ROCKY MOUNTAIN REVENGE (18 page)

“And you’re sure it was Greg Nordley?” Thompson asked.

“I think so. I only caught a glimpse, but he had white hair, and he looked like the man Jake pointed out to me in Telluride this morning.”

“I have my men searching the house,” Thompson said. “If he’s here, we’ll find him.” He took Anne’s arm again. “Now you need to come with me.”

Anne stared at her fallen brother and father. “I can’t just leave them,” she said.

Thompson started to argue, but Jake stepped in. “Can’t you see she’s in shock? Don’t ask her to make that kind of decision right now.”

“Stay out of this,” Patrick said. “We have to get all the women out of here. We don’t know who else might move in to take over, and we need to take down their testimony before someone else gets to them. This is our chance to dismantle the Giardino operations while the family’s in disarray.”

“You can give her a little more time,” Jake said.

“I tell you, we don’t have time.” Thompson turned her toward the door. “I promise she’ll be safe.”

Jake watched as the marshal led Anne away. Her head was bowed, and she moved blindly, letting Thompson guide her around the carnage in the room. Jake turned away, cursing under his breath. He shouldn’t have let them take her—not like this.

“Sir? I need you to come with me.”

He turned and faced another black-clad marshal. “We’ll need you give a statement about what happened.”

He looked over the man’s shoulder, at Anne’s retreating figure. “What will happen to her?” he asked.

“She’ll be taken care of. You don’t have to worry.”

But of course, he would worry. And he’d start over, looking for her again. And this time, he wouldn’t let her go.

* * *

A
NNE
SAT
IN
THE
SMALL
interrogation room, in an office whose location she couldn’t have named, and stared into a foam cup of long-cold coffee. Patrick had taken her statement, then left her here to wait for the typed transcript, while he made the final arrangements for her to travel out of state. Tomorrow she’d start over—a new life, with a new name, a new occupation and a new past.

Before, she’d been grateful for the chance to make a fresh start. She’d longed to distance herself from her family, and from the pain of losing Jake. Now, all she felt was numb. Her father, a man she’d spent a lifetime both loving and hating, was gone. Her brother, who had been both ally and enemy, was dead, too.

And Jake. He was the one man who’d stood by her, and she’d realized his value too late. He’d saved her life, but more than that, he’d saved her from thinking she was only good enough to be her father’s daughter, a pretty, spoiled socialite who turned her back on the suffering of others. Jake had shown her she had the courage to do the right thing—not once, but over and over again.

A knock on the door startled her out of her musings. “Come in,” she called, and sat up straighter, trying not to look as exhausted as she felt.

Patrick leaned into the room. “There’s someone out here who’s asking to see you,” he said.

“Who is it?” Patrick wouldn’t let a reporter in to see her. But maybe Stacy wanted to speak with her. Or even Veronica...

Patrick held the door open wider and Jake came into the room. He stopped halfway to her. “I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me,” he said. “Now that you’ve had time to think about everything.”

“Jake!” she cried, and ran to him.

He crushed her in his arms, and kissed the top of her head, over and over. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry about your brother and your father...and everything.”

“Don’t apologize for saving my life.” She drew back, just enough to look him in the eyes. “I’m glad I got to see you again. Thank you for coming.”

“I couldn’t let you go. I called Thompson and I made him tell me where you were.”

“You must have been pretty persuasive. He thinks I’m still in danger from others in my father’s business.”

He cradled her face in his hand. “I told him I loved you and I didn’t want to live without you.”

Her breath caught, and tears stung her eyes. “I love you, too,” she said. “And I don’t want to live without you, either.”

“Sounds like we’re stuck.” He kissed her, a sweet, gentle brushing of his lips against hers that said more to her heart than all a poet’s words of love.

“I told Thompson I’d come with you into WitSec,” he said.

“What about your career?” she asked. “Don’t you want to get back into law enforcement?”

“You said yourself, I was never a typical agent.” He smoothed his hands down her arms. “I’ll find something to do. Don’t worry about me.”

“There’s only one problem.” Patrick moved into the room and shut the door behind him.

“What’s that?” Anne asked.

“Jake’s not in my budget. I can’t enroll random people into Witness Security just because I feel like it.”

