Cross Fire, page 30
Kristen surrendered to a smile. “There are three doors in and out of the house: one through the garage—which will be sealed—one at the front of the house, and one at the rear. I’ll walk you around.”
She walked with purpose, every step brisk and efficient, and I found myself scampering on occasion to keep up with her. We toured through the various rooms of the house, and I tried to keep it all straight in my mind. I hadn’t tried to memorize an entire house since I was seventeen.
I had committed every inch of my last foster family’s home to memory, planning my hiding places and escape routes. In the end, none of it had mattered. My foster mother had let Collin waltz right through the front door under the guise of my math tutor.
I had come back from school to find him sitting in the living room with her, calmly discussing my school grades with a genial smile on his face.
The memory made me shudder.
“Everything all right?” Kristen asked, regarding me with interest.
“Fine.” I forced my memories to the recesses of my mind and reminded myself that this situation was vastly different. These people wouldn’t let the enemy waltz through the front door, and if by chance he did make it inside, God would see me through it.
Right, God? No matter what happens, You’ll get me through this . . . at least mostly intact.
“Tell me something about yourself, Holly,” Kristen said, drawing me from my silent prayer.
That was a rather broad request. “Um . . . I wear a size 6 shoe.” There. That would teach her to be less abstract in her questions.
She laughed as we descended the steps. “Well, as fascinating as that is, I was aiming for something a little deeper than your shoe size.”
“You should be more specific because the next deeply personal fact I was gonna share is that I despise the color yellow.”
She grunted in what might have been amusement. “Now you’re just oversharing. Dial it back a little.”
I smiled.
“Marx gave me the highlights, but I’m interested to know a little more about you. Like what makes you you?”
“Does anybody ever actually know how to answer that question?”
“No, I guess not. How about this, what are you passionate about?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Jesus, my camera, my friends . . .” Marshmallows. But I kept that last thought to myself.
“You’re a photographer?”
“On occasion. I don’t have the talent to create, but I can at least preserve what’s already been created by taking a picture of it.”
“That’s an interesting way to think about it.”
“What about you?” I wondered. “You must be passionate about the law to wanna do this job.”
“I’m passionate about the people I’m protecting, not about the laws I’m upholding while doing it.”
“What made you wanna be a marshal?” I asked, following her into the kitchen.
“A culmination of things,” she said. She opened one of the cupboards and pulled out a chocolate bar, tossing it over the island counter to me. “Dark chocolate to replenish the soul.”
I almost caught it but wound up picking it up off the floor from between my feet. “Such as?”
She ripped open her own chocolate bar and bit off the corner before saying, “I think it’s an extremely important and dangerous job, but it needs to be done and I’m capable of doing it. It feels like I’m making a difference.”
“When did you realize you wanted to do this job?”
Some deep emotion shadowed her eyes, and she looked down at the floor. “When I was eight. I was taken into witness protection until I could testify against the person I saw murder someone. The agents saved my life, and I knew that someday I wanted to do the same for some other little girl.”
Cautiously, I asked, “What about your family? Did they go with you?”
Her intense gray eyes stared at me, and I saw them harden as she resolved not to discuss it. “I’m gonna see what’s taking Mike so long. You wait here.”
She stalked out of the kitchen, and I felt a pang of regret for causing her pain. Talking about my family was difficult too, but they had been brutally murdered. I wondered what it was about her family that still haunted her.
I turned to gaze absently through the French glass doors into the trees. Movement caught my eye, and I twisted around to see the source of the reflection.
Jefferson walked through the kitchen, his soft steps at odds with his muscular frame. His red hair and the dusting of vibrant freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose added an element of boyishness to his features, but I still tensed instinctively in response to his presence.
He smiled warmly as he stopped by the table and dropped a duffle bag onto it. “Here are your belongings from Detective Marx's apartment. He also gave me this to pass along. He called it your survival kit.” He set a second duffle on the table. “I checked it over. No electronic devices or trackers. It’s clean, so you can open it privately.”
Privately, I silently scoffed. He had already gone through everything. There was no such thing as privacy.
I exhaled and let the undeserved bitterness float away on the air before saying, “Thank you for bringing my things.”
