Exchange of Fire (6 page)

The SBG operative parked his Ninja along a parallel street to the gas station and shut the engine off. No sense in drawing any more attention than was necessary. He glanced at the phone’s screen mounted just below the ignition. The results for the Range Rover’s plates filled the display. The man driving the SUV was Casper Grady. Where had he heard that name before? And underneath were two addresses the guy was associated with: Gradwick Adventure Center and a residential listing.

In the train station, the operative had stood in line and couldn’t believe his luck when Grady described Wraith to a T, yet called her Sandra Walsh. Saved him so much time discovering the alias she was currently using. The fact that Grady was searching for her in the terminal told the operative that Wraith had indeed gone on the run again.

All right, Casper Grady, how do you know Wraith? Are you coworkers? Friends? Lovers?
That last question made him want to pound the jackass into the ground.

Before he could initiate a deeper search, the Range Rover left the gas station.
I guess I’ll find out soon enough.
The operative put his phone to sleep to stay as hidden as possible and followed on a parallel street.

Grady seemed to have decided on a destination, because they no longer randomly wove in and out of the streets. A dead end forced the operative to turn away from Grady, and he floored the bike down the perpendicular street.
Goddamn it.
The first left turn available was no good; a delivery truck sat partway back, blocking the whole alley. He slowed when he spied the next opening. Free and clear. He gassed the engine, but immediately backed it off. The back of a police station loomed into view with various marked and unmarked cars parked in the parking lot across the street.

Son of a bitch!
He’d better not have lost Grady. He cruised past the station and turned up a side street. When he reached the road Grady had been traveling on, he scanned left and right. Empty.

Every inventive curse word and phrase he could think of floated through his mind as he turned again to backtrack to where he’d last spotted the guy. A flash of black caught his attention, and he steered the bike down another side street.

Gotcha.

Grady was just turning into a parking lot for a quaint park. The operative gunned it up a parallel side street, looking for a place to park on the opposite side. He found a nice little niche near one of the ball fields and settled the bike out of sight.

He took his helmet off, hung it off a handlebar, and pulled out a pair of binoculars he had in a bag strapped onto the rear seat. He’d barely gotten the lenses to his eyes when he spotted movement in the park. Following the person’s progress he narrowed in and was finally able to get them into focus.

Holy shit.
He almost dropped the binocs. His heart thundered against his rib cage, and black spots appeared before his eyes. His trembling fingers yanked the phone from its holder, and after a few tries, he finally got the text message—
Round of Crown Royal on me
—to go through
.

Five seconds later his phone vibrated. “Wraith is still alive,” he answered, not allowing the caller a chance to speak. The operative barely listened to the caller sputtering and telling him to go sleep off his bender. Wraith’s exquisite beauty captivated him like it always did every time he saw her.

The operative continued before the caller could protest anymore. “I challenge you to get your ass to Ridge Creek, North Carolina, and prove me wrong. Text me when you get here.”

He hung up the phone and dug a tracking device out of the bag. Slipping into the shadows of a line of trees, he made his way toward the Range Rover. He’d learned a long time ago it was better to find out everything he could before he approached.

Intelligence and assassination. Two of his favorite aspects of being an SBG operative.

***

Sandra crouched behind a plastic Porta-Potty in the park across the street and studied the blue Victorian with maroon trim. The old, stately home had been broken up into eight apartments back in the eighties. Four apartments per floor and a loft in the attic now occupied the once-grand home of a bank owner who had no children to pass it on to when he died.

Two porch lights blazing from beneath ornate glass domes revealed an empty front porch swing. Unusual. Normally the newlyweds from the second floor hung out on the wooden swing at night, talking the hours away. She had asked one time why they were always perched there, and they had both laughed, saying they never bothered to buy a TV since they couldn’t afford cable and had other activities to occupy their time (of course, the new bride blushed and gave Sandra a wobbly smile). So cute were they.