“That’s not a problem,” Anne said.

“It isn’t?” Jake sent her a questioning look.

“No.” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to start over with a new life. I like the life I have. As Anne.”

“Anne Gardener?” Jake asked.

She met his steady gaze. “Or Anne Westmoreland.”

His grin erased all the weariness and pain of the past hours. “I like the sound of that,” he said.

They kissed, and Anne marveled that so much sadness and happiness could be mixed up together.

Patrick cleared his throat, and reluctantly the lovers moved apart. “I can’t guarantee your safety if you don’t stay in the program,” he said.

“I don’t think I have anything to worry about now that my father and my brother are both gone,” she said. “My father’s business partners or his rivals will take over his operations, but there’s no one left in the family to take over. And certainly no one who cares about me.”

“We’ll be offering protective custody to your sister-in-law and to your father’s mistress,” Patrick said. “You won’t see them again.”

“I understand.” Jake would be her family now. The only family she needed.

“What about Senator Nordley?” Jake asked. “Was he at the house?”

Patrick shook his head. “No sign of him. He must have left before we arrived.”

“I was in the bathroom for a few minutes right after lunch,” Anne said. “My father might have sent him away then.”

“We may ask you to confirm that he was at the house, but right now the investigation is ongoing.” He put a hand on Anne’s shoulder. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”

“I can look after her,” Jake said.

Patrick studied them a long moment, then nodded. “All right. I’ll take care of the paperwork. You’re free to go.”

She hurried to collect her coat, and to leave the office before Patrick changed his mind. Outside, it was snowing, soft flakes drifting down to dust her hair and the shoulders of her coat. Jake gathered her close. “It’s going to be all right,” he said.

“I know it will be.” She kissed his cheek. In Jake’s arms, she felt safe and warm, and more at home than she had ever been anywhere else.

* * * * *

Be sure to pick up Cindi Myers’s
ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE,
coming out next month. Look for it wherever
Harlequin Intrigue books are sold!

Keep reading for an excerpt from TENNESSEE TAKEDOWN by Lena Diaz.

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Chapter One

Ashley edged farther under the desktop in the cubicle,
her fingers clutching the phone to her ear, her knees scraping against the
coarse commercial carpet.
Breathe...in, out, in, out.
Focus, listen. Where is he?

Her breaths wheezed between her teeth, making a sharp whistling
sound.

Calm down. He’ll hear you if you don’t
calm down.

“Why don’t I hear any sirens yet?” she whispered to the
nine-one-one operator.

“They’re on the way, ma’am. Is the shooter still in the
building?”

“I’m not sure. I think so.”

“Stay where you are. Stay on the line. The police will be there
soon.”

Her fingers tightened around the phone. That’s the same thing
the operator had told her
ten minutes ago
—after the
shooter killed Stanley Gibson.

They’d both been standing by the copier, chatting about nothing
in particular while the machine spit out reports for their next meeting. A soft
pfft
sound whooshed through the air. A bright
red circle bloomed on Stanley’s forehead. His eyes rolled up and he crumpled to
the floor.

Ashley had stood frozen, too horrified to acknowledge what her
subconscious already knew—someone had just shot one of her coworkers.

That’s when the screams began.

She’d whirled around. The shooter stood in the main aisle, his
silver hair forming spikes across his head like porcupine quills. His dark gaze
locked on her.

And then he smiled.

Ashley’s fight-or-flight instincts had kicked in. She ran.
Around the corner, past the glass-enclosed offices the managers used.
Empty. Thank God.
At least half the company was out to
lunch. But the rest were here, like her, trapped between the shooter and the
only exit.

She kept running, to the other side of the building, to another
maze of cubicles. She dove into the nearest one and grabbed the phone from the
top of the desk. That was when she’d called nine-one-one.

A terrified scream echoed through the room.

Ashley’s pulse sputtered. “He’s still here,” she whispered.

“Help is on the way.”

The operator’s calm, matter-of-fact tone had Ashley clenching
her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Didn’t the operator realize people were dying?
Had the woman even
called
the police?

Leaning as far out of the cubicle as she dared, she risked a
glance down the main aisle. The shooter’s progress through the offices of Gibson
and Gibson Financial Services was marked by screams and shouts coming from the
other side of the building.