He smiled and inclined his head before leaving the room. I plopped into one of the chairs and unzipped the “survival kit.” It was stuffed full of miscellaneous items: the picture of my family, my journal, three packs of Swiss rolls, my bag of M&M’s with all of the yellow and brown removed, my Bible, and a Ziploc bag of Lucky Mallows marshmallows.
There was a sticky note on the bag with a message:
I thought you might like these back. Maybe you’ll think twice the next time you feel the urge to tip the pictures on my wall.
I laughed softly to myself. I pulled out the remaining objects in the bag: a brand-new sketchbook with charcoal and pastels.
Tears welled in my eyes. Marx knew how much I would struggle with this situation, and he was trying to make it easier for me.
I opened the sketchbook to find a note written on the first page in Marx’s messy script:
I was saving these for a special occasion, but since I won’t get to see you for a while, I wanted you to have them. You’re going to have a lot of time on your hands to work on your sketches. Maybe you can improve your butterflies so they don’t look like they’ve been through a blender.
I laughed through the veil of tears as I remembered the first time he had seen and insulted one of my sketches.
I know that the next few weeks and possibly months may be hard and a little scary, but you will get through it. I’m not sure how I’ll adjust to my kitchen no longer smelling like smoke without you here to burn things, but I guess I’ll manage. Try not to send the safe house up in a blaze of flames. I warned them about your cooking.
“Jerk.” I laughed. He was the one who overcooked the brownies.
Don’t take any chances, and as much as it may go against your nature, listen to the marshals. Their only job is to keep you safe, so try not to fight them on every decision. I want you back in one piece.
~Marx~
24
Kristen brushed aside the drapes in the living room to peer out into the darkness. “Are you always this edgy?” she asked.
She let the curtain drift shut and fixed her curious gray eyes on me as I paced the length of the room. She glanced down at her watch and added, “In about ten minutes you’ll have been pacing for two straight hours.”
She was timing me? I frowned at her and popped a blue M&M into my mouth from the bag of candy Marx had provided.
She folded her arms. “Look, Holly, I know you’re nervous, but everything’s gonna be fine.”
“I’m not nervous for me.” I paused and then, because I tried not to lie, amended, “Okay, maybe a little, but what about Marx? He’s not gonna stop, and if these people can’t get to me, what are they gonna do next? They’ve already shot at him twice.”
Kristen sat down on the arm of the couch. “He means a lot to you.”
I tossed a candy up and down in my palm as I regarded her. “Maybe.”
“You know, I read a little about him in an FBI case file. He and an unnamed civilian woman cracked open the serial killer case—the man suspected of killing fifty-one people across several states. The FBI is still trying to put all the pieces together.”
“There was a Kansas sheriff involved too,” I said, correcting her misunderstanding of events. “He actually put the pieces together long before Marx got involved.”
Her lips spread into a knowing grin. “I had a feeling you were that civilian woman.” When I shot her a wary look, she held up her hands in mock surrender. “Your secret’s safe with me. But I am curious. Why all the secrecy? You could be famous for your part in such a large unveiling. Fan mail, supporters, interviews, talk shows. Maybe a book with your name in the title.”
That sounded like a nightmare. “I never wanted any of that.”
Her eyes followed my dizzying turns as I reached one wall and turned on my heel to propel myself back in the other direction. “From you, I actually believe that.”
“How many deaths have they linked to the killer?” I wondered.
“They reviewed the evidence and materials provided to them, but so far they’ve only officially connected six of the seventeen families to Edward Billings, yours included. They have a lot more work to do. I’m surprised your detective didn’t insist on being a part of the investigations.”
“He’s not much for media attention either.”
“Or he wanted to focus on more important things,” she countered, giving me an interested look. “The moment I stepped into the precinct, I got the sense that Marx is unusually protective of you considering there’s no relation between you, and he didn’t hand you over into my care lightly.”
“I guess you better do a good job then,” I half teased.
“Oh, I intend to. Failure is not in my vocabulary. Unless we’re talking about college statistics courses. Those were my arch nemesis.”
I smiled a little. Somehow knowing that this woman, who seemed confident and perfect in every way, had failed at something made her feel more approachable. I failed at just about everything; I was pretty sure it was just a part of my genetic code.
