Under Fire (12 page)

Grinning back, Sylvia twisted one pearl earring. “And how do you afford the dogs?”

“My animals are all rescues from shelters.” She frowned, her eyes darting from side to side as her mind appeared to race. “Except…”

“What?” Sylvia pressed, her hand falling to her lap.

“Not all of the dogs are owner surrenders or strays. Some have been seized due to neglect or abuse by so-called humans—scum of the earth, actually. Charges were pressed and sometimes evidence of further crimes was found in the homes.”

“Ahhh…” Sylvia nodded. “And those people could have a grudge.”

“Do you want me to make a list? Sadly, it could well be a long one.”

“Eventually, yes, but right now, keep talking. Follow where your mind was headed. You’d be surprised what comes up when we don’t overanalyze.” No question, the interrogator had a knack for putting people at ease, which made them spill more.

Rachel leaned forward, her fingers gliding down Disco’s spine as the dog stayed immovable by her side. “Some of the dogs are what you would call pit bulls.”

“What I would
call
?”

“
Pit
bull
is a catchall phrase for a number of different breeds—bull terriers, Staffordshire terriers, American bulldogs. People use the phrase
pit
bull
pejoratively. But bulldogs make great therapy dogs because they bond so strongly with people. There are owners out there who will abuse that bond and turn them into fighters.”

“These people wouldn’t be happy about your taking their livelihood. Dog fighting is often tied to gang activity. Could one of them be out for revenge or trying to get an animal back?”

“That’s certainly possible… but I’m not able to give you anything helpful there. I know the history of the dogs I take in, but I don’t know names of their original owners.”

Sylvia shifted her attention from her iPad to her briefcase, beside the chair. “Relay what you can of the adoptions and I’ll track the rest. I have… resources.” She passed over a notepad. “Now you can make that list of the names and details you do know.” She smiled dryly. “Unless you have an issue with my hassling any of them with uncomfortable questions?”

“Hassle away.” Rachel scooped up the pen and paper, not in the least ruffled. Damn, she was amazing. “I’m not going to object to any heat you want to bring to an animal abuser.”

“But you don’t think it’s one of them.”

“I wouldn’t presume to do your job.”

“My job is to gather impressions.”

Rachel pressed the notepad to her knees. “Then my impression would be that this doesn’t fit the kind of retaliation I would expect. They would retrieve their dogs and put them back to work, not poison them. And the anonymous calls—”

“What exactly was said during the threatening phone calls?”

“Things like ‘back off’ and ‘you don’t know who you’re taking on’…” Her voice trailed away. “All threats that could have been said by anyone. The timing just seemed too coincidental.”

“I’m not discounting your fears. But we’ll still need to speak to the airman—once we can locate him.”

“He’s actually a first lieutenant.”

“Right, of course,” Sylvia conceded with a professional smile. “I can promise you the interview will be handled compassionately.”

“Thank you.” Her face didn’t broadcast confidence.

“Meanwhile, you need protection because someone, somewhere, for whatever reason, truly is gunning for you.” Sylvia pushed to her feet and stepped closer to the one-way mirror, staring straight through. She tapped her ear where her tiny earbud radio was hidden in case someone needed to feed her information during the process. Nothing had been left to chance.

“If you’ll excuse me, Rachel, I need to step out and have a word with General Sullivan.”

***

“Cat, are you ready to go back home?” Brandon asked, leaning against his truck.

The acrid stench of smoke still blanketed the air, even though the fire department had long ago doused the blaze on Rachel’s block. He’d read an article once that said smells evoked the strongest memories. Damn straight. With each smoldering inhale, images of bomb sites mushroomed inside his skull.

The burned-out hulls of town houses stared back at him with vacant black eyes for windows. Hollow. Charred insides weakened and vulnerable from a sucker punch they couldn’t possibly have seen coming.

He understood the feeling. His stomach rolled, acid eating away at the fast-food double cheeseburger he’d bolted down earlier.

And then on his next breath, a hint of honeysuckle mingled good with the bad. Settled his stomach. Chased away a couple of those crappy memories.

“Brandon?” she said softly. “Whenever you’re ready, I’m ready.”

It was nearly midnight now, and the neighborhood was winding down from the mayhem of fire trucks and newscasters. But still, Cat’s serenity wouldn’t have faded if a parade flooded the whole city block.

He appreciated her peacefulness. They’d just hung out together for most of the ride. She hadn’t pushed him to talk, talk, talk as everybody else did. Yeah, he knew his silences could be long. Creepy even, according to the therapist who had gently pointed them out. But he was working his way back. He needed time. Cat seemed to get that.

Right now he needed time to get over his frustration at not finding Rachel here. Most people would have called the cops, but that hadn’t gone so well for him lately. He didn’t know what to do next. She wasn’t here. And she wasn’t answering her phone. He shouldn’t have told her everything. Well, not everything, but all that he had. He’d been selfish. All caught up in the talk therapy bull crap his therapist pushed for. He’d been a jumbled mess, huddled up at home with his dog. Then Rachel had shown up to check in on Harley…

The next thing he’d known, he was spilling his guts.

Better from now on to keep his mouth shut. He pivoted toward the truck and reached for her door just as—

Pop.
A gunshot split the air. The noise sliced through his brain and sent his body on autopilot.

He tackled Catriona, tucking to the side to catch the brunt of the fall with his body before rolling on top of her. His arms convulsed around her, his heart ramping up until he could feel it slam against her soft back. Concrete bit into his knees and his cheek as he stared under the row of vehicles and realized…

He wasn’t in Afghanistan anymore.

That noise hadn’t been gunfire. Just someone shutting a car door. God, he was a mess.

