The cop finished his patrol, securing the perimeter of the small bungalow. He understood their routine, counted on it. They had no idea what to expect. He'd parked several blocks away and stuck to the shadows that deepened after two in the morning. He had a clear plan in his head with only one objective—to find Raven Mackenzie.
Taking a risk, he left the cover of an evergreen shrub and prowled around the corner of the house, brazenly following the cop on patrol at a safe distance. Carefully tracking the beam of light, he waited until the uniform swept the far corner, then counted to five. Patience would be key. Now crouching by a brick wall at the back of the house, he held his breath. His eyes peered through the gloom. He forced his body to remain still, fused to the darkness. The wind bounced sounds through the night, playing tricks on his ears.
But adrenaline galvanized him, tensing his body. He listened for any sound out of the ordinary, relying on his training. Even dressed in black, he knew part of him would be exposed to a stippling of pale light from a streetlamp filtered through tree limbs. He had to make it quick. He lowered his body to the ground, flat on his belly, crawling toward the narrow basement window. Along the frame, no wiring connected to an alarm. One less thing to contend with. Propped on a shoulder, he clutched the handle of the suction clamp he'd brought with him. A gloved hand secured it to the glass.
A faint hiss. Now the glass cutter scratched along the smooth surface, a high-pitched, grating sound.
Seconds. He had only seconds to make the cut and slip inside if he wanted to remain undetected. Getting this close to the house spurred him on. The police protection had been no match for his skill.
With a tug, the glass broke free, still connected to the metal clamp. He tossed the tools behind a bush. Sliding his hand inside, he released the window latch. In one fluid motion, he rolled through the opening and lowered his boots quietly to the floor. The basement smelled musty and dank, the chill of the night leaching through the cinder-block walls.
His eyes adjusted to the dark, then located the stairs.
He was close now. Soon, he would have her in his sights. The thought churned his blood, fueling his excitement. With each step deliberate, he moved through the clutter of boxes and unused furniture, the obstacles only dimly lit from the narrow windows at his back. Arms outstretched, he felt his way up the wooden staircase, careful not to give his position away.
If he was discovered now, he might lose his life to a bullet. But failure was not an option.
At the top step, he turned the doorknob, then gingerly pushed it open. Slipping through the door, he placed his back to the wall, reconnoitering and assessing his plan. Down the hallway, a lamp burned. He listened intently, then crept forward. Using a mirror on the wall across from him, he peered into the small living room, careful to keep his face in the shadows. In the reflection, he found her.
Raven Mackenzie lay on the sofa, a file folder spread across her chest. A Glock lay in its holster on a nearby table. Her head was turned away from him. Strands of hair had fallen away, exposing the pale skin of her neck. He waited to make sure she was sleeping. With mesmerizing steadiness, her breasts heaved, gently moving the papers in the manila folder. The intimacy of the act electrified him.
Even though the front drapes were drawn, he didn't want to take the risk of moving in clear view with the lights on. From the front of the house, his large silhouette backlit by a living room lamp would be like sending up a flare. Before he went any further, he slid his gloved hand along the wall and doused the lights. From the street, it would look as if she'd gone to bed. The cops outside would have no reason to suspect anything out of the ordinary.
The room plunged into darkness. It took his eyes a moment to adjust. Her silhouette was tinged in a faint glow from the window. Measured breaths told him she still slept. One careless mistake now would draw the posse in blue. But an even greater concern was the gun on the living room table. She could shoot him without a court in the world condemning her for the action. Careful not to wake her, he crept closer.
All of his effort would come down to the next few seconds. And he wasn't about to back down now. Not in his nature.
Slowly, his hand reached for the gun, but his instincts stopped him. His eyes darted through the room, unsure what had triggered his reaction. Then he realized—her breathing had changed.
Too late. He'd lost his edge. A shrill alarm jarred his brain.
Grab the gun!
CHAPTER 12
Her eyes opened. At least, she thought they were. Darkness deceived her, toyed with her perception. Black-and-white images of Charles Dunhill, with part of his skull missing, reminded her she had fallen asleep reading the old case file—a hazard of the trade. Now, her warm breath touched her cheeks, deflecting off the back of the sofa. Her face burrowed against a pillow.
Exhausted as she was, she couldn't force her body to move. Her limbs felt like lead. She lay there in the dark, content to waver in and out of sleep. But something jolted her out of a stupor. The room was dark. Who had turned out the lights?
Shutting down her body's natural recoil, she listened intently, hoping she'd only overreacted.
A faint sound ... A presence weighed heavy in the room, just behind her—
Tensing her jaw, she resisted the urge to turn around. She assessed the situation, relying on her memory for the layout of the room. The chances of getting to her gun in time weren't good. One chance! She'd have one chance to get this right. And only one option remained. Without hesitation, she made her move.
Raven was determined to kick some ass.
Lunging off the sofa, she used its leverage to shove her body into the shadow of a man. Her shoulder lowered like a linebacker's. She hit her target with all her strength. The intruder let out a painful groan and fell back against the wall, hitting hard. A gasp of air resounded as he sank to the floor. She'd knocked the wind from his lungs. But she prepared to do some real damage. Set on knocking him into next week, she escalated her assault.
Propped against the wall, the man lay panting, trying to recover. With her legs straddling his, she pummeled his face with her fists—first the right, then the left. She'd have only a short time to get her licks in before he'd launch his counterattack. Every strike felt like hitting a brick wall. Her knuckles were raw and ached with pain, compounded by a burning tingle in her shoulder. Adrenaline kept her arms pumping, inflicting as much damage as she could. Her face burned in outrage.
Taking a moment to glance over her shoulder, she glimpsed the dark shape of her holster. The butt of her weapon was near the edge of the table. With no time to waste, she crawled toward it, slowed by the damage to her shoulder and hands.
But she'd made a fatal miscalculation.
The man had shaken off her beating and lunged, rolling her to one side, away from the gun. With all his weight, he pinned her to the floor, bracing his hands to her wrists. The lower half of his body fortified his dominance over her. Darkness closed in. She bucked and rocked to free herself. Bright flashes streaked across her eyes with the exertion. Think, she had to think. His face was too far away for a head butt. Her only recourse now was to scream.
"Arrggghh." A guttural sound escaped from deep inside her lungs, fueling her rage.