Prescott, standing down. That was something Deaver had never seen.
Deaver watched Prescott and Caroline Lake disappear around the corner and clenched his fists. The urge to get up right now, run after that fucker Prescott and shoot him dead was almost overwhelming. Deaver would make sure to kill the woman first, just to make Prescott suffer, then a double tap to the head, and Prescott would be down forever.
Deaver could see it, feel it, nearly smell it, and the temptation was so strong he broke out in a sweat.
But much as he’d love to nail Prescott and his woman right now, he needed his diamonds back first.
Then he could have his fun.
Fourteen
Jack nearly missed it.
He was so intent on getting Caroline safely home, relaxed and curled up before the fire, that he’d tunnel-visioned, just like in battle. All he’d seen was Caroline, all he could think about was Caroline, taking up every ounce of space in his head.
He was still battle-primed, adrenaline still coursing through his system, without a proper outlet. The proper outlet would have been to smash that fucker Sanders’s face in, then haul him into the closest police station for assault and battery.
If he lived to be a million years old, he’d never forget glancing through the big glass panes of Caroline’s bookshop and seeing her struggling against a man.
He’d broken his own land-speed record getting in there and getting that man’s hands off Caroline.
She’d been in shock, though she’d come out of it with humor and grace. Still, all he wanted was to get her bundled up and into the house as fast as possible.
Jack had excellent situational awareness. Even with one goal in mind, he paid attention to what was around him. Only Caroline could mess with his head so much that he actually had the key in the lock and was turning it before seeing the faint scratches on the lock. Scratches that hadn’t been there that morning.
In an instant his Glock was in his hand, and he was rushing Caroline back to his rented SUV. He bundled her into the driver’s seat, made sure she had the keys and slammed the door shut.
“Jack!” Her voice was muffled through the closed door. Her eyes dropped to his weapon, then back to him. She looked shocked. “What’s going on?”
There wasn’t time to explain or reassure. Whoever had broken into the house could still be there, and Jack had to get in there, fast.
“Stay there and don’t move!” he mouthed, tapping on the window. Caroline nodded, face white, silver-gray eyes huge in her face.
Good girl.
Jack loped back to the front door and entered silently with the key, weapon out, in a stance guaranteed to cover a 180-degree field of fire in two seconds.
Entry, clear. Living room, clear. Kitchen, clear.
Moving fast, moving silently, he went methodically through every room in the house, basement to attic.
Out of habit, he’d left telltales in the bedroom and there were clear signs that someone had rifled through his things, Caroline’s closet and the dresser. Someone—or several someones—had gone through their personal possessions. It was harder to tell in the rest of the house, where he hadn’t left telltales.
As far as Jack could tell, nothing had been stolen. The TV and stereo were there, no artwork was gone from the walls, certainly nothing of his had been stolen, though there wasn’t much beyond dirty socks and underwear. Everything of value he had was in his new bank account and the bank vault.
Of course, Caroline’s TV and stereo set were at least ten years old and worth zero on the resale market. Though he didn’t know anything about art, he suspected that what was left on the walls wasn’t worth stealing. More or less everything of value in the house had already been sold, and not even the best thief in the world could steal walls and a roof.
When Jack was absolutely certain the house was empty, he pushed his gun into the waistband of his jeans and went out to get Caroline.
He hustled her up the steps.
“What was it, Jack? Is there someone in the house? Has the house been robbed?”
Damn, but he hated that white, pinched, anxious look on her face. If he had the fucker or fuckers who’d broken into Caroline’s home, he’d break their hands, finger by finger, to ensure that they never picked another lock again for the rest of their natural lives.
Not that Caroline’s locks were hard to pick. They weren’t, a two-year-old could get through them. They were worth shit. He could pick them blindfolded, with his hands in casts.
He closed the front door behind them, turned up the heat and folded her in his arms.
Too much stuff happening, all of it bad. He needed the feel of her in his arms like he needed his next breath.
“Jack?” Her voice was muffled in his jacket, shiny locks of red-gold hair escaping her wool cap to curl along his jacket. Jack bent to kiss her lightly, hand along the softness of her neck. His thumb grazed the pulse in her neck, beating a light, fast tattoo.
Feeling her safe in his arms, heart beating, calmed him a little.
“Jack.” Caroline’s voice was stronger and she pushed at him a little. Jack opened his arms, and she stepped back to look him in the face. “Tell me what’s going on.” She looked around carefully, then brought her gaze back to him. “I don’t see any damage.”
“No, no damage. Whatever it is they were looking for, it wasn’t here. What they usually look for is plasma TVs, high-end electronics. Expensive artwork. Meltable silver.”
“All gone,” she said. “A long time ago.” Her eyebrows drew together as she looked up at him. “Jack…when you got to the door you pulled out a gun. You had a gun. Where on earth did you get that?”
Uh-oh. Jack had to be careful here.
Caroline had just entered his world.
He wanted her to become security-conscious without being afraid of him. Jack was perfectly aware of the fact that most people considered men like him to be paranoid. If you’ve lived your life in safety and comfort, and you haven’t traveled to the places he’d been, where humanity was at its rawest, most cruel, and where greed and lust were unbridled, then you looked at the precautions Jack took as a matter of course to be the result of a sick mind.
“I’m always armed,” he said gently. The heavy weight of his Glock in the small of his back felt good and right. “Or I know how to get my hands on a weapon pretty damn quick.”
“You mean, all this time we’ve been”—she waved a pink-tipped finger between them—“you’ve been armed?”
“Yes.” He let the word drop like a stone between them. This was part of him, an integral part. She had to learn to deal with it. Jack was willing to compromise, but not on this.
Caroline blinked and gave a half laugh. “I don’t believe this.”
“Believe it. I’m fully licensed to carry a concealed weapon, and I know how to use it, don’t worry about that.”
She was staring at him. “To tell you the truth, that hadn’t even occurred to me. I’m still trying to come to grips with the fact that someone I’m”—she swallowed—“someone I’m seeing runs around with a gun on his person. I don’t think I’ve ever even met someone who owns a gun, besides the sheriff. Not that I know of, anyway.”
“It’s a bad world out there, Caroline,” he said gently. “You have to be prepared.”
Fuck, but that was true. He’d seen it, he’d lived it. In the shelters he’d grown up in, a beauty like Caroline would have been raped the instant she’d reached puberty, probably even before. In Afghanistan, she’d have been dressed in a head-to-toe burqa and beaten if a man could hear her footsteps. There, too, she would have been raped, with the added pleasure of being sentenced to death for fornication.