Chapter Seventeen
Marcy slumped against JB as he lowered her to her feet. He pointed to the device and put a finger in front of his lips, then reached for the phone. She knew to stay quiet as he played the phone call con that had been planned.
“Yeah, we plan on being at the party tomorrow afternoon.” JB pointed to the shirt he tossed in the corner, then covered the receiver as if it were a normal conversation. “Hey, Marcy, what are we taking to the barbeque?”
“Deviled eggs?” She could barely get the words out without her voice trembling. Setup routines might come easy to law enforcement folks, but she was a novice. Lying seemed ten times more difficult than telling the truth.
Especially when her mind was still trying to wrap itself around the torture he’d endured. She’d tried to listen as his wife, but then there was the moment when the pain had become too much to handle. Was then that she’d almost switched to her counselor mode, put up her shield of protection. But, she hadn’t…she hadn’t. She swiped her hand across her cheek. She would not cry. Would not let him know she might not be able to handle them being together for the long haul.
She tugged on the bottom of her sweater. Stuffed her bra in the pocket of her jeans. The implication of the past few minutes flew from her core to her brain and back again. He wanted her. They might be dead before morning, but skimming her fingers across the tanned hardness of JB’s chest had been ecstasy. Pure need, want, and lust ecstasy. That she wanted to finish.
Instead, she picked up his shirt and stood quietly beside him in the kitchen.
“…yeah, she said deviled eggs. I’ll bring a cooler of beer, too. What time?” JB pulled her against him and encircled his arm around her shoulders. “Two sounds great.”
How would she ever get through this? A shiver took her, and he squeezed her tighter.
“Yeah, it’s been a long day. Think we’re gonna turn in early tonight.” His cheek rested on the top of her head. “We’ll be there. See you tomorrow.”
He locked the key pad, powered off the phone, and shoved it in his pocket. They clung to each other for a brief moment, which ended in one long kiss before they broke apart. After pulling his black, thermal shirt back on, he strapped the Kevlar vest in place. He double-tied his boots, checked the back-up gun on his inner, left ankle, and strapped the knife holster on the upper part of his inner, right calf. The knife thingy was new, like the scars on his chest and the brand.
Where had he been the past few years? What had he done? She wanted to know, yet part of her didn’t. She figured he’s share what he wanted, when he wanted. Following his advice to be his wife, not his counselor, was exactly what she planned to do. She’d listen with love whenever he decided to talk…even if it was years from now. No more counseling techniques would float between the two of them.
She watched as if a moviegoer at the cinema. The film an action-adventure flick. The hero hot and dangerous. The woman in trouble and willing. Together, they’d run the gamut and come out in each other’s arms by the time the credits rolled. Only two things wrong. This wasn’t a movie. And the credits might be their obituaries.
He cupped her face in his palms as he kissed her one more time. Her fingertips stroked his cheeks. Tender and deep, their kiss sealed their commitment to stay alive.
Holding her hand, he walked to the hallway. “You about ready for bed, sugar?”
She nodded. He pointed to his mouth for her to talk.
Stretching, she stepped into the bedroom, then crossed to the bathroom. “I’ll be there in a sec.”
“Good. I’ll lock up and get the lights. Meet you in bed.” JB headed to the living room to make the round of typical get-ready-for-bed sounds.
Thinking to the upcoming run and the cold weather, Marcy scurried to the toilet. Once finished, she opened the door, and the nightlight’s soft glow illuminated enough for her to see what looked like two people snuggled in bed. She jerked on an intake of fearful breath before JB pulled her to the side and covered her mouth with his hand. Pillows…he’d scrunched pillows in bed.
Next, he bundled her in his down-filled parka she kept in their closet. After she pulled a pair of ear warmers on, he topped them with a ski hat, and finally, she tugged on her wool gloves. She realized the temperature would have dropped outside since the sun went down. Plus, the weather forecast had been for a cold front to move through sometime in the next few days. After JB pushed thermal gloves over her wool ones, she figured he planned on a blizzard overnight.
Back in the truck, before they came inside, when she asked him why they couldn’t stay at the house and wait for the creep to make his move, JB said this looked like a highly professional job. Staying at the house to see what might happen was a risk he wouldn’t take with her life. Hopefully, the police would nab the guy, and they’d be back by noon tomorrow. If not, they’d be safe somewhere else.