The mournful wail of police sirens erupted outside the
windows.

Thank you, thank you, thank
you!

“I hear sirens,” she whispered. “They’re close.”

“Yes, ma’am. Are you still in the same location?”

“I haven’t moved.”

“I’ve notified the police where you are. They’ll be there
soon.”

Ashley was really starting to hate the word
soon.
And she also sorely regretted taking the
auditing contract in Destiny, Tennessee. If she were in her home office in
Nashville right now, she wouldn’t be cowering in a cubicle with a crazed shooter
on the loose.

One of the young temps stuck her head out of another cubicle
several aisles away. What was her name? Karen? Kristen? Ashley had only met her
once and couldn’t remember. The girl’s face was ghostly pale, her eyes wide with
terror as she silently begged Ashley for help.

Ashley’s stomach jumped as if she’d plunged down a steep drop
on a roller coaster. The girl couldn’t be more than nineteen. Ashley
had
to help her. But how? Which cubicle was safer?
Should she run to the girl, or have the girl run to her?

She sucked in a breath.
Oh, no.
Spiky gray hair showed above a row of cubicles down a side aisle.
The shooter.
And he was heading straight toward the
temp.

Ashley frantically motioned for the girl to hide.

The girl’s brow furrowed and she raised her hands in the air,
not understanding what Ashley was trying to tell her.

In a few more steps, the gunman would be able to see them
both.

“Go back,” Ashley mouthed, desperately pointing at the
approaching shooter.

He rounded the corner. Ashley ducked back behind the
partitioned wall.

A high-pitched scream echoed through the room, then abruptly
stopped.

She clamped her hand over her mouth.
No,
no, no.

A shoe scraped across the carpet. Ashley froze. A swishing
sound whispered through the air, as if someone had brushed up against one of the
fabric-covered cubicle walls. Close.

Too close.

“Ma’am, the police are evaluating the situation,” the operator
said through the phone in her monotone voice.

Ashley quickly covered the receiver. Her pulse slammed in her
ears as she waited, listened. Was the shooter the one who’d made that swishing
noise? Had he heard the operator? Her hand shook as she gingerly hung up the
phone. She couldn’t wait for the police anymore. If she didn’t do something,
right now, she’d be as dead as Stanley Gibson.

* * *

D
ILLON
G
RAY
CROUCHED
beneath
the window,
cradling his assault rifle. He and the rest of his six-man SWAT team waited for
the green light to begin the rescue operation in the one-story office building
of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services.

Beside him, his friend since childhood, Chris Downing, watched
the screen on his wristband, showing surveillance from the tiny scope he’d
raised up to the window. “Casualties at three and five o’clock,” he whispered
into the tiny mic attached to his helmet. “One more at eleven o’clock. No sign
of a shooter.”

Dillon’s earpiece crackled and his boss’s voice came on the
line. “Witnesses indicate there could be two shooters. Descriptions
inconsistent. Shooters are dressed in black body armor. Kill shot will be a
headshot. They’re using handguns. No long guns or explosives reported.”

“Do we have the go ahead to move in?” Dillon asked, inching
closer to the door.

“Negative. Still gathering intel. Hold your position.”

His team looked to him for direction, their faces taut with
frustration. They wanted to go in as badly as he did.

“Do we have a count yet on how many civilians are inside?”
Dillon asked his boss.

“Negative,” Thornton replied. “Workers are still pulling into
the parking lot after lunch. Impossible to know how many escaped and how many
remain.”

Meaning there could be dozens or more inside. Defenseless.
Hiding under desks, in conference rooms, in closets, waiting, praying someone
would help them. What chance did an unarmed office worker have against men with
guns, picking them off like targets at a gun range?

The stock of his rifle dug into Dillon’s clenched fist. The
Destiny, Tennessee, police department was small and more accustomed to
patrolling acres of farmland and gravel roads than suiting up in flak jackets
and storming buildings. His SWAT team consisted of beat cops, desk jockeys and
other detectives like him, but they’d all been hunting and shooting since they
could walk. And they trained regularly, and hard, for this type of situation.
What was the point of that training if they cowered and did nothing? How many
civilians had died in the few minutes his team had been crouching beneath the
windows? How many of those civilians were their own friends and neighbors?

