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  He glanced back at Ellie. “You need to get out of here.”

  Five

  He turned away from her. Ellie’s legs didn’t want to move. She pushed off the wall and tried to stand, head low so she could hopefully avoid being shot long enough to call Jess. Well, the police at least. But her sister was on duty at the moment, so it might well be Officer Ridgeman who responded.

  Ellie looked around for her phone. She’d dropped it, pretty sure it skidded across…

  There.

  “Stuart, it’s Dean.” He was at least four car lengths away and taking command of the situation, not without a thread of urgency in his voice.

  He was still a hundred percent Mr. Hero. All, “I got this.” Didn’t need the little woman hanging around and getting hurt when he could take care of it himself.

  She crept to her phone which was under a car. Teeth gritted, she leaned her good hip on the ground and reached for it.

  “How’s it going?” He asked the question as though he and Stuart were both out for an evening stroll and had just happened to run into each other. Not what it actually was—eleven at night in a dimly lit parking lot with his friend waving a gun around.

  Fear ran through her. She wasn’t going to ignore it. Doing so would mean that she would miss any warning signals her instincts wanted to throw her.

  “Good.” Stuart’s voice was breathy. “I’m good.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m good.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed it. Ellie leaned around the back bumper and looked at them. Dean’s stance was all caution, but he still appeared relaxed. His friend was constantly moving. Hand shaking, sweating as he ran his other hand through his hair. Feet moving.

  She’d taken a body language class to help her understand nonverbal communication. It had been incredibly informative, but she was having trouble remembering now what all the stances and facial expressions meant.

  Stuart looked around. “They’re coming though. We need to get out of here and hide.”

  “Good idea.” Dean reached out an arm like he was going to lead the way. “Let’s—”

  Stuart lifted the gun and pointed it at Dean.

  Ellie sucked in a breath. Would he shoot?

  “You’re one of them, aren’t you?”

  “No.” Dean’s simple answer. “I’m on your side.”

  “I can’t know that. They’ve messed with my head.”

  “I know that.” Dean gave him a nod like the other man didn’t have the power to take his life with the slightest twitch of his finger. “You can trust me, Stu. I promise you, I’m telling you the truth. I would never betray you.”

  “Someone else’s here. They’re poised to attack.”

  Ellie realized then that she might need to stand up, make her presence known so Stuart would figure out she wasn’t a threat. Problem was, it wasn’t even remotely what she wanted to do. Would she actually stand up and face his friend? Certainly not. There was no way she’d pop up and be seen, let alone get within arm’s reach of him. In the line of fire. She had to be honest with herself. The only reason she wanted to do it in the first place was to prove to Dean Cartwright that she might be helpful. Useful.

  But that meant going over there and getting involved. Neither of which she wanted to do. Nor did she think Dean would be exactly impressed by her.

  Too bad.

  Dean wanted her to leave? Not before she called 911 and—wait a second. An idea occurred to her. A way he might be able to get this guy to stand down.

  “No one else’s here,” Dean said. “I promise it’s just you and me. But it’s time to go, okay? My car is out front, and we can go get coffee. Maybe a piece of pie. Just chat about stuff.”

  All while the gun was pointed at his chest.

  “No. You’re one of them.” Stuart ran a hand over his chest, like rubbing a painful spot. More vigorous than she’d have thought would feel good. His eyes were glassy, too. As though his grip on reality was tenuous.

  And growing more so with every minute.

  Ellie’s hands trembled. She nearly dropped the phone while navigating to an app the students in her Intro to American History class told her she just had to have. She’d only used it once, since. But the app had a text box where she only needed to type in a few sentences. She did that now, then selected the voice she wanted used to dictate her message. As soon as she gave it the green light, the app would read her message aloud.

  Usually it sounded kind of robotic, but this time she used one she hadn’t tried before. Nineties War Movie Drill Sergeant.

  A few seconds later, with the volume turned to the max, Ellie held the phone so the speaker was pointed in the direction of the two men.

