He took a few moments to admire the movement of her long, lean body as she jogged up the line of cars toward her partner. She was . . .
Mine. She’s mine.
And she had been from the moment he’d opened his eyes to see her leaning over him as he lay bleeding . . . and dying. He’d been ready to die that day, hadn’t truly minded the idea – not until he’d seen her staring down at him. What he’d seen in her dark, dark eyes, which he now knew were the deepest blue he’d ever seen, had called him back. Had filled him with a sudden craving to fight for another day.
It still did. Enough that he should keep his damn ass in her department car and let her do her job. But that wasn’t who he was. He owed it to Tala to find her child. He owed it to himself, too, knowing he wouldn’t be able to look in the mirror if he sat here and did nothing when he might have an entrée that the cops didn’t have.
Sitting here was not the right thing to do, plain and simple.
Taking a plain black ball cap out of his computer bag, he settled it on his head and activated the camera in the bill. He then got out of Scarlett’s car quietly, walking in the direction opposite from the Anders house until he reached the line of trees that bordered their property, shielding the house from the road. He made his way through the trees, staying in the shadows.
The basement wall was fully visible at the back of the house, which was built into the valley between two hills. Perfectly centered was a solid, non-windowed door covered by a storm door. Both doors opened level with the ground. There was no cover along the back of the house. No trees or bushes to hide behind. The back yard ran flat for the first hundred feet, before the property sloped back up toward the main road.
He glanced up the hill and saw the unmarked car parked on the other side of the treeline. Of course Deacon would have someone watching the back to prevent the Anderses from making a break for it. Or to aid any of Tala’s surviving family who managed to escape. Marcus knew that as soon as he showed himself, the cop in that unmarked would be on his ass, keeping him from trying to gain entry.
Sending up a little prayer, he darted along the basement wall, reaching the back door without interruption, which made him frown and glance over his shoulder at the unmarked car. Nothing. No shouts, no demands for him to stop. Nothing.
Pulling the storm door open, he raised his fist to knock on the entry door, then froze when the storm door literally fell away from the frame. Shit. It was now precariously balanced, one corner dug into the dirt, the opposite corner resting against the house, most of its weight supported by Marcus’s hold on the handle.
The frame itself was splintered, with both sets of hinges – those of the storm door and the entry door – no longer attached. This was no accident. Someone had broken in and then put the doors back in place so that their forced entry wouldn’t be immediately visible.
One little shove and the entry door would be on the floor. Marcus had reached for his phone to text Scarlett to come and see when the detective in question rounded the corner, her annoyance evident in the look on her face and the stiffness of her stride. She was wearing a tactical vest, her service weapon tucked into the built-in holster.
She stopped inches from where he stood. ‘What the hell are you doing?’ she hissed.
‘I was about to knock on the back door,’ he said calmly. ‘You knew I would.’
‘Yeah, but I thought you’d be more discreet about how you did it. Every cop up there saw you come back here.’ She narrowed her eyes at the storm door, her attitude abruptly changing as she took in the damage. ‘Shit. I need CSU.’ She pulled out her phone and dialed. ‘Deacon, send Vince down here. The back door’s been—’
The door frame exploded, sharp shards of wood showering down on their heads, and Marcus’s military training kicked into gear.
Sniper. On the hill behind us. Suddenly the lack of activity from the unmarked car made grim sense. Shit. No cover here. They were sitting ducks, standing in the open. Not a single tree they could hide behind. The only cover was inside the house.
He grabbed Scarlett around the waist, hunkered down and shoved his shoulder into the basement door a split second after a second bullet hit the door, inches from where his head had just been.
The hingeless door gave way, and he and Scarlett followed it down, their bodies slamming against it hard as it hit the floor. Marcus rolled them out of the now open doorway as a third bullet hit the floor directly behind them. Concrete shattered, sharp debris pelting his head and back like mini-daggers.
Breathing hard, his body hovering over hers in a protective shell, Marcus lifted his head. The light coming in through the open door had illuminated a section of the basement floor and inner wall. The concrete was a mess, the bullet having hit the floor an inch beyond where the door had come to rest. The shooter had changed his aim as they’d fallen, following their trajectory.
Had Marcus not rolled them out of the way, the bullet would have hit one of them for sure. He looked down at Scarlett’s face, relieved to see her alert and aware, her pistol firmly gripped in her right hand. She must have drawn her weapon while they were falling. While a small part of his ego wished she’d trembled and clutched at him just a little, the larger part of him was relieved that she remained cool under fire. She needed that cool to stay alive on a day-to-day basis.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked quietly.
‘Yeah. Just knocked the wind out of me. Are you?’
He nodded once. His head hurt, but it was nothing worse than he’d had before. She twisted in his arms, craning back to study the concrete, then following the trajectory with her eyes. She swallowed hard.
‘Damn. We’d have been toast.’ She looked up at him, her expression grim even as her eyes filled with approval. ‘Fast moves, O’Bannion. Army training?’
‘Yeah.’ He knew he should get up, but now that they were safe, his adrenaline had plunged, his muscles turning to jelly. His body sagged against her, his hips settling between her thighs. He braced himself on his forearms and lowered his forehead to hers. ‘Give me a second.’
She brushed the backs of her fingers against his cheek, a gentle caress. ‘We’re both okay,’ she said softly, making him shudder at the thought of what might have been. ‘You did good, Marcus. We’re alive.’
He nodded, realizing that he was finally holding her the way he’d been longing to for months, her lips only a breath away. Except he hadn’t wanted it like this. Hadn’t wanted her in danger. ‘You could have been killed.’
She pressed her fingertips to his lips. ‘You could have been killed,’ she whispered fiercely. ‘He was aiming high. For you, Marcus.’ Her eyes roved his face in the semi-darkness, her lips bending in a frown as her fingers lifted to his temple. ‘You’re bleeding.’
His gaze dropped to her mouth. He wanted nothing more than to kiss the frown off her lips, but knew that once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. And he didn’t want to have to stop, but this was utterly the wrong time and place. ‘A chip of concrete, I think. I’m fine.’
‘We need to get you checked out,’ she said stubbornly, but then her lips trembled. ‘I need to get you checked out. Please,’ she added in a whisper.
He wanted to outright refuse, because he hated hospitals, but that slight tremble had gone straight to his gut and the whispered please had stripped his defenses bare. ‘Later, okay?’
Her throat worked as she tried to swallow. ‘Promise me.’
He nodded, not trusting his voice. He no longer trusted his body either, as it had gotten over its scare and was no longer jelly. Far from it. He was growing harder with every second he lay cradled between her thighs. He cleared his throat. ‘I need to get up. See if he’s still there.’
She shook her head. ‘Let me call Deacon first. Get him to check while we both stay clear of the door.’ She looked around her, frowning again. ‘I dropped my phone when we went through the door. Do you see it?’