Shatter
Phoenix Rising - 4
by
Joan Swan
For Paige and Alicia
Thank you for believing in the Phoenix Rising series and my abilities.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Deep gratitude goes out to my fabulous agent, Paige Wheeler, of Folio Literary Management, for her enthusiasm over Fever and the Phoenix Rising series, for believing in my writing abilities, and for taking me on as a client. And to Alicia Condon, my amazing editor at Kensington Publishing, for seeing the bigger picture, offering guidance and then allowing me to run with it. You both have enriched my life as a writer and I’m forever grateful.
Gracious appreciation to attorney Steven C. Burke, husband of the fabulous romance author Darcy Burke, for his input on the complex legal matters Mitch had to work around in Shatter.
A huge thank-you to readers for their enthusiasm for the series and their undying love . . . and lust . . . for Mitch. And a special shout-out to my critique partner, Elisabeth Naughton—who gave Mitch life at the very beginning of the series when I needed a brother for Alyssa in Fever—for getting me through this series with endless support.
Thanks to Russ Hanush, math, science, and physics expert extraordinaire, PhD, and longtime tutor to my daughters for taking questions like “How might my heroine control these crazy electromagnetic abilities?” and offering suggestions like “There’s this thing called a ferrite bead . . .”
A shout to my street team, Swan’s Sirens, for their support and enthusiasm. Thanks to my sisters, Jane, Clare, and Anne, who are always pushing my latest book into their friends’ hands.
Last but never least, my husband, Rick, and daughters, Cassidy and McKinley, for loving me in all my quirkiness. And an extra shout to Cassidy, who is both my invaluable assistant and supplier of meals under deadline.
I couldn’t have done this without you all. Each one of you owns a piece of this series and my success.
ONE
Heather Raiden sat on the floor of her darkened home on Lake Washington in Seattle and stared at the midnight blackness through her night-vision goggles. The man she’d been watching for two nights remained huddled in the compact speedboat he’d rented under the name Dane Zimerelli.
He’d dropped anchor in the perfect location to view Heather’s living room, kitchen, and bedroom, all on the lake side of the property.
“I hope he’s freezing his balls off out there.”
At her elbow, Dexter picked up on the bitterness in her voice and whined. Lowering the binoculars, she ran her hand along the shepherd’s silky-soft fur. His brows darted with his gaze, making him look truly worried. He was an incredibly sensitive animal, frighteningly intelligent. And her very best friend.
“Don’t look at me like that. I can’t just sit here and do nothing.”
She reconsidered her options. Cops would brush her off. A private investigator would take time. Ignoring Zimerelli had potentially lethal consequences. And she’d spent seven long years preventing those lethal consequences.
Heather hurried through the darkness to her bedroom with Dex’s nails clicking behind her on the hardwood. When she stepped through the door, he pushed past her, jumped on the bed, and lay in that alert pose, head up and watching every move.
“Everything I’ve done will be wasted if I don’t act now. All my sacrifices . . .”
She stopped and closed her eyes, absorbing the weight of loss that always came with the thought. So many sacrifices. But only one she regretted.
Only one that haunted her.
Already dressed in black, Heather slipped on dark, lightweight running shoes and tightened the laces. In the bathroom, she wrapped her long hair into a bun. Her mind and body immediately slipped back into the training she’d gained. Training she had, admittedly, hoped never to use. Training that was still just training because she’d never utilized it in real life. But she’d also known deep down she’d need it some day.
Resigned, focused, she headed for the door leading to the garage and pulled her slim black jacket from the peg. She slipped it on, crouched in front of Dex standing faithfully at her feet, and hugged him tight.
“Ya lyublyu tebya,” she whispered, her throat closing tight around each Russian word, a reminder of the past she’d fought so hard to leave behind. “I love you so much, sweet boy,” she repeated in English with more emphasis, because once just didn’t feel like enough.
With a kiss to his muzzle, she stood, met his eyes, and firmed her voice when she commanded him to protect the property. “Zashchita.”
In the garage, Heather located her black canvas duffel at the base of the stairs. Adrenaline fizzed through her blood. The duffel’s zipper ripped the silence and tension pulled at her skin. She clenched a penlight between her teeth, pulled the Heckler & Koch .45 semiauto from the bag, and checked the remaining contents—lock hacker, silencer, extra ammo, rags, bleach-laden wipes, latex gloves.
As she turned the key in the engine of her BMW, Heather experienced fear, resignation, the dark thrill of power. And anger over having to use such drastic and brutal measures to take back control over her life.
“Maybe there’s more of my family in me than I thought.” She backed from the garage with the sick realization sticking to her like tar.
Heather left her sleepy Laurelhurst neighborhood for the streets bordering the University of Washington, still dotted with cars and pedestrians. Fear drummed its fingers on the back of her neck. What-ifs teased her mind into tangles. Her neighbors would take care of Dex if anything happened to her. She’d set up charitable trusts to receive her assets.
Heather located the stalker’s rental and parked a block down and turned the car off. But as she waited, she realized that having her death in order didn’t help her face the possibility.
Another deep shiver wracked his body, and Mitch Foster clenched his teeth around a growl. “My dick’s turning into an icicle.”
He lowered the night-vision binoculars and reached for the thermos of coffee, but it was empty. He chucked the container at the floor of the boat, glaring at the darkened house. “Screw this.”
Halina Dubrovsky had turned out the lights over half an hour ago and he couldn’t see shit. Her boyfriend, some dude named Dex, hadn’t shown up for two days. Didn’t matter. Even if the guy did appear, Mitch had enough information on Halina’s daily activities now to confront her without running into him.
When Mitch cornered her, she wasn’t going to have anywhere to turn. Anywhere to run.
Not this time.
He started the motor and crawled toward shore, holding his speed down for silence and warmth. Huddled behind the windshield, he pulled his phone from his pocket and hit the speed dial for Kai Ryder.
“What’s new?” Kai answered.
“Genital hypothermia,” Mitch said. “My nuts are buddying up with my kidneys.”
“You have two? Balls, I mean. I thought you were down at least one.”
“Shut the fuck up. How are Lys and Brady?” he asked, hating himself for missing the birth of his first nephew.
“Great. You’d never know Alyssa had a baby last week, and Brady and I are totally bonding.”
“I hate you.” He was only half joking.
Kai laughed, the asshole. “Was it worth it?”
“No.” His teeth were starting to chatter. “No sign of the boyfriend. No friends. No activities. She rows in the morning, works all day, goes to the gym, runs with her dog.”
And she played with her dog. And cuddled with her dog. And freaking slept with her dog. She was so damned sweet to that animal it made his teeth grind. And that was just one of the behaviors he found incongruent with what he’d learned of her over the last few days.