  At the very least, it might give Dean a decent distraction to get that gun away from his friend.

  At most, it could serve to get Stuart to stand down and realize that Dean wasn’t the threat here. His memories—his trauma—and the fact they still held sway over him could wind up seriously hurting somebody. If not kill them.

  “Jeopardy, this is Foxtrot.” The voice thundered words she’d heard before but wouldn’t know the first thing about saying them correctly. Hopefully it would work so she wouldn’t have to resort to praying to a God she wasn’t exactly on good terms with. She’d have to apologize and ask for forgiveness first for ignoring Him for so long in favor of intellectual pursuits.

  The phone speaker buzzed. “We’re taking heavy fire. We have multiple casualties and are pinned down. Repeat. We are taking heavy fire. Does anyone copy? We need—” The voice cut off, the interruption perfectly timed. Two shots followed, not so authentic. They sounded like a poor attempt at beatboxing.

  Ellie winced.

  The final words came after. “We need help!”

  Dean turned back to his friend. His hands moved so fast she couldn’t see what he did before he had the gun. A move he’d been trained to do so thoroughly he barely had to think about how to do it.

  Ellie’s body sagged against the side of the car, and she nearly wobbled, landing flat on her bottom from where she was crouching. Not good. She didn’t want to get Jess’s clothes torn up and dirty from rolling around in a gravel parking lot.

  Twice in one day, at the scene where police were called. Was that what this would come to?

  Dean said, “Let’s go, Stuart.”

  His friend’s shoulders slumped. He didn’t have the gun, but that didn’t make him appear any less deadly. Not the kind of man Ellie would want to meet alone on a night like this. Too many shadows reminded her of yet another night.

  That memory from long ago was little more than a blur, sensations. Smells. Pain.

  She shook off the memories she carried around. Like that would make them go away. Instead, she focused on what was around her. The feel of the car against her shoulder. Cool air, tickling her skin. The way she could shift her toes in her socks to center herself.

  All just tactics to be present in the here and now.

  She braced against the car and stood.

  Dean’s friend had turned away. He looked at the gun in his hands for a second, then shoved it in the back of his waistband. Dean looked up, his attention to her like a shock to her system.

  She stepped back, colliding with the car, their gazes still locked. No, there might not be enough room in this spot, that was fair, but this wasn’t exactly about not having enough space. And she knew it. Maybe she would never know exactly what it was about Dean that kept her fumbling, but she was going to find out.

  He’s stolen part of our inheritance, El.

  As though this man was some kind of usurper, instead of a man who’d been a friend to her grandfather at a time when he’d had no family around him. Just Jess, on the NYPD, and Ellie busy with university life. Teaching. Studying.

  She’d replied to a few of her grandfather’s emails in the months before Jess moved back to Last Chance. He’d mentioned not feeling good, but until Jess told her he had cancer, she hadn’t
known.

  Dean’s brows shifted together. He mouthed, “You okay?”

  Ellie didn’t want to get into something that wasn’t top priority right now, not when he should be taking care of his friend. Stuart was clearly in greater need than she was.

  She turned away so he could get back to what he needed to do. After opening the driver’s door of her own car, she spotted him pulling out onto the road. Stuart sat beside him.

  Exhaustion weighed down on her, so by the time she got back to the house and crawled into the bed they’d made her in the guest room, Ellie fell into a fitful sleep. She dreamed of a car, speeding toward her. Dean sat in the driver’s seat, waving a gun around. Which made no sense.

  She tossed and turned until she woke to the garage door rolling up. Jess was home.

  Ellie couldn’t sleep anymore, not without adrenaline-laced dreams, so she took a hot shower. By the time she was out, her sister had cooked breakfast and the coffee pot was both full and steaming.

  She poured herself a cup and sipped from it. “Bless you.”

  Jess laughed. “What’s on your plan for today?”

