Though I try to tamp it down, a spark of hope flares. “Maybe. But she’s got her job?—”
“Jones.” Webb switches to my nickname, which he never uses unless he’s about to say something serious. “Do you reallythink Bea will want to go back to the place where her friend died? Where she was attacked?”
“Well, no?—”
“Maybe she’ll want a fresh start. Somewhere she feels safe.” He gives me a long look. “Like Blade and Arrow. You never know, do you? Unless you try.”
He’s right. But that’s steps ahead of where we are now. First, we need to fix this for Bea. Make it so she can work again and live wherever she wants to. And then?—
My phone vibrates in my hand.
Though it could be anything, my gut knows before I even look at the screen.
One of the alarms was triggered.
And there, creeping along the trees edging the backyard, is the intruder we’ve been waiting for.
In tandem, Webb and I rise from the couch.
Adrenaline surges.
Webb grabs his Sig from the coffee table and checks the ammo. I pull my own from my belt holster and do the same.
The room is eerily quiet, save for the faint hum of the heat kicking on.
“The back door,” I say quietly, gesturing with my chin towards the kitchen. “Just as we predicted.”
Webb nods. “It shouldn’t take too long for him to get inside. Maybe a minute or so.”
We both take a quick look around the darkened living room. We wanted it to look like Bea was watching TV, maybe even fell asleep on the couch, so we turned all the other lights in the house off. And with the curtains all drawn, the intruder has no idea who else, if anyone, is in here.
He’s probably expectingsomeoneto be with her. But he doesn’t know who. Or what we’re capable of. All he would knowabout the residents of the Blade and Arrow property is that it’s deeded to a pair of retired college professors in their sixties.
Two nonexistent college professors, technically. But the asshole intruder doesn’t know that.
Just like he doesn’t know that two former Special Forces operators are waiting for him inside the house instead of sweet, innocent Bea.
On the security camera, the dark-clothed man reaches the back door and starts fiddling with the doorknob.
Webb glances at me. We’ve already been through every scenario we could think of, from the obvious—the intruder entering through the back door—to more extreme methods of breaking in, like coming in through the attic or flinging a Molotov cocktail through a window.
Without needing to speak, we both take position. I tuck myself along the wall just to the left of the kitchen doorway, while Webb heads to the right. With my Sig at low ready, I hold myself still, keeping my breathing slow and silent while I listen for the intruder to come inside.
The light from the TV flickers as the program switches from show to commercial, casting a reddish glow across Webb’s face.
The back door opens with a soft snicking sound.
Then a tiny creak follows, as the intruder crosses the doorway.
Webb lifts his chin at me, and I do the same in return. Nothing more needs to be said.
I don’t need to see the asshole intruder to know where he is. I can hear him moving on careful footsteps across the kitchen. His breaths are quiet but fast. Shallow. Like he’s trying to control them, but can’t quite manage it.
Is he nervous? Or excited?
Does it matter when the end result is the same?
The man comes closer. His body odor precedes him; an unpleasant blend of sweat and onion and pine-scented deodorant. Just before he reaches the kitchen doorway, he stops. Exhales. A telltale click signals the cocking of his gun.