The bushes edging both corners of the house were in full bloom. Usually Sandra admired their beauty, but not anymore. Now they potentially hid an assailant from her view. Damn. She craned her neck but couldn’t see a thing. Double damn.

No cars had passed for the last eight minutes, and all was quiet. A dog barked a few streets over, but that was nothing new. Bowser always barked until his owners finally gave up and let him inside. She studied the street. Nothing seemed out of place, and all the cars and trucks present belonged; quite a few were missing, but the owners were probably on vacation.

She slid her purse around to sit on her lap and rummaged through the contents. Man, she needed to clean this thing out. Where the hell had her . . . There it was. She pulled out a tactical Bowie knife and removed the etched handle from its leather sheath. Her fingers slid into the silver knuckles crafted as part of the handle and held the blade up. The stainless steel caught the faint light from the street lamp, showing the smooth blade on one side and the serrated edge on the other. Beautiful and wicked. Just like the man who had given it to her.

Her heart thumped at the memory of his emerald eyes twinkling as he presented her with a brightly wrapped package.
Happy Birthday, Wrai—

A twig snapped behind her. Sandra whirled and held out the knife. She leaned her back against the Porta-Potty for balance and squinted into the dark park. Outlines of pine trees edged the open expanse of land. Dotted throughout were soccer goals and chain-link backdrops. Metal bleachers sat empty beneath the full moon and told her squat about the new threat.

Knowing all too well how to still her body, she lowered the knife and waited the newcomer out. Three minutes later, a large form appeared closer than she had originally estimated—at the concession stand just twenty feet to her right, to be exact. Shit, she was going soft already.

The distinct outline of a handgun at his side caught her attention first as the newcomer slowly approached. Her heart sped up and she disentangled her fingers. With the custom knuckles, the knife wasn’t weighted the best for throwing, but she had practiced enough to make it count. Just a few steps closer and she’d have the perfect distance to take the bastard out.
Come on, come on, come on,
her mind chanted to the walking dead man.

She lifted the knife.
One more step . . .
She drew her arm back—shit! She barely stopped her hand from releasing when her brain finally registered the familiar shape. “Grady?” she hissed as he stepped closer.

“Sandra?” he asked in return, closing the distance and crouching beside her. “What the hell?” His eyes fell upon her Bowie knife. “Holy fuck.”

She couldn’t help puffing a little with pride. “Sweet, isn’t it?”

His gaze jumped to hers. “Sweet? I haven’t seen one of those since the military.” His eyes landed on the knife again. “Scratch that. I’ve never seen one like that before. Are those silver knuckles embedded into the handle?”

“Yeah. It’s a custom jobby.” She stood and tucked it back into the sheath, then hooked the leather onto the side of her pants.

He slowly rose, his face a mixture of confused determination. Her heart thumped. She had hoped he would never see this side of her and wished she had gone with left-brain’s choice and hopped on the first train out of town.

“What are you doing here?” she barked, probably a little too forcefully due to the guilt.

“I’ve been searching for you for hours.”

“Why? I told you I didn’t need or want your help.”

He rubbed his temple. “Oh, I got your message loud and clear.”

Her respect raised despite herself at his waspish comeback.

“Then why am I staring at your face?”

“I figured you would’ve learned by now: I don’t abandon someone who’s in trouble.” He thrust his jaw out. “So fill me in. What’s going on?”

“I can’t do that. I appreciate the chivalrous gesture, but you’ve got to go.” Her mouth said the words, but her traitorous heart hoped he’d stay.
Idiot.

He didn’t budge an inch.

“Damn it, Grady. This isn’t a game.”

“I noticed.” His eyes slid to her knife, then back. “Tell me about the key chain and why the hell you knocked me out. We’ll start with those. Take your pick which to answer first.”

She let out a disgusted sound. “If I do, will you go?”

“Maybe.”

“Not good enough.”

He stayed silent for too long, studying her. “It means that much to you?”

“Yes,” she responded, exasperated. “How many times do I have to say it?”

“Fine. I’ll go after I get some answers.”