  “I’ve decided to go a whole day without thinking about Dean Cartwright.” When she turned and saw her sister’s face, Ellie said, “What?”

  “Nothing.” Yeah, right. “You just…I knew it. That’s all. Yesterday, I could tell you thought he was attractive or something. You were mooning over him.”

  “This isn’t not thinking about him. Addendum. No talking about him either.”

  “Fine.” Jess shook her head and turned back to the toaster. “Those Cartwright boys.”

  Ellie figured she was thinking about Ted, as she’d likely be angry or at least irritated if that was the case. Rather than if she was thinking about Dean. Maybe Jess had pushed everything from yesterday aside already while she had worked a long shift. Maybe she’d forgiven Dean.

  “Are you going to eat and then go to bed?”

  “Nah.” Jess handed her a plate. “I’m too wired to sleep.”

  “I think getting wired helped suck up the last of my energy, so I did sleep.” Even though it hadn’t been particularly restful. “Bad shift?”

  Jess scrunched up her nose. “It’s been like this the last month or so. There’s a local guy we’re trying to get a bead on, but he’s been one step ahead of us since we first learned his name.”

  Their grandfather had gone through weeks like that when a particularly tough case took his attention. Trying to help a victim in need. Catch a vicious killer targeting innocent residents. Of course, he’d never told his granddaughters, or their mother, about specific details. Just that it was a time when work took his attention.

  She’d seen enough crime dramas on TV to imagine. And read enough history books to know all the awful things humans did to other humans because some people just seemed delighted by creating new ways to terrify others.

  “Feel like hiking with me?”

  Jess said, “Grandpa’s cabin.”

  Ellie didn’t bother asking how she’d guessed. “Once we’re there, I can look around while you take a nap. If you want.”

  Bonus, hopefully Dean was busy with his gun-wielding friend and wouldn’t know they’d gone tromping through his land. Or maybe he was asleep. Probably resting like a happy baby, sound asleep in his bed…wherever. She didn’t need to think more about that, or she’d find herself imagining him wearing very manly teddy pajamas.

  “Okay, deal.” Jess grabbed something from the top of the refrigerator and slid it on her belt. A gun, in its black holster. “I’m in.”

  Ellie shivered. Why was she seeing guns everywhere she went right now? It was enough to make her want to freak out.

  Or think she was in some sort of danger.

  Six

  “Tell me what you can smell.” Dean lifted one foot and set it on the opposite knee, then leaned forward to stretch the stiff muscle.

  Stuart sat in front of him. They were both on second-hand office chairs facing each other. His friend had a blindfold across his eyes. They’d both drawn a line at securing him to the chair, but had considered it given the rough night he’d had last night.

  Sweat rolled down Stuart’s forehead.

  “Take a deep, long breath in. Hold it.” Dean paused a second. “Sigh it out. Tell me what you smell.”

  “Sweat. Gunpowder and beer.”

  “What can you hear?”

  “Two men arguing.”

  Dean frowned, knowing Stuart couldn’t see his expression. This image of his was new. Could it have been from last night?

  “They grabbed me. I tried to fight back, but they cut my Achilles tendon.”

  That was from his last mission, the one where Stuart had been caught by the men he was attempting to infiltrate. He’d been betrayed by someone in the CIA. As an officer for the agency, Stuart had expected to be backed up by the people he worked for. Instead, he’d been cut loose and left to die.

  Stuart had managed to get to a phone, long enough to call one of their team members who was also an old friend. Dean had accompanied them to retrieve Stuart from that war-torn country and get him back to the US in one piece. They’d managed, but only barely.

  Now Stuart was determined to figure out why he’d been burned by the CIA. What he’d done, or hadn’t, that meant they’d cut him loose. Stuart reasoned that it was something he knew, but didn’t realize he did. So he wasn’t able to tell them what it was Dean was supposed to help him dig it out of his subconscious. After that, he’d be in better standing with the agency.