“As far as Marx is concerned, I wouldn’t worry,” she suggested. “He strikes me as a very capable cop. He’s not some novice running around cluelessly on the street with a gun.”
“Did you miss the part where I mentioned that they shot at him twice? And hit him both times.”
“Well, it’s a good thing men don’t mind scars like we do,” she replied with a shrug. “We all excel at something, and for him, being a cop is it. He might walk away from this mess with a few more scars, but records show he will walk away.”
I had to trust that he would or I was going to drive myself crazy. “What do you excel at?”
“Well, if you ask my foster brother, my greatest skill is my poker face because I always beat him at cards.”
Her foster brother. So something had happened to her family. I decided not to ask for fear it would make her uncomfortable again.
“But I’m also an excellent marksman,” she continued. “I can shoot the wings off a fly from down the street with the right weapon. At everything else, I would say I’m fair to moderate.”
“A fly, huh?”
A smile flickered across her lips and then vanished as she pressed her finger to the ear piece that must have been a radio. “Repeat that?” She paused to listen, and concern creased her face as she stood.
“What’s the matter?” I worried.
“We have a trespasser.” She strode out of the living room toward the foyer but stopped with a hand on the front door when I tried to follow her. “I need you to stay inside until I verify whether or not the trespasser is a threat,” she said.
“But I wanna come with you.”
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
“I’m not known for my wise decisions.”
She quirked a small smile at that. “So I’ve heard. Marx did brief me on the challenges you would present.”
I folded my arms and met her eyes with stubborn determination. “I’m going with you.”
“For example,” she said with a trace of frustration and amusement in her voice. “Just please stay behind me.” She opened the door and stepped on to the front porch.
I peered around her to see the shadowy figure lying face down in the grass between Jefferson and Mike with his hands behind his back.
Jefferson tossed something to Kristen and metal glinted in the security lights. “He’s got a badge.”
Kristen caught the badge and turned it over in her hands thoughtfully. “And he thinks it’s a free pass to do whatever he wants. Nice, but being a member of law enforcement doesn’t give him a right to muck up my operation.”
I tried to descend the steps to see if the prone figure was someone I knew, but Kristen blocked me with an arm.
“Easy there,” she said. “Let me check him out first. You stay on the steps.” She strode across the lawn toward the three men and crouched down in front of the prone figure. “How does that grass taste, sheriff?”
Sheriff? I descended one of the steps and strained to see the man on the ground without venturing into the grass. Mike and Jefferson both shook their heads at me, which made me want to step into the grass even more.
“You are a sheriff, right? Or did you buy this badge in the toy department?” Kristen asked. “We’ll call it in just to be sure, not that it will make much difference.”
The man grumbled something that I couldn’t hear.
Kristen stood and stepped back. “Get him on his feet.”
Jefferson and Mike pulled the man to his feet, and the motion sensor lights illuminated his features. Blond hair, a handsome face, and eyes narrowed in indignation.
Jordan. How had he gotten here? How had he even known where I was? I didn’t even know where I was.
“I wanna see Holly,” he insisted.
“I heard you the first time, but your wants really aren’t my concern,” she replied without sympathy.
I hopped down the last two steps and crossed the lawn to join them. Jefferson regarded my approach with uncertainty, while Mike just said, “Kris . . .”
Kristen immediately put herself between me and Jordan, but I maneuvered around her.
“What are you doing here, Jordan?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow at me. “You know him?”
“Yeah, he’s a friend.”
She sized Jordan up with a swift glance and then grunted. “Right, the irritable one from the precinct. I thought he looked vaguely familiar.” She nodded toward the house. “Take him inside. The friend and I are going to have a talk.”
Mike took Jordan by the elbow and led him up to the house, while Jefferson followed behind like a watchful shadow.
Kristen turned to me. “You still have your belongings packed?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because we may need to move to a new location. It depends on just how reckless your friend was. Come on, let’s get you inside.”
I walked back into the house to find Jordan seated in a chair in the kitchen, his arms still behind his back. Mike was giving him a distrustful glare.
“You look a little put out there, big guy,” Jordan said with a satisfied smirk.
Lines of irritation formed around Mike’s eyes. “You’ve got no business being smug after we took you down without a fight.”
