Equipped with night-vision headgear, the small army of five waged war against the hooded man. To Raven's utter astonishment, the guy going solo was the aggressor. Before any of the guards moved, one had been incapacitated by a spin kick to the gut. A quick jab followed, directed at the man's head. But the blow had been pulled up short to avoid injury. The guard doubled over. Gasping for air, he'd been taken out of play. The count was four to one. The fox eluded the hounds for now.
In their dark uniforms, the four remaining men nearly blended into the blackness. And the hooded man with dark pants looked headless—a fierce torso suspended in the gloom. Radiating the crimson of night vision, his body reflected a strange aura.
Being one to root for the underdog, Raven found herself pulling for the guy who should've been at a disadvantage. Edging closer to the window, she felt Tony doing the same.
The hounds circled the fox, coming in for the kill. Raven tensed, holding her breath. One man raised an odd-looking rifle to his shoulder and fired a round at the prey, narrowly missing his chest. A streak of color dribbled down the wall where he'd been standing. Anticipating the shot, the fox had rolled to his right and ducked for cover behind sandbags. But just as quickly, he prowled again, going after the man who fired the shot. The very weapon used on the offense gave away the guard's position—a deadly game of Marco Polo. Raven reminded herself that the guy was blindfolded. How extraordinary!
"Is this paintball?" she asked, keeping her eyes fixed below. "In the dark?"
"Christian adapted a variation of the game, adding the hood and blindfold." Fiona's voice was monotone, barely a whisper. The war game captivated the woman.
A loud groan erupted over the speaker. The fox took out another hound.
"And where is Christian? Watching from somewhere while this poor schlub gets nailed?" Tony scoffed.
"That poor schlub is Christian, Detective Rodriguez. Didn't I make that clear?" Raven heard the smile in the woman's voice. "He'd never expect this from his men. All he wants is for them to do their damnedest to take him out of the game."
Silence. Her partner caught her eye with a puzzled look.
"Anyone ever do that?" Tony's voice filled with admiration. He scooted forward to check out the action below.
"No. Not to my knowledge."
Mrs. Dunhill was proud of her head of security—a man who'd just used one of his guards as a shield for a paintball blast. With his forearm around the guard's throat, and a hand grappling the man's head, he could have easily broken his neck. But this was a training game and not about killing. The guard held up his hands in surrender. Delacorte had taken out three of the five hounds.
Raven narrowed her eyes into the blackness. This was their new partner? So much for treating him like a rookie on a murder investigation. This man wouldn't be fetching coffee or allowing them to fill his days with busywork. Yet the prospect of working with him intrigued her.
A marvel to watch in the dark, he felt his way without benefit of eyesight. The man reacted like a bat using sonar to navigate. His controlled and powerful movements were efficient, a predator on the prowl. Narrowly escaping one paintball round after another, Delacorte reacted on pure instinct.
"I got a feeling about our new partner," she whispered to Tony. "I think we just invited the fox to our henhouse. And his name is Colonel Sanders."
"I hear ya." Tony nodded. "Old-fashioned or extra crispy? Either way, we're fried."
Mrs. Dunhill's voice broke the eerie calm of the room. "I hate to interrupt his sport, but I'm sure you have work to do, a murder to solve."
The floor below grew quiet. On the hunt again, the fox searched for his next victim. Fiona Dunhill stepped forward, speaking into the intercom. Her voice echoed into the cavern. "Christian? We have guests. And I need to speak to you, please."
Slowly, the men stood and removed their headgear, but only after Christian capitulated by raising his hands. Lights gradually brightened and the guards dispersed. The war games were over.
After a furtive glance, she turned off the intercom to give Christian and her some privacy. "If you'll excuse me. I'll only be a moment." The older woman left the room and descended the stairs, looking unsettled for the first time today.
"Something we said?" Tony chided.
Yet Raven felt uneasy, strangely disappointed the match was at an end. Drawing closer to the viewing window, she nibbled at the inside of her lip, waiting. When Mrs. Dunhill approached the man left standing, he tugged at his black hood. Raven found herself eager to put a face to the name of Christian Delacorte.
Barely winded, Christian pulled off the black hood, then yanked the underlying blindfold to hang around his neck. His dark hair tousled, he ran fingers through the waves to straighten it. With a questioning look, he asked, "What's up, Fiona? What's so important?" Concern softened his usually solemn expression.
"Sorry to have interrupted you, Christian. But something has happened. I need your help." She watched his reaction.
"Anything. Just ask." Tossing the hood aside, he reached for a black T-shirt lying across a sandbag barricade. Ready to pull it over his head, he stopped when she reached for his arm.
"Don't be so quick to volunteer." She felt the warmth of his skin, slick with sweat. "I'll understand if you can't do as I ask. But I don't trust anyone else."
"That sounds ominous," he replied. His rich voice echoed in the war room. "Guess you better fill me in. Come on. I'll follow you upstairs."
"No. We can't go up just yet. I need to talk to you here, now."
Without pushing, he waited for her to speak. Christian's penetrating stare caught her by surprise. His gaze acted like a truth detector. Even in childhood, his eyes best captured his guarded nature. It hadn't always been so, but tragedy changed a person. She knew that from experience.
"Two homicide detectives are in the observation room. Mickey Blair got himself killed last night." Saying it aloud made her stomach twist. "His particular skills earned him business apart from his security work at Dunhill. And I'm afraid this work may have contributed to his death."
Christian narrowed his eyes, the sternness back in his expression. "What are you leaving out?"
At first, Fiona didn't know what to make of Mickey Blair's death. The man had seen the dark side of her nature and had kept her secret, true enough. But with him dead, there was no one left to tell. She might have felt a weight lifted off her shoulders, except for one thing. Someone else had pointed an accusing finger by stepping in the middle and killing Blair in the process. And that scared the hell out of her.
Christian waited for her answer. Revealing everything to him might cost her his devotion, so she tempered her candor with a gnarled fraction of the truth.
"In a past life, I did some things I'm not proud of. And Mickey was part of that life." Her throat clenched. A tear slid down her cheek. She turned her head, avoiding his stare.
"Did you have anything to do with—" He stopped. As he stepped closer, she heard his whisper. "Just tell me what to do. I'll protect you." His hand gently squeezed her shoulder.
His willingness to safeguard her interests, without fully understanding the truth, touched her deeply. It reassured her she'd chosen the right man to trust with her life. Turning, she looked him in the eye, speaking in a hushed tone.
"No. I didn't have him killed. At least, not in the way you might imagine."
"You're being so damned cryptic. How can I help if I don't understand."
"I need you to work with the police on their investigation. They've already agreed to—" She never got the chance to finish before he shot back.
"What? Why the hell would I—" Anger brought color to his cheeks. He pulled away from her, throwing his shirt to the floor. "You know how I feel about the damned police."