She’d understood. For the first time, she also understood that if it wasn’t for him protecting her, he’d be hell-bent on finishing the job himself. Maybe her needing protection meant safety for him. She planned to keep that thought until a better one popped into her mind.
“Snuggle on over here, Marcy. Get yourself warm.” The rehearsed dialogue rolled off his tongue.
“No. I’m fine on my side.” Her mind raced to remember what came next.
“Well, I do mind. Now snuggle up, I’m cold. Good night, Marcy.”
She fake-giggled. “Good night, JB.”
He tugged her down the hallway, their footsteps quiet on the carpet. Role play finished at the guest room window as he donned a pair of night-vision goggles. Then he fitted her with a pair right before he lifted their backpacks, opened the window, and dropped them to the ground. He lowered himself out the window.
Leaves crunched to the back of the house. He plastered himself to the wall like a sticker on a notebook, then dropped to the ground. Flat on his belly against the dirt, legs spread, boots dug in, gun drawn and aimed, he was in combat mode. Ready to shoot, run, or fend off attack.
All she could do was wait inside, peek over the window sill, and listen. She knelt, leaving her gloved hand on the sill. After a few more crunches that sounded more like a scampering possum, his hand covered hers and tugged. She climbed out into his waiting arms. He positioned her backpack and locked it in place, then tweaked her nose with his finger, grinning as he settled his own pack in place.
For having her bundled for extreme cold, he looked casual in his clothes, except she knew the Glock and holster were strapped over his shoulder out of view. Knew they both had on Kevlar vests. Once she touched him, though, she felt the softness of layers of sweaters beneath the light jacket, coupled with the thermal wear she’d seen when he raised his jeans to position the knife on his calf. He’d stay warm.
He’d mentioned he needed to be able to react hard and fast. Fingerless gloves and lack of a hat caught her attention. The gloves she understood for the gun, the knife, but he should wear his hat. She pointed to her own then him. He shook his head, pointed to his ears and the surroundings. She got it…he needed to hear.
Again, the crunch of leaves. This time from the front of the house. He tensed and spun in that direction, gun raised, finger on the trigger.
Her heart rate notched up as fear grazed her senses. She’d heard people in counseling talk about the taste of fear. Until now, she hadn’t known what such a thing would taste like. Now she did. Not so good. Wouldn’t be easy to forget. Her breathing jumped into overdrive as she tried to ignore the vile taste permeating her senses. She had to get her control back. The last thing he needed was for her to hyperventilate.
JB pushed her back and stepped in front of her. Held his hand for her not to move. The rocker on the front porch squeaked with movement. Wind? Was there enough to move the chair? More crisp, brittle sounds of breaking, dried leaves littering the ground.
He tugged her close behind him and edged to the corner of the house. Flattening herself to the siding, she tried to blend in with her dark coat and gloves. He’d made sure neither of them had any light color clothing on. He inched a small corner mirror out in front of him. She glanced over his arm to see the reflection. Nothing.
Turning back to her, he holstered the gun. Evidently, he thought it was nothing more than the wind.
She looped her thumbs under the backpack straps across her chest. That had been their I’m-ready-to-go signal years ago when she’d gone hunting with him. He did the same with his, then turned and headed in a low crouch to the tree line. She followed close behind.
Her vision focused, cleared, and she stumbled, crashing into him. He turned, catching her with one arm, then jerked his eyes to the left. The semi-automatic strapped to his thigh was in his hand before she realized JB had moved. The one she thought of as his SWAT gun. Her heart raced, pounding fast and heavy. He never wore that unless the situation was wild. Unpredictable. Dangerous beyond dangerous.
And, she’d never seen him pull it…until now.
He pushed her in front of him, then turned and walked backwards behind her.
The taste in her mouth deepened. What the hell had he seen?
Patting her coat pocket to make sure her own gun was still there, the enormity of their situation bombarded her. After about twenty steps, he motioned her to stop. She steadied herself and stood beside him. Ready and waiting to follow his order. He nodded and hooked his thumbs under his straps—she did the same.
They moved forward as one as the woods closed in behind them.