“I let you take me down. How else was I supposed to get inside to see Holly?”
Kristen grabbed a kitchen chair and dropped it in front of Jordan. She sat down, her knees almost brushing his as she faced him. Apparently she didn’t have much of a personal bubble.
“How did you find us?” she asked, an unmistakable chill creeping into her voice.
“I followed the redhead,” he answered simply, with a nod toward the man standing behind him.
Kristen’s eyes flicked to Jefferson, whose brows drew together. He shook his head.
“We’re very adept at spotting a tail,” Kristen informed Jordan.
“I’m very adept at not being spotted.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Prove it. What route did he take?”
Jordan sighed and started listing off road names and directions in a bored voice. The more he described the trip, the deeper Jefferson’s frown became.
Kristen held up a hand to cut him off. “I’ve heard enough.” She stood and paced around the table, looking contemplative.
Jordan glanced at Jefferson. “That fourth loop was completely unnecessary. Nobody was following you . . . except me.”
“What did he have on him?” Kristen demanded as she looked between her team members.
“A gun and a cell phone, but the phone was off. No GPS tracking.” Mike set the phone on the counter along with Jordan’s gun.
Kristen picked up his phone and turned it over thoughtfully. “Did you use a GPS device that can be remotely accessed?”
“Like I said, I followed the redhead. So unless he qualifies as a GPS . . .” He shrugged.
“Did you tell anyone where you were going?”
“No.”
“Is there a chance you were followed?”
Jordan gave her a flat look.
“Do you realize how much danger you put her in by coming here?” Kristen demanded, some of her irritation shining through her calm exterior.
“I would never do anything to endanger Holly, including leaving her with people she doesn’t know or trust.”
Kristen dropped his phone on the counter and folded her arms. “So let me get this straight. You don’t trust us to protect her, so you risked giving away her location so you could protect her? You have a very convoluted method of ensuring her safety.”
“I have a vested interest in her safety. As far as I know, she’s nothing but a job to you.”
Kristen tapped her foot as she glared at him. “Jefferson, check his car for any form of tracking device that he may or may not be aware of. I want to know within five minutes whether or not we need to move Holly.”
She walked with purpose, every step brisk and efficient, and I found myself scampering on occasion to keep up with her. We toured through the various rooms of the house, and I tried to keep it all straight in my mind. I hadn’t tried to memorize an entire house since I was seventeen.
I had committed every inch of my last foster family’s home to memory, planning my hiding places and escape routes. In the end, none of it had mattered. My foster mother had let Collin waltz right through the front door under the guise of my math tutor.
I had come back from school to find him sitting in the living room with her, calmly discussing my school grades with a genial smile on his face.
The memory made me shudder.
“Everything all right?” Kristen asked, regarding me with interest.
“Fine.” I forced my memories to the recesses of my mind and reminded myself that this situation was vastly different. These people wouldn’t let the enemy waltz through the front door, and if by chance he did make it inside, God would see me through it.
Right, God? No matter what happens, You’ll get me through this . . . at least mostly intact.
“Tell me something about yourself, Holly,” Kristen said, drawing me from my silent prayer.
That was a rather broad request. “Um . . . I wear a size 6 shoe.” There. That would teach her to be less abstract in her questions.
She laughed as we descended the steps. “Well, as fascinating as that is, I was aiming for something a little deeper than your shoe size.”
“You should be more specific because the next deeply personal fact I was gonna share is that I despise the color yellow.”
She grunted in what might have been amusement. “Now you’re just oversharing. Dial it back a little.”
I smiled.
“Marx gave me the highlights, but I’m interested to know a little more about you. Like what makes you you?”
“Does anybody ever actually know how to answer that question?”
“No, I guess not. How about this, what are you passionate about?”
I thought about it for a moment. “Jesus, my camera, my friends . . .” Marshmallows. But I kept that last thought to myself.
“You’re a photographer?”
“On occasion. I don’t have the talent to create, but I can at least preserve what’s already been created by taking a picture of it.”
“That’s an interesting way to think about it.”
“What about you?” I wondered. “You must be passionate about the law to wanna do this job.”
“I’m passionate about the people I’m protecting, not about the laws I’m upholding while doing it.”