Rolling off her, Brandon lay on his back and stared up at the stars. Time passed and he wasn’t sure how much. But since he already looked like an idiot, why not go all out? Besides, he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him yet anyway. At least they were between cars and apparently not attracting any attention.

Eventually his heart stopped jackhammering in his ears so loud and he could hear the world around him. He could hear Catriona. Her even breaths, not the least bit disturbed. And then the scent of honeysuckle filled him, engulfed him, until he wanted to curl up and sleep for a decade.

He felt the cold muzzle of his dog against his hand. His palm curved over Harley’s head, stroking, bringing him the rest of the way back into the moment.

Jacking one knee up, he turned his head sideways to look at Catriona for the first time. She sat cross-legged on the concrete beside him, not showing any other signs that she’d been body-slammed by someone nearly double her weight just minutes before. Only her shirt was askew and showing her bra strap—

His eyes hitched on the pale pink strip of satin, and hell if he didn’t get an erection. Right then. Right there. At the most unexpected and worst time, he got his first case of wood since he’d returned from the Middle East.

Shit. Shit.
Shit.

He sat up sharply, dropping his arm in his lap to hide the evidence. “Are you okay? Did I break anything when I wigged out?”

“I’m fine,” she said simply.

“Aren’t you going to ask if I’m all right?”

“Obviously, you’re not.”

“And you’re okay with that? You aren’t worried I’m going to go postal on you?”

“Should I worry?”

He shook his head. “I’m okay now.”

“Good.” She shoved to her feet and straightened her shirt. “How about I drive us back and you sleep on my sofa? You may think you’re okay, but you look tapped out to me. Why risk driving?”

Pushing to his feet, he drew in deep honeysuckle-scented breaths and didn’t even bother arguing.

***

Who the hell was General Sullivan, and why was he here?

Rachel was officially freaked out to have warranted a general’s attention. Except then, he hadn’t bothered to come in and interview her. He’d been called away on some emergency. She’d merely heard his gravelly voice speaking with Special Agent Cramer just beyond the opening doors, issuing orders before he was called away.

And then she’d been shuttled off to what Liam had called “some place safe.”

For now.

She hadn’t felt this claustrophobic since she’d been trapped in a mine after she and Disco once located a lost hiker. They’d waited for three hours underground, trapped by a rotten beam that had given way. Those three hours had seemed shorter than the three minutes she’d spent inside this “safe” location.

After her interview with Special Agent Sylvia Cramer had concluded, two official-looking cars had escorted them to base housing packed with rows of tan stucco homes. On the outer edges of the community, they’d actually pulled into the driveway of one of those homes.

She’d been surprised, expecting they would be sent to one of the temporary lodging facilities, more like a hotel or condo. Or housed in some vault in Sylvia Cramer’s top-secret bat cave. But this was a no-kidding three-bedroom house.

Not that it appeared anyone actually lived here.

It carried more of a model-home look and smell, with lots of cherrywood furniture that still sported a highly polished new sheen. The matchy-matchy blue and green striped sofa and wingbacks completed the decor. No personal photos. Stock framed images of beach sunsets and airplanes hung on the walls. Disco sniffed the dried moss around a potted silk palm tree.

Apparently General Sullivan had made special arrangements for them to use temporary lodgings on base with security guards outside, offering her protection until Brandon Harris could be located and his story looked into more deeply. As far as she was concerned, here was as good as anywhere else.

And Liam was here. They were linked in this now, and while she was still as afraid on base as off, she did trust Liam.

Which was strange, considering she’d known him for all of three weeks, six months ago.

She turned slowly in the living room. “So these are distinguished visitors’ quarters.”

“All the basics you could need are here—food, sodas,” he announced, pulling open a drawer on a sideboard. Except rather than place mats, he revealed, “They’ve even got shoulder boards and rank paraphernalia for any general in any branch of the services. Pick a star.”

Sure enough, one-star up to four-star ranks lined the inside of the drawer. “This is so surreal. I feel like I actually am in some TV show, with our protective detail outside. Except in the movies, room service always turns out to be a bad guy, or the villains kill the guards.”

“No one’s getting through to you.” His hands fell to her shoulders. “I won’t let them.”

He stood so close she could smell the coffee on his breath, and wow, but she was suddenly jonesing for a taste. She should step away.
Should.
But didn’t.

Rachel soaked up the warm comfort, the strong sensuality of his hands. The heat of him seared through her simple cotton shirt. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me today. I sprung this on you without warning and hauled you into a nightmare… I’m sorry.”

“I’m glad you came to me.”

Her heart sped up. Was he going to kiss her again, and to hell with the consequences? She could see the memory of that earlier kiss scrolling through his eyes.

“Rachel?”

“Yeah.” Was that breathy voice hers?

“Can I get you something to eat or drink?”

She exhaled hard. “I’m good. Thanks. Agent Cramer gave me enough Cokes to keep me awake all night.”

Backing away, he resumed his scoping out of the place. “You held up well in there. I know that had to be tough, getting grilled.” He played with lamp shades and peered out windows. “But she was only covering all her bases.”

Looking in lamps? Did he think the place might be bugged? That seemed extreme, but then she couldn’t have predicted anything that had happened to her recently.

She trailed behind him. “It’s tough knowing who to trust. I can’t blame her for doing her job.” She leaned closer to whisper. “Doesn’t it bother you that someone took my car from base? Brandon insists there’s a mole in his chain of command, and yet we’re here, on base?”

He shrugged. “Well, since the FBI and CIA aren’t listening to anything either of you has to say, this is as good as it gets, unless we strike out on our own. Regardless, I intend to keep you in sight at all times.”