I glide across the floor of the living room holding my boots in my hand, careful not to make a sound. When I get to the front door I pull them on, then move carefully so I can see through the window without being seen myself. There’s no one there.

I quietly move to the front window in the living room to confirm. Nothing there, either. At least, not that I can see.

Slowly and silently, I open the door and slip out, then close it again. The porch is half-lit by the almost-full moon. I back into the shadow, regulating my breathing as well as I can. Leaning around the corner, I look around one side of the house, and see nothing. This side’s in shadow, as well, so I lower myself to the ground and get into a crouch. My left hand reaches back to pull out my Sig Sauer. The night air is chill, but I barely feel it with the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I’ve never been much of a one to feel panic or dread in these situations. I grew up in a world where danger was a constant, so I learned to live with it early. The feeling I get is more of a sick excitement — the excitement that comes from knowing you’re about to engage in the most basic of human instincts at the core level. The instinct to survive.

But this time, there’s a thin thread of worry weaving itself through the anticipation. Because Isabel is inside, and she’s naked and alone. If I don’t get whoever is out here before he gets to her, she could be hurt, or killed.

I can’t have that.

Moving into the shadow around the right side of the house, I continue around to the back, looking behind me often with my gun raised and ready. My ears are scanning for sounds, attuned to the slightest noise, but all I hear is the quiet slip-slip of my boots in the dry grass.

It’s too dark to see footprints or indentations in the earth. The tree line is fifty feet or so away from the house. All I have to go on is instinct, my ears, and what little I can see.

Then, suddenly, I hear it: a small rustling behind me, followed by the merest creak. The bastard is going for the front door.

Quick as I can, I turn around and hurtle around the corner, vaulting up to the porch. I tackle the man before he has time to register I’m there — the element of surprise is all I have on my side. In my peripheral vision, I see one of his arms rise up, and I block it just as a slicing pain nicks into my bicep. Reaching up with my gun hand, I crack him across the face with the Sig Sauer, then knock the knife out of his hands before he can sink it any deeper. The pain stuns him for a second, just long enough for me to punch him again, a solid uppercut that snaps his head back. He lands heavily on the porch, the wood groaning under his weight.

I expect that to be the end of it as I rise to my feet with the gun pointed at him, but the fucker surprises me by kicking out with his legs and getting my right foot out from under me. As I start to fall, just before my left foot leaves the ground, I manage to get some purchase and rotate my body so I land with my right elbow connecting solidly with his groin.

The cunt yowls like I just cut off his dick. He doubles over, nearly folding in half. I take the opportunity to punch him in the jaw one more time with the Sig, hearing a crunch as something breaks — probably his nose and a couple of teeth. I quickly reach forward to wrench one arm behind him. He howls again and screams, “Fuck!” at which point I pull up sharply on the arm, feeling something give in his shoulder. Then I swing him around so he’s on his stomach, and plant a knee hard in his back.

“You fucking yell like that again, I’m gonna put a bullet through your skull,” I hiss, my face close to his ear. The cunt grunts and writhes, but he must believe me since he does what I say.

“Is anyone else gonna come out of the trees and join us?” I hiss. When he doesn’t immediately respond, I yank up on his arm again. He swallows a yelp and shakes his head frantically. “You know if you have friends out there, I’ll have to end you so I can take care of the rest of them. Better tell me now.”

“There’s no one!” he gasps out.

My knee’s pushing on his lungs so he’s having trouble breathing, but I don’t fucking care. I cock the pistol and aim it at his head. “You’d better not be lying, you cunt. Anyone who shoots me right now is about to shoot you by proxy.”

He shakes his head back and forth convulsively. There’s no guarantee he’s telling me the truth, but I think if he had anyone out there, they’d be coming at me right now. Still, I keep an eye on the trees as I interrogate him.

“Who sent you?” I growl angrily. “Was it Fowler?”

Cunt hesitates a second, which is a second too fucking long. I grab his hair with my pistol hand and use it to slam his head down on the boards. “Who. The fuck. Sent you?” I growl into his ear, my voice cold as steel.

I have to hand it to the piece of shit — he’s loyal to whoever his boss is. Loyal, and bloody stupid. I yank his head back again until I’m just short of breaking his neck, and stare into his wild, frantic eyes. “You know I’ll fucking kill you,” I say conversationally. “If you’re afraid of your boss killing you too, isn’t it better to take yer chances and disappear?”

“I can’t disappear from him,” he rasps, his voice thick with fear. “He’ll find me, no matter what. And he won’t be quick about killing me.”

Fuck it. This one isn’t about to talk. But the fact he’s not denying it’s Fowler tells me everything I need to know.

I let go of his hair and pull back, keeping my knee on his spine.

Then I shoot him in the head, execution-style.