“What made you wanna be a marshal?” I asked, following her into the kitchen.
“A culmination of things,” she said. She opened one of the cupboards and pulled out a chocolate bar, tossing it over the island counter to me. “Dark chocolate to replenish the soul.”
I almost caught it but wound up picking it up off the floor from between my feet. “Such as?”
She ripped open her own chocolate bar and bit off the corner before saying, “I think it’s an extremely important and dangerous job, but it needs to be done and I’m capable of doing it. It feels like I’m making a difference.”
“When did you realize you wanted to do this job?”
Some deep emotion shadowed her eyes, and she looked down at the floor. “When I was eight. I was taken into witness protection until I could testify against the person I saw murder someone. The agents saved my life, and I knew that someday I wanted to do the same for some other little girl.”
Cautiously, I asked, “What about your family? Did they go with you?”
Her intense gray eyes stared at me, and I saw them harden as she resolved not to discuss it. “I’m gonna see what’s taking Mike so long. You wait here.”
She stalked out of the kitchen, and I felt a pang of regret for causing her pain. Talking about my family was difficult too, but they had been brutally murdered. I wondered what it was about her family that still haunted her.
I turned to gaze absently through the French glass doors into the trees. Movement caught my eye, and I twisted around to see the source of the reflection.
Jefferson walked through the kitchen, his soft steps at odds with his muscular frame. His red hair and the dusting of vibrant freckles across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose added an element of boyishness to his features, but I still tensed instinctively in response to his presence.
He smiled warmly as he stopped by the table and dropped a duffle bag onto it. “Here are your belongings from Detective Marx's apartment. He also gave me this to pass along. He called it your survival kit.” He set a second duffle on the table. “I checked it over. No electronic devices or trackers. It’s clean, so you can open it privately.”
Privately, I silently scoffed. He had already gone through everything. There was no such thing as privacy.
I exhaled and let the undeserved bitterness float away on the air before saying, “Thank you for bringing my things.”
He smiled and inclined his head before leaving the room. I plopped into one of the chairs and unzipped the “survival kit.” It was stuffed full of miscellaneous items: the picture of my family, my journal, three packs of Swiss rolls, my bag of M&M’s with all of the yellow and brown removed, my Bible, and a Ziploc bag of Lucky Mallows marshmallows.
There was a sticky note on the bag with a message:
I thought you might like these back. Maybe you’ll think twice the next time you feel the urge to tip the pictures on my wall.
I laughed softly to myself. I pulled out the remaining objects in the bag: a brand-new sketchbook with charcoal and pastels.
Tears welled in my eyes. Marx knew how much I would struggle with this situation, and he was trying to make it easier for me.
I opened the sketchbook to find a note written on the first page in Marx’s messy script:
I was saving these for a special occasion, but since I won’t get to see you for a while, I wanted you to have them. You’re going to have a lot of time on your hands to work on your sketches. Maybe you can improve your butterflies so they don’t look like they’ve been through a blender.
I laughed through the veil of tears as I remembered the first time he had seen and insulted one of my sketches.
I know that the next few weeks and possibly months may be hard and a little scary, but you will get through it. I’m not sure how I’ll adjust to my kitchen no longer smelling like smoke without you here to burn things, but I guess I’ll manage. Try not to send the safe house up in a blaze of flames. I warned them about your cooking.
“Jerk.” I laughed. He was the one who overcooked the brownies.
Don’t take any chances, and as much as it may go against your nature, listen to the marshals. Their only job is to keep you safe, so try not to fight them on every decision. I want you back in one piece.
~Marx~
24
Kristen brushed aside the drapes in the living room to peer out into the darkness. “Are you always this edgy?” she asked.
She let the curtain drift shut and fixed her curious gray eyes on me as I paced the length of the room. She glanced down at her watch and added, “In about ten minutes you’ll have been pacing for two straight hours.”
She was timing me? I frowned at her and popped a blue M&M into my mouth from the bag of candy Marx had provided.
She folded her arms. “Look, Holly, I know you’re nervous, but everything’s gonna be fine.”
“I’m not nervous for me.” I paused and then, because I tried not to lie, amended, “Okay, maybe a little, but what about Marx? He’s not gonna stop, and if these people can’t get to me, what are they gonna do next? They’ve already shot at him twice.”
