Deadly Game (Fortress Security #5)(5)

“I understand.”

A nod. “Let’s move.”

The buzz-cut blond-haired man met her at the front of the SUV. He nudged her to the grass where their steps were muffled. They stayed in the shadows as much as possible as they approached the two-story stone mini-mansion in this exclusive neighborhood. Lights blazed from windows on both floors, giving the illusion of peace and warmth. Just went to show that simply because someone lived in a big house didn’t mean everything was paradise inside.

She glanced at Brent. If she hadn’t known where to look, she would have missed him. His black clothes and tanned skin seemed to blend with the night. His steps were silent where Rowan’s sounded like a herd of buffalo making a beeline for the house. How did he do that soundless, almost gliding motion? A handy skill to have if you were working in the military or maybe black ops.

Her breath caught in her throat. Black ops. The thought rolled around in her mind like a pinball. She really wanted to know Brent’s military background. Would he tell her?

When she and Brent drew close to the house, Rowan noticed the front door was open, the frame splintered. In the distance, sirens sounded.

Brent stopped at the edge of the lawn where a large tree grew. “Stay right here, Rowan. No matter what you hear or see, don’t move from this spot.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Find Heather and Alexa. Wait for the cops. I don’t want them to shoot me by accident,” he said, his tone wry. Brent took off across the yard, hugging shadows as he went. Finally, he reached the porch and slowed his approach, reaching behind his back.

Rowan realized he had a gun in his hand. Her stomach tightened into a knot, wanting to race inside to check on Heather and Alexa herself, knowing she’d put herself and Brent into more danger if she didn’t follow his instructions.

She pressed tighter against the tree as Brent raised his weapon and slipped into the house. The sound of sirens edged closer. Not fast enough to suit Rowan. Her friend faced armed thugs without backup.

Brent appeared in the doorway and waved her over. She sprinted across the lawn.

“Come with me. Heather’s been shot.” He gripped her hand and hurried through the foyer and up the staircase to Alexa’s room.

She pushed her way past him and ran to her sister, who was sprawled on the floor, arms spread to her side, a pool of blood spreading. “Heather, can you hear me?”

Brent crouched beside her, a handful of towels in his hand. “Use these to staunch the blood flow.” He showed her how much pressure to apply on the wound to the right side of her sister’s chest, and stood. “Keep the pressure steady, Rowan.”

“Where are you going?”

“To Find Alexa. Where would she hide if she were afraid?”

“The closet in here or the one in her mother’s room.”

He crossed the room, stepped to the side of the closet door, and eased it open. Empty. “Heather’s room?”

“Across the hall and to the left.”

Heather moaned.

Rowan’s attention shifted to her sister. “Hold on, Heather. Help is on the way.”

“Alexa,” she whispered.

“My friend is searching for her.”

A slight head shake. “Gone.”

“What do you mean?”

“They took her.” Silence.

“Heather, who took her? Was it Jay?” Nothing. “Heather?” Oh, dear. Not a good sign. Rowan checked that her sister was still breathing, relaxed slightly when she saw that Heather was indeed still with her, but unconscious.

The sirens cut off abruptly. The police had arrived. Rowan grabbed another towel. How long would it take for an ambulance to arrive? Heather was losing blood fast. Too fast.

Brent returned. “No luck. I’ll search the rest of the house, but I have to wait for the police to get up here.”

“Heather regained consciousness for a minute. She said ‘they took her.’”

“Jay, or someone else?”

“I don’t know. She slipped back under before she could say anything else.”

Footsteps sounded in the hall.

“Sweetheart, don’t let up on that pressure until the ambulance arrives.”

Her head whipped his direction. Brent’s expression showed resignation. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going to be tied up until Taylor gets here.”

Uniformed cops swept into the room, guns up, expressions fierce. “Get on the ground, now!”





CHAPTER THREE


Brent scowled at the officers staring at him with weapons drawn. “Detective Cal Taylor of homicide was supposed to contact you about my presence at the scene.” He lay on his stomach, his face turned toward a horror-stricken Rowan. One of the officers grabbed his weapon, then cuffed him. He’d better be getting back the sweet Ruger soon. That Ruger was his favorite weapon.

“No,” Rowan protested. “He came with me to help my sister. Brent didn’t break in and shoot Heather.”

“It’s okay, Rowan,” he said, voice mild even though he was ticked off. Yeah, he got it. Brent was an unknown danger in the middle of a crime scene. Still, didn’t these guys listen to their superiors? If his operatives did that, he’d send them back through training or fire them. That was better than the alternative—dying because you refused to listen, not something Brent wanted on his conscience.