Moving quickly, I go through his pockets. I find a Beretta .9 mm and a thin wallet, both of which I take, and a phone with only one number in it. I stand up and stare at the number for a few seconds to memorize it. Then I smash it to bits with the heel of my boot. I scan the darkness quickly, making sure I don’t hear any more movement before I shove the Sig back into my waist band. Turning, I reach for the handle of the front door, but a thought stops me. Looking down at the mostly-headless body in disgust, I set the dead cunt’s gun and wallet on the porch railing and grab him by the boots, hauling him off the porch and into the darkness. Isabel doesn’t need to see any of this.

I reach back onto the porch for the smashed phone and toss it beside the body. There’s blood and brains spattering the floorboards, but maybe I can keep her from looking at it.

I pocket the wallet and toss the gun under the porch. Then I run back inside the house. When I get to the bedroom, Isabel’s nowhere to be found.

“Isabel!” I yell, hearing the panic in my voice.

“Thorn!” comes a plaintive, muffled cry.

For a horrible, sickening second, a flashback makes me weak in the knees. My stomach churns. Then, realizing she’s under the bed, my heart starts hammering in my chest. Relief floods my veins so quickly I feel dizzy for a second.

“Isabel,” I rasp urgently. “Come on. We have to go. Now.”

A small, trembling hand appears. Then the cascade of her chocolate-brown hair. I just barely resist the urge to pull her out, knowing I’ll hurt her. Instead, I kneel and wait to help her up. She’s still naked, and trembling visibly.

“I heard shots. I didn’t know…” her voice breaks. Tears fill her eyes.

“Shh, it’s okay.”

With a strangled cry, Isabel flings herself into my arms. I hold her tightly for a long second, stroking her hair and murmuring her name against her ear. She clings to me, then takes a deep, shuddering breath and pulls back. Her wide, terrified eyes meet mine, and then slide down to my arm.

“You’re hurt,” she breathes in horror.

“Not badly,” I grunt. “Come on, get up. Pack your bag. We need to leave. Now. Hurry.”

I want to sit here and hold her until she feels better, but there’s no time. I stand, and pull her up with me. She’s still looking dazed, almost paralyzed. “Sibéal,” I say sharply. Startled, her eyes meet mine again, and then she blinks and nods. “Okay,” she whispers, and immediately goes to the dresser and begins pulling out her clothes.

Isabel doesn’t ask questions or hesitate as she throws on a T-shirt and jeans, then starts stuffing the rest of her things in her bag. Thank fuck. Striding into the living room, I take out my phone and punch in a number. My prez answers on the third ring.

“Rock. We have a problem. I’m leaving Connegut with the girl. There’s a body here that needs to be taken care of. We have to go to ground.”

“Understood,” he grunts. “Everything okay?”

“For now.” I grab my own bag and start throwing things in. “One of Fowler’s men came snooping. We’ll go somewhere to get out of sight for the night. I’ll check back in tomorrow once I decide what to do.”

“You call Oz?”

“Not yet. I’ll do that later, once I’ve got the girl out of here.”

“Be safe, brother.”

“Will do.”

I end the call and pause, taking a moment to look around the room. The wound on my arm is bleeding enough that I should cover it until it stops. I go to the kitchen and find a dish towel, then open a drawer and take out some duct tape. I do my best to wrap it, taping it tight to slow the blood flow. I finish packing my bag, but just as I’m about to close it I remembering something. Going into the bathroom, I open the small linen closet and reach up to the top shelf. Back behind all the towels, I pull out the small purse Isabel was carrying the night she came to me. I toss it into my bag along with the rest of my things.

When I’ve zipped the duffel and made sure I have everything I need, I call to her.

“Coming!”

Isabel comes into the living room, carrying her bag.

“You ready?” I ask. She nods. “Good. Let’s go.”

“On foot?” she asks uncertainly. I look down and remember she has no shoes.

“Ah. No, darlin’, not on foot.” I manage a grin. “We have a car hidden not far away. It’s only about five-hundred feet or so from here.”

“We do?” Isabel’s mouth curve into a crooked smile. “You mean, I could have driven out of here instead of trying to walk out?”

“Only if you’d found the keys,” I chuckle. Strange that even as dangerous as things are, Isabel’s making jokes. My brave girl. “Which you wouldn’t have.”

“Where did you hide them?” Her eyes twinkle.

“Ah, no,” I grin, taking her by the hand and leading her toward the door. “A man needs his secrets, after all. Now come on. Enough standing around.”

“Thorn,” Isabel says, her face growing sober. “What’s going on? Who was out there?”

“I’ll tell you everything once we’re out of here,” I promise her. “For now, no more talking. Follow me, as quick as you can. And don’t make any noise, just in case.”