Kristen sat down on the arm of the couch. “He means a lot to you.”
I tossed a candy up and down in my palm as I regarded her. “Maybe.”
“You know, I read a little about him in an FBI case file. He and an unnamed civilian woman cracked open the serial killer case—the man suspected of killing fifty-one people across several states. The FBI is still trying to put all the pieces together.”
“There was a Kansas sheriff involved too,” I said, correcting her misunderstanding of events. “He actually put the pieces together long before Marx got involved.”
Her lips spread into a knowing grin. “I had a feeling you were that civilian woman.” When I shot her a wary look, she held up her hands in mock surrender. “Your secret’s safe with me. But I am curious. Why all the secrecy? You could be famous for your part in such a large unveiling. Fan mail, supporters, interviews, talk shows. Maybe a book with your name in the title.”
That sounded like a nightmare. “I never wanted any of that.”
Her eyes followed my dizzying turns as I reached one wall and turned on my heel to propel myself back in the other direction. “From you, I actually believe that.”
“How many deaths have they linked to the killer?” I wondered.
“They reviewed the evidence and materials provided to them, but so far they’ve only officially connected six of the seventeen families to Edward Billings, yours included. They have a lot more work to do. I’m surprised your detective didn’t insist on being a part of the investigations.”
“He’s not much for media attention either.”
“Or he wanted to focus on more important things,” she countered, giving me an interested look. “The moment I stepped into the precinct, I got the sense that Marx is unusually protective of you considering there’s no relation between you, and he didn’t hand you over into my care lightly.”
“I guess you better do a good job then,” I half teased.
“Oh, I intend to. Failure is not in my vocabulary. Unless we’re talking about college statistics courses. Those were my arch nemesis.”
I smiled a little. Somehow knowing that this woman, who seemed confident and perfect in every way, had failed at something made her feel more approachable. I failed at just about everything; I was pretty sure it was just a part of my genetic code.
“As far as Marx is concerned, I wouldn’t worry,” she suggested. “He strikes me as a very capable cop. He’s not some novice running around cluelessly on the street with a gun.”
“Did you miss the part where I mentioned that they shot at him twice? And hit him both times.”
“Well, it’s a good thing men don’t mind scars like we do,” she replied with a shrug. “We all excel at something, and for him, being a cop is it. He might walk away from this mess with a few more scars, but records show he will walk away.”
I had to trust that he would or I was going to drive myself crazy. “What do you excel at?”
“Well, if you ask my foster brother, my greatest skill is my poker face because I always beat him at cards.”
Her foster brother. So something had happened to her family. I decided not to ask for fear it would make her uncomfortable again.
“But I’m also an excellent marksman,” she continued. “I can shoot the wings off a fly from down the street with the right weapon. At everything else, I would say I’m fair to moderate.”
“A fly, huh?”
A smile flickered across her lips and then vanished as she pressed her finger to the ear piece that must have been a radio. “Repeat that?” She paused to listen, and concern creased her face as she stood.
“What’s the matter?” I worried.
“We have a trespasser.” She strode out of the living room toward the foyer but stopped with a hand on the front door when I tried to follow her. “I need you to stay inside until I verify whether or not the trespasser is a threat,” she said.
“But I wanna come with you.”
“I don’t think that would be wise.”
“I’m not known for my wise decisions.”
She quirked a small smile at that. “So I’ve heard. Marx did brief me on the challenges you would present.”
I folded my arms and met her eyes with stubborn determination. “I’m going with you.”
“For example,” she said with a trace of frustration and amusement in her voice. “Just please stay behind me.” She opened the door and stepped on to the front porch.
I peered around her to see the shadowy figure lying face down in the grass between Jefferson and Mike with his hands behind his back.
Jefferson tossed something to Kristen and metal glinted in the security lights. “He’s got a badge.”
Kristen caught the badge and turned it over in her hands thoughtfully. “And he thinks it’s a free pass to do whatever he wants. Nice, but being a member of law enforcement doesn’t give him a right to muck up my operation.”
I tried to descend the steps to see if the prone figure was someone I knew, but Kristen blocked me with an arm.
