“These people work seven to four? I wonder if they’re hiring.” Zane glanced at his watch. “What now?”
Gil wasn’t ready to let this go. Not yet. “Do you have time to swing by her house?”
“What else do I have to do?” Zane laughed, but there was a bite to his words. Zane was usually a fun guy, but he’d grown somber and withdrawn over the last few months. Most people assumed it was because of the trauma they’d all been through in the spring. Zane had been shot, then he’d lost his car, his home, and almost everything he owned. And if that wasn’t bad enough,his transition to the protective detail had been delayed indefinitely. All solid reasons for a guy to be in a funk.
But Luke Powell, another fellow agent, was convinced it had more to do with Zane’s tense relationship with the only female agent in the office, Tessa Reed, and Gil was increasingly sure he was right.
This wasn’t the time to pry, but the time was coming. For now, he let it go. “She lives about five minutes from here. Let’s see if she’s home.”
Gil slowed as he approached Ivy’s house but didn’t stop. The house was in an older part of Raleigh, where the lots were large and the subdivision delineations weren’t clear. Two stories. Probably with a basement. Sitting on a wooded acre of land.
He drove past five more houses, turned around, and came back. He pulled into Ivy’s driveway and parked near the walkway to the front porch. Gil and Zane exited the car and walked to the front door.
Should he warn Zane about his history with Ivy? As far as Zane was concerned, there was no reason to think this would be anything other than a friendly chat.
If the roles were reversed, he would want to know. He paused on the step. “Zane—”
Zane reached around him and hit the doorbell. “What?”
He couldn’t very well start this conversation now. “It’ll keep.” He hoped.
They waited, but there was no sound of footsteps. Gil stepped to the door and knocked. The door swung open as soon as his knuckles made contact.
Not normal.
Was it possible that Ivy had left her front door open? Sure. Was he going to assume that was the case? Absolutely not. Gil pulled his weapon from his hip.
Zane was already dialing for backup. Good. Better safe than sorry. He put his phone back in his pocket and gave Gil a quick nod.
Gil pushed the door all the way open. It swung silently. He concentrated all his senses on this new environment. The foyer was small, with a hexagon-shaped library/office to his left. To his right sat a formal dining room. Both were empty. Straight ahead was a living area with sofas, a large TV, and comfortable chairs. The room was tidy, and there were no apparent signs of a struggle.
But two distinct and wildly contrasting odors battered his senses. Cinnamon and charred flesh.
Zane lifted his chin in a quick up-and-to-the-left. Gil followed, and they cleared two bedrooms and a small bathroom. Then Gil took the lead, and they prowled through the living area. A door to the left was probably another bedroom. If the house plan made any sense at all, then the archway to the right would lead to the kitchen area, but he couldn’t get a good sense of the space from where he stood. A door opened from somewhere at the back of the house and feet pounded down steps. But someone was moving in the space on the other side of that wall.
Was a drawer being opened?
After another quick glance at Zane, Gil swung into the next room. A breakfast nook was on his left with a door that he assumed led to the outside, and on his right was the kitchen.
Across the large island stood Ivy Collins.
His Ivy.
It was as if no time had passed. No years of silence. Something strong and true pulled him to her. His body tried to close the gap between them, but his mind resisted. Years of training forced Gil to scan the room.
“Hold here.” Zane’s voice vibrated with rage as his footsteps retreated. “I’ll clear the bedroom.”
Blood ran down her right temple and trickled from puffy lips. Her sweater was ripped and hung off one shoulder, revealing a nasty burn. Something was very wrong with her right hand, but Gil couldn’t focus on that, because in her left hand, she held a gun.
Before he could tell her that he was there to help, she pulled the trigger.
2
THE MAN’S BODY JERKED BACKWARD. He crashed into the wall and slid down, landing hard.
His right hand reached toward his left shoulder, a reflexive action as he tried to stop the blood gushing from the gunshot wound. Self-preservation appeared to overrule all other instincts, including the one he should have called up—the instinct to flee.
Because if he thought he was in danger from her and her weapon, he clearly didn’t have a clue how lethal the man who now stood in front of him was.