“The team is ready and willing to go.
Strongly
requesting permission to enter, sir.”

“Negative,” Thornton replied. “Stand down, Detective Gray.
Await further instructions.”

Dillon cursed.

Chris tapped his shoulder. “Movement on the east corner,” he
whispered. “Appears to be a civilian. Belly crawling toward the exit.” His
tortured gaze shot to Dillon. “Heavy blood trail.”

Dillon closed his fist around the mic so his boss wouldn’t hear
him as he addressed his team.

“Chief Thornton ordered us to sit tight and wait. You’ve got
nothing to be ashamed of if you follow orders. Some of you have families to
support. I don’t. If he fires me, so be it. But I’m not waiting one more minute
while people die inside. I’m going in.”

Every one of his teammates raised their thumbs, letting him
know they were all in.

He glanced at the only woman on the team, Donna Waters.

“Don’t even say it,” she warned. “You’ve never been sexist
before. Don’t start now. I’m not waiting outside while the guys get all the
fun.”

Dillon ruefully shook his head and held his fingers in the air.
“We go in five, four—”

“Gray, what are you doing?” Thornton demanded. “I told you to
stand down. That’s an
order.
”

“—one.” Dillon waved his hand in a forward rolling motion.

Donna yanked the door open. Dillon ran inside, first as always,
crouching down, swinging his rifle left to right, covering his team as they
rushed in behind him.

“Clear,” Dillon whispered, thankful his boss had shut up,
leaving the airway free for communication among the team. When this was over,
Thornton would give him hell, or fire him. But for now, the chief knew to butt
out.

Dillon pointed to the injured civilian trying to crawl to the
door. The two closest men grabbed the injured man and carried him outside.
Dillon gave Donna a signal to wait for the two men to return before beginning
her search on the west side of the building, while he and the two men with him
headed to the east side.

The building formed a rectangle, with rows of six-foot-high
cubicle walls divided in the middle by a line of glassed-in offices, bathrooms
and conference rooms. Solid walls acted as firebreaks every twenty feet. The two
teams would have to search and clear each section in a grid pattern before
moving to the next.

When he reached the first body, Dillon sucked in a quick
breath. The man was only a casual acquaintance, but Dillon had shared math
classes with him in high school. The shooter, or shooters, had gone for a head
shot. The vic never had a chance.

They continued on, finding two more casualties. A scratching
sound whispered from the next aisle. Dillon crouched down and signaled his men
to approach in a flanking maneuver from each end of the aisle. When they were in
position, he held up five fingers, counting down.
Four.
Three.
He rushed into the cubicle in front of him, silently
continuing the countdown, as he knew his men would do. He climbed onto the
countertop that formed a desk in the cubicle. When the count reached zero, he
jumped to his feet and aimed his rifle over the top of the wall.

At the same time, his men rushed into the ends of the aisle to
prevent escape. The scratching stopped. A young woman lay half in and half out
of a cubicle, her face an ashen-gray color, with blood running down the side of
her head. Her fingernails dug into the carpet, probably the scratching sound
they’d heard.

Dillon stood guard over the top of the wall. Chris hoisted the
young woman in his arms while the other man covered him. Together they retreated
toward the exit, with Dillon watching over them until they were safely out the
door.

Two civilians rescued. How many more were still hiding? And
where the hell was the shooter?

A soft
pfft
sound had Dillon diving
to the floor and rolling into the aisle. The cubicle wall near where he’d been
standing seconds ago now boasted a small round hole. A bullet hole.

“This is Gray,” he whispered into his mic. “I’ve got gunfire on
the east side, fifty feet in. Shooter’s weapon is silenced.” He jumped to his
feet and hurried to the end of the aisle.

“Affirmative.” Donna’s voice came through his earpiece. “West
side clear so far. Do you need backup?”

“Negative.” He peeked around the wall. “Witnesses reported two
shooters. Continue search and rescue on the west side. I’ve got this.”

“You sure about that, country boy?” A gun muzzle pressed
against Dillon’s back.

Copyright © 2014 by Lena Diaz