“Easy there,” she said. “Let me check him out first. You stay on the steps.” She strode across the lawn toward the three men and crouched down in front of the prone figure. “How does that grass taste, sheriff?”
Sheriff? I descended one of the steps and strained to see the man on the ground without venturing into the grass. Mike and Jefferson both shook their heads at me, which made me want to step into the grass even more.
“You are a sheriff, right? Or did you buy this badge in the toy department?” Kristen asked. “We’ll call it in just to be sure, not that it will make much difference.”
The man grumbled something that I couldn’t hear.
Kristen stood and stepped back. “Get him on his feet.”
Jefferson and Mike pulled the man to his feet, and the motion sensor lights illuminated his features. Blond hair, a handsome face, and eyes narrowed in indignation.
Jordan. How had he gotten here? How had he even known where I was? I didn’t even know where I was.
“I wanna see Holly,” he insisted.
“I heard you the first time, but your wants really aren’t my concern,” she replied without sympathy.
I hopped down the last two steps and crossed the lawn to join them. Jefferson regarded my approach with uncertainty, while Mike just said, “Kris . . .”
Kristen immediately put herself between me and Jordan, but I maneuvered around her.
“What are you doing here, Jordan?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow at me. “You know him?”
“Yeah, he’s a friend.”
She sized Jordan up with a swift glance and then grunted. “Right, the irritable one from the precinct. I thought he looked vaguely familiar.” She nodded toward the house. “Take him inside. The friend and I are going to have a talk.”
Mike took Jordan by the elbow and led him up to the house, while Jefferson followed behind like a watchful shadow.
Kristen turned to me. “You still have your belongings packed?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Because we may need to move to a new location. It depends on just how reckless your friend was. Come on, let’s get you inside.”
I walked back into the house to find Jordan seated in a chair in the kitchen, his arms still behind his back. Mike was giving him a distrustful glare.
“You look a little put out there, big guy,” Jordan said with a satisfied smirk.
Lines of irritation formed around Mike’s eyes. “You’ve got no business being smug after we took you down without a fight.”
“I let you take me down. How else was I supposed to get inside to see Holly?”
Kristen grabbed a kitchen chair and dropped it in front of Jordan. She sat down, her knees almost brushing his as she faced him. Apparently she didn’t have much of a personal bubble.
“How did you find us?” she asked, an unmistakable chill creeping into her voice.
“I followed the redhead,” he answered simply, with a nod toward the man standing behind him.
Kristen’s eyes flicked to Jefferson, whose brows drew together. He shook his head.
“We’re very adept at spotting a tail,” Kristen informed Jordan.
“I’m very adept at not being spotted.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Prove it. What route did he take?”
Jordan sighed and started listing off road names and directions in a bored voice. The more he described the trip, the deeper Jefferson’s frown became.
Kristen held up a hand to cut him off. “I’ve heard enough.” She stood and paced around the table, looking contemplative.
Jordan glanced at Jefferson. “That fourth loop was completely unnecessary. Nobody was following you . . . except me.”
“What did he have on him?” Kristen demanded as she looked between her team members.
“A gun and a cell phone, but the phone was off. No GPS tracking.” Mike set the phone on the counter along with Jordan’s gun.
Kristen picked up his phone and turned it over thoughtfully. “Did you use a GPS device that can be remotely accessed?”
“Like I said, I followed the redhead. So unless he qualifies as a GPS . . .” He shrugged.
“Did you tell anyone where you were going?”
“No.”
“Is there a chance you were followed?”
Jordan gave her a flat look.
“Do you realize how much danger you put her in by coming here?” Kristen demanded, some of her irritation shining through her calm exterior.
“I would never do anything to endanger Holly, including leaving her with people she doesn’t know or trust.”
Kristen dropped his phone on the counter and folded her arms. “So let me get this straight. You don’t trust us to protect her, so you risked giving away her location so you could protect her? You have a very convoluted method of ensuring her safety.”
“I have a vested interest in her safety. As far as I know, she’s nothing but a job to you.”
Kristen tapped her foot as she glared at him. “Jefferson, check his car for any form of tracking device that he may or may not be aware of. I want to know within five minutes whether or not we need to move Holly.”