  But if Stuart’s post-traumatic stress had been detonated last night by something he’d seen in town and not his past experiences out of country, then Dean had more than one problem to contend with.

  “Go back to the two men arguing. Were they inside, or outside?”

  “I can see the stars. One of them shoved the other, and he fell into his bike. It tipped over and scraped on the ground. That made the fight worse.”

  “Can you hear what they’re saying?”

  Some context might help, but it could have just been a fight about a spilled drink. Or a woman. Stuart had been walking last night, which he often did to clear his head. Though normally, he tended to steer clear of people. If he’d passed by the biker bar across town, he might be recalling a fight he’d merely overheard. Dean could use the tip line and hand the information over. Could be helpful to the police in one of their cases, or maybe it meant nothing at all.

  The cops in town were all solid. He trusted each one, and they called often when they needed help. There was a crew of four EMTs in town and one ambulance. On occasion they were all busy, and if that was the case, Dean was called. After a while, people started calling him first, especially if they didn’t want to occupy the EMTs time, didn’t want it to be official, or maybe, if they didn’t want to leave a paper trail.

  Stuart’s biceps flexed. He shifted his legs and turned his head side to side. Erratic, nervous movements that often preceded the moment he began spiraling into a state where he was harder to reach. Unable to respond.

  “Listen to the sound of my voice.” This was where the blindfold sometimes worked against them, and he’d occasionally had to ask Stuart to remove it. To center himself back in the present. “You’re in the town of Last Chance, and you’re with me. You are safe.”

  Stuart sucked in a full breath and sighed it out. Without being asked. He was learning how to manage the panic in its early stages. “One of them said he wanted out. That’s when he got shoved. The other man…”

  Dean gave it a few seconds. Then he said, “What did he say?”

  “He kicked the man in the stomach, three times.”

  Dean’s abdomen clenched in sympathy. It always did.

  “He said no one quits west and lives to tell about it.”

  Probably a gang, or a place they lived together. Their motorcycle club, maybe. Dean wondered if it was worth having Stuart take the brain power and energy to describe both men when this coul
d very well be nothing. Stuart was already agitated. It could make it worse by hindering his recovery.

  “That’s good.”

  Stuart pushed out another breath.

  “Where did you go next?” As he asked the question, Dean’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored the call for right now. If it was an emergency, then the person would likely immediately call again.

  “I followed them. The big man dragged his friend behind the bar. His boots made grooves in the gravel.”

  “Did you intervene?”

  Stuart flinched in the chair. As though he was bound, which he wasn’t at the moment. The former CIA agent had been tied to a wooden chair when they found him, though. The blood… Dean pushed aside those thoughts or he’d be heading to his place of panic.

  “I waited at the corner, pressed against the siding. I got a splinter in my arm.”

  Dean couldn’t see one in his arm right now, as he wore a long-sleeved running shirt.

  “The big man kept kicking him. He was going to beat him to death.”

  “Stuart.” Dean wasn’t sure what to say. He knew Stuart had seen a man killed that way during his captivity. He could be reliving that. Blurring past and present so that he wasn’t able to remember accurately.

  “There was so much blood.” His whole body shuddered, but he held back the whimper. Dean saw his throat bob as he swallowed it down. “Lights flashing. It was so hot, and he was crying. I couldn’t get to him.”

  Useless platitudes wouldn’t help, regardless of how badly he wanted to tell Stuart that he’d done what he could, or that he was safe now. Dean knew what it felt like to know you could have—or should have—done more. That inaction or a deficit of your skill had cost someone their life.

  “Keep breathing.”

  Stuart gasped. “I had my gun out.” He shook his head. “I didn’t even know I had it, and then I was pointing it at him. I stood over him.”

  Dean stilled.

  “I pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed. It was a good kill. They needed to die or things would’ve gotten out of control.”

  “Keep holding the gun. Feel the warm metal in your hand. The smell of gunpowder in your nostrils. Close your eyes.” He paused for a second. “And then open them. Tell me what’s around you.”