so ill.

      Even so, she’d prepared. Hopefully, she’d thought of everything.

      She returned to the hallway and knelt by her bag. It contained clothes, money and extra ammo. Most important, it included a passport, driver’s license and credit cards she’d gotten from her father’s old friend who issued fake IDs.

      She sat back, sighing. How had her life come to this? Contacting a forger. Obtaining yet one more false identity. She felt dirty and underhanded. It was bad enough that she’d gone back to using Curry as her last name. It was the name her father had once procured for her when he was on the run. After she’d left that life behind, she’d left the name behind, too, but going back to it had been her only option after Toby died. The police had frozen all their assets. She had no money. She couldn’t even use a credit card, which meant she couldn’t escape from the irate neighbors.

      She’d felt helpless. Out of control. She’d never let something like that happen again. And she especially wouldn’t let Opa go through such a hateful experience again. Nor would she let this bomber get to Opa because of her.

      Opa. The one person she loved and trusted. She’d lay down her life to protect him.

      She returned the bag minus the gun to her hidey-hole, secured the door, then headed for the sofa in the family room. The loaded gun on her lap, she settled back for a long night of watching.

      If the bomber showed up, she’d be ready to stand her ground. To protect herself and her grandfather. No matter the cost.

      * * *

      Cash paced the floor in his condo located on the upper level of an old converted firehouse where the entire team lived. He should be sleeping, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw Krista’s last look before she entered her house.

      Gone was the evasiveness. Gone was the determination. Instead, fear-darkened eyes that got to him in a way he couldn’t explain peered at him. She was worried about the bomber finding her. Or maybe worried about whatever she was hiding.

      So what should he do about it, if anything? He’d done his part. Made sure she and Otto arrived home safely. The bomber likely didn’t know her identity unless Parsons’s segment had aired and her name had been revealed. Then she could be in serious trouble.

      Cash couldn’t sleep without knowing. He grabbed his laptop and navigated to the station’s website, where he found the video from tonight’s broadcast. He started Parsons’s story playing and sat back to watch. The camera panned the stadium as the relentless reporter announced Krista’s full name.

      Great. Just as Cash suspected. The bomber could easily know her identity. Question was, could he find her address from that piece of information alone?

      Cash assumed the house was in Otto’s name. His fingers flew over the keyboard and a quick search of property records confirmed his assumption. Still, the bomber couldn’t access databases restricted to law enforcement and retrieve the information as fast as Cash. The bomber would only have the internet at his disposal. So what exactly would he find?

      Cash plugged Krista Curry into a search engine. After an hour of searching, only one link led to her, showing she’d worked in a home child-care center in Kennesaw, Georgia.

      Odd. In today’s social media world, he should have located far more information about her. She’d obviously worked hard to keep her private life private. Maybe because of whatever she seemed to be hiding.

      Cash might want to know her secret, but her caution meant he didn’t need to worry if the media or the bomber could easily find her.

      A shadowy image of the man she’d described, hunkering down in the thick bushes outside her secluded home, flashed into his mind. Cash had been cautious on the way to Otto’s house, but he couldn’t guarantee the bomber hadn’t tailed them. That the creep wasn’t outside their home right now. Krista and Opa alone.

      Unprotected.

      “Not on my watch,” he said and retrieved his gun from the safe. He locked his condo and took the stairs leading to the first-floor common area. A light burning in the shared kitchen had him hesitating. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone.

      He loved living here, but privacy? Unheard of in the firehouse. Still, he was thankful for the free living quarters. A woman grateful to Darcie for saving her life had donated the place to the county for the FRS members. They each had a private condo on the second and third floors. The first floor was a communal space with a kitchen and dining, family and game rooms.

      Trouble was, with their crazy shifts, someone was almost always up. He should have thought of that, as he doubted whoever was awake would support his plan.

      He started back up the steps to take the back exit.

      “Hey, man.” Brady’s voice came from the first floor. He wore a freshly pressed county uniform, indicating he was heading out for a patrol shift. “Thought I heard someone out here. You headed out?”

      Cash couldn’t very well turn back now. He jogged down the steel stairs.

      Holding a thick sandwich, Brady leaned against a metal post and crossed his ankles. “Where’re you off to?”

      Cash considered evading the question or outright lying, but he didn’t abide lying. He wouldn’t start now. “Thought I’d check on Krista and Otto.”

      Brady’s eyebrow went up, but he didn’t say anything, just swung his foot and watched.

      “I know what you’re thinking,” Cash said.

      Brady smirked. “You do, do you?”

      “It’s written all over your face. You think I’m going over there because I’ve got a thing for Krista.”

      “Aren’t you?” Brady chomped a bite from his sandwich.

      “I’m going because Parsons mentioned her name in his broadcast and the bomber might have located her.”

      “And that’s your only motivation?”

      Cash thought to deny that his motivations were mixed, but why bother? He and Brady might be able to keep stuff from the others, but with their military backgrounds, they often thought alike and couldn’t successfully hide things from each other.

      Cash shrugged. “I don’t know how to separate the two, I guess.”

      Brady frowned. “You better