She yanked the LED device out. The lights were still flashing. “This is my security alarm.” She pointed to each light. “Back door, closet floorboard, safe.”

His eyebrow arched. “What kind of system alerts you like that? I’ve never heard of ADT offering that kind of service.”

Sandra stuffed the key chain back in her pocket. “I’ve answered your question. Off you go.”

Grady snapped his mouth with an audible click.
His dentist would be wincing right now.
The muscle in his jaw ticked as he tapped the gun against his leg.

“Go,” she tried again, the knots in her stomach tightening.

“That was only one out of two answers.”

“Tough shit. That’s all the explanation I’m giving.”

He stepped out from behind the Porta-Potty . . . and started heading for her house.

“What are you doing?” she hissed.

He turned with raised eyebrows, an imitation of innocence. “Why, going, of course.”

“Grady,” she growled through gritted teeth. “This is not our deal.”

“No?” He scratched his chin with his free hand. “I told you I would go, and I am . . . into your apartment. It’s on the bottom right-hand side in the back, right?”

“If you take one more step, I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Incapacitate me? Been there, done that, keep the fucking T-shirt. Face it, toots, short of duking it out again, there’s nothing you can do or say to keep me from going inside.”

“Why are you doing this?” She was truly at a loss as to how to handle this.

“Because you’re in over your head with something, and I want to know what the hell is going on. Since you won’t talk to me, I’ll find my own answers. Starting in there.” He jabbed a thumb across the street.

“You don’t know what you’re walking into,” she blurted out, frustrated.

“Then tell me.”

She clamped her mouth shut.

“Fine. See you later.” He turned and resumed walking.

She filled the air with some colorful expletives, but he didn’t stop his relentless march into a danger he couldn’t comprehend.

“Fuck it,” she announced to his retreating back. “You want to get yourself killed, don’t say I didn’t warn you. Just remember this moment later when it’s too late to walk away.”

Grady stopped and craned his neck around. “What the hell kind of cryptic warning is that?”

She marched up and planted herself in front of him. “The only one I can give.”

He raised an eyebrow and tapped his gun against his leg.

“Urrrrgggh,” she muttered. “They teach you about stealth in the Marines? Any evasive moves? Because if you insist on going through with your asinine threat, you’ll have to follow my lead. Right now we’re easy pickings with no cover.”

He motioned with his left hand. “Then by all means, lead on.”

This was such a bad idea. From now on she was always going to listen to her left-brain.

Using as many shadows as possible, she led them across the street as fast as she could to a row of trash cans along the side of the house. They hunkered down and waited. No movement or sound stirred in her unit. A few of the other apartments had signs of life, but she didn’t feel anything from hers.

She placed a hand on his thigh and leaned over, putting her lips to his ear. He shivered beneath her fingers, making her mouth go dry for a second.
Wrong time, wrong place, wrong everything. Get it together.
Sufficiently chastised, she whispered, “When I say go, head for the side of the door and wait.”

His breathing deepened and he nodded his head.

She scanned the area one last time, then mouthed,
Go.

They crossed the distance and paused on each side of the door. She motioned for him to wait, but he motioned back that
she
should wait. For the next too many seconds they went back and forth silently, arguing over who would breach the unit first. The bastard actually won by ignoring her and yanking the screen door open into her face and diving inside.
Oh, he’s going to pay for that.
She followed right on his heels and thumped him on the shoulder. He looked back and had the audacity to wink.

She scanned the kitchen and her stomach clenched. It was trashed. All her cabinets and drawers were open, the items tossed on the floor. Her dishes were in pieces and glasses now shards.
Bastards.

She motioned that she would take left and he should take right. He nodded. She moved silently through the kitchen, pushing the items gently to the side and sliding her feet past. They traded off entering the living room, dining room, hallway, bedroom, and bathroom first, each covering the other as they leapfrogged.

***

The SBG operative crept out of his hiding spot near the Range Rover. Wraith and Grady had disappeared down the side of the Victorian house, and he couldn’t let them out of his sight.