Not that she didn’tdeservethe blame. She did.
Her only excuse was that, when she’d made the phone call to Hunter, she’d never in a million years dreamed the repercussions of her predicament would fall on anyone’s head but her own.
More fool me, she thought, fighting the urge to bend over the porch railing and hurl the turkey sandwich Hunter had fed her directly into the Carlson’s front flower bed.
“Dale! Sissy!” He gave the doorknob a frantic rattle. “Locked,” he muttered, yanking his pistol from the back of his pants. “Stand back.”
She scurried down the front steps and turned back in time to see him pull his trigger.Bam!The muzzle blast flashed orange in the darkness.
After her ears stopped ringing, she noticed how the savage roar of the weapon had silenced the insects. Had even seemed to silence the wind. It was as if the entire world held its breath, waiting for that door to open and reveal—
He planted his steel-toed biker boot next to the knob.Crash!The ruined lock gave way and the door swung wildly on its hinges, smacking into the wall behind it with so much force the doorknob embedded itself into the drywall.
Biting her lip hard enough she was surprised she didn’t draw blood, she peeked around him into the lit room beyond. She’d been so certain they’d find carnage on the other side of the door. But all she saw was a comfy-looking flowered sofa, a dark mahogany coffee table, and two overstuffed armchairs illuminated by the glow of floor lamps.
The wall behind the sofa was decorated with a gun rack and shadow boxes that held military medals, pictures of men in uniform, and was that…
She was pretty sure the little green-gray ball in the farthest shadow box was a grenade.
Hunter ran through the front door, his weapon out and at the ready as he yelled again, “Dale! Sissy!”
Clutching her service pistol firmly in her hand, she followed him inside and took up a position at his six. Her training had her sectioning off the room with her weapon, left, right, and center.
“Dale! Sissy! Answer me, goddamnit! It’s Hunter!” Again, he was met with only the hum of the appliances in the kitchen and softwhap, whap, whapof the ceiling fan as it stirred the air.
“Check the bedrooms.” She hitched her chin toward the darkened hallway. “I’ll check the den and kitchen.”
Part of her expected him to argue. To insist they stick together because he was a big, bad soldier, after all. And she was just a little lady who played at being an investigator for the federal government.
But all he did was give her a curt nod and a “Copy that” before turning to stealthily make his way toward the hall, his weapon leading the way.
He’d given her plenty of compliments in the time they’d known each other. But his confidence in her ability as a professional was the highest praise he could’ve offered.
Let’s hope I’m worthy of it.
Unlike him, she didn’t do this sort of thing for a living. Despite what Hollywood would have people believe, the life of an FBI agent rarely, if ever, involved high speed car chases or shootouts in back alleys.
In fact, most of an agent’s time was spent on monotonous interviews followed by piles of paperwork. She hadn’t had to “clear a room” since her DFE—Deadly Force Encounter—training back at Quantico.
After he disappeared down the long hall, she pressed her back against the doorway leading to the den and realized two things in short order. One, thatwasa grenade. And two, Dale Carlson had been part of the 5thSpecial Forces Group (Airborne) in Vietnam. The greenish-gray beret with the iconic patch worn by the row of men in the pictures told her that much.
And it gave her hope.
Hope that evenifOrpheus had made it to the little cottage that Dale had had the wherewithal to recognize the danger the assassin posed and spirit his wife away to safety.
Or maybe they’re out on an evening walk,she told herself.Maybe that sinister vibe I picked up on outside was just my imagination running away with me.
She wasn’t as quick as Hunter. Or as quiet. But she liked to think her instructors at the academy would be proud of the way she turkey-peeked into the den, sidearm up and aimed. After quickly sectioning the room, she found the space blessedly empty.
Stepping through the doorway, she noted how cozy the room was. The afghan draped over the back of the sofa looked almost identical to the one Hunter kept in his own living room. There were photos stacked on every horizontal surface. And an easel was set up in the corner with a half-done watercolor that had the same dreamy feel as the painting in Hunter’s cabin.
Even though she’d never met Dale or Sissy, she felt like she knew them from the photos alone. The warm light from the lamps bracketing the sofa showed a picture of them in Hawaii and another of them at the Grand Canyon. One large, glossy 8x10 showcased the couple looking young and fresh and standing in front of the little cottage Grace found herself in now with a “sold” sign held between them. And still more featured the couple at holiday celebrations spanning the years.
Please let them be alive.Please,pleaselet them be alive.She sent the silent prayer out into the ether even though she wasn’t sure anyone was listening.
“Guest bedroom clear!” Hunter called and she felt a jolt of relief before immediately responding, “Den is clear!”
Which left only the kitchen.
