Targeted. Lori L. Harris

      No response again. He scanned what appeared to be the dining room for another entrance. Finding none, he realized he’d made a poor choice. With the only way in or out either this door or the front window, he was pinned down. Of course, at the time, a dark room had seemed a better choice than a well-lit one.

      Alec’s heart hammered. With no other choice, he slid around the door frame and into the entry foyer again, into the light spilling from the living room. The house was cold and silent. A clock ticked somewhere, or maybe it was some type of drip. He’d once entered the bathroom of a murder victim, expecting to turn off a faucet’s slow drip only to discover the sound had nothing to do with plumbing.

      He could hear movement now and advanced toward it. The wood floor creaked with the slightest of weight shift, making silent progress impossible. And having never been in this house, he didn’t know the layout, but assumed the hall led to bedrooms and at least one bathroom. There would also be a kitchen, which he would have expected to connect with the dining room, so there was no telling where it fell in the floor plan. But all these old houses had a second door, usually off the kitchen. Was the suspect trying to reach it?

      Sensing he was about to step into the path of a bullet, Alec ran his left hand over his chest—the habit, a hangover from his Bureau days, was meant to assure him that his soft body armor was in place. Of course, he was a civilian now, and civilians had no need for the protective powers of Kevlar. Not unless they were going into a dark house, facing a shooter who obviously knew how to handle his weapon.

      A soft whimper that was quickly squashed. Leading with his own weapon, Alec stepped from the foyer into the narrow hall leading toward the back of the house. The front door was open behind him, and the way the night air poured into the small foyer and down the hall suggested that there was another open door or window ahead of him somewhere.

      The darkness was more complete here, the only light coming from beneath the closed door at the end of the hall. Alec ignored the room as a possibility, concentrated on the other three doors. In his head, he heard Monty asking which door it would be.

      He held his position again, listening. With the elapsed time, it became more likely that the suspect intended to shoot it out.

      A sharp clatter. Alec moved forward in a controlled rush. By the time he reached the door into the kitchen, fresh air poured through the opened back door, as did the glow from the side yard light. He caught a glimpse of the suspect fleeing down the steps. As much as he wanted to pursue the man, he needed to determine Katie’s whereabouts and condition, so he turned and faced the room.

      “Katie?”

      Even with the light penetrating only three or four feet inside, he could see the mess on the floor. The glittering shards of glass, the sheen of a dark liquid, the shine of stainless implements. The skeletons of overturned dinette chairs.

      What he didn’t see, what he might not have seen at all if she hadn’t made a sound somewhere between a gasp and a sob, was Katie slumped against the old refrigerator.

      She was drawn up in a near-fetal position. He kneeled down, but didn’t touch her; he was afraid that even that small contact might send her over the edge.

      “Katie?” She lifted her chin slightly as if she looked at him, but he couldn’t be certain. “Katie, I need you to answer me. Are you hurt?”

      She shook her head.

      “I need to go after the man who did this to you. Do you understand?” He thought she nodded. “Call 9-1-1.”

      He’d taken only a single step when she launched herself after him, her hands grabbing at his legs, her movements sending kitchen utensils clanging. “No. He’ll come back. He’ll kill me.”

      Alec kneeled next to her again. “Easy. I won’t be gone long.” He picked up a knife and pressed it into her hands. “Hold on to this.”

      Taking it, she scooted backward until she was once more plastered to the appliance.

      Alec checked the side yard where legustroms and large oleanders blocked the house next door. He’d lost too much time in the kitchen. The suspect could be anywhere by now.

      Frustration building, Alec circled to the front of the house to scan the street. Everything was quiet.

      He reentered through the back door. He’d no sooner flipped on the overhead light, than Katie scrambled up from her position on the floor beneath the phone and turned it off. “No lights. He’ll see us.”

      In the strobe of illumination, Alec had seen the mess, not just on the floor, but also throughout the room. The struggle had been both drawn out and vicious. The only surprise was, for whatever reason, Katie was still alive. She had somehow survived.

      “Take it easy, Katie.”

      After sliding his weapon into the shoulder holster, he squatted cautiously next to her. “Give me the knife.” She let him take it from her, and he placed it beyond her reach. When he touched her on the shoulder, she jerked and lifted her left hand in a defensive motion, as if to ward off any further attempts at contact.

      Ignoring the broken glass, he carefully sat down in front of her.

      “Katie, did you dial 9-1-1?”

      She nodded. Using one finger, he caught her chin and urged it higher. Her face was wet. She was crying, he realized. He couldn’t tell much about her eyes in the dark, but when she trembled, he realized he didn’t need to see dilated pupils to know she was in shock. She was frightened beyond belief.

      “Did you—” He had intended to ask her about the attack, but quickly stopped himself. Habits were hard to shake. Especially in stressful situations. He’d spent too many years in charge, accustomed to asking the questions. But it was no longer his job. And there was no reason to put her through it twice.

      He was unprepared when she suddenly buried her face against his chest. He raised his arms, uncertain. After a brief hesitation, he wrapped them around her.

      For the first time in eleven months, Alec held a woman. And sitting there in the darkened kitchen, he couldn’t help but think how different tonight would have been if he’d left that voice mail. If he hadn’t decided he owed her an explanation in person.

      And how one moment in a man’s life, a woman’s life, could define everything that followed.

      OH GOD, oh God, oh God.

      Katie’s fist twisted tighter into Alec’s shirt as she burrowed her face into his shoulder. The sirens were just outside now. How long had she—had they—been sitting on the floor? Probably no more than six or seven minutes, but it seemed far longer.

      Her body moved in a rocking motion, but she seemed powerless to stop it, or even to alter the timing of it. She wasn’t even sure if the motion was of her doing or of the man’s who held her. But the rhythm of his heart had become a calming metronome.

      If she could just concentrate on the heavy, steady beat. If she could just stay here. In the dark. In these strong arms. She would be okay.

      “Police,” a man’s voice called from the foyer.

      She felt Alec moving away from her, physically and emotionally. Her fingers squeezed the material of his sleeve. If she let him go, she didn’t know what would happen.

      “In here,” Alec called. “In the kitchen.”

      Heavy footsteps moved down the hall. Flashlight beams stabbed and probed until they found them. The light switch, a relic from the twenties, made a sharp click.

      Three men, Police Chief Jack Blade and two young deputies whose names she didn’t know, stood in the doorway.

      Squinting against the sudden glare, she pushed herself off Alec’s lap and onto the floor, wincing as broken glass bit into her palm. She kept her eyes averted, was afraid that, if she looked at any of the men who now stared at her, she’d lose the little bit of self-control that she’d managed to regain over the past few minutes.