Beverly Barton - Grace Under Fire

"She ain't got no gun," the redhead said. "Just a can of Mace."

They rummaged through her wallet, pulled out the cash and tossed the wallet back on the ground. "All she's got is forty bucks," the redhead complained.

"Yeah," the black teen agreed, then zeroed in on Elsa, who was trying to back away from them. "Maybe she's got something else she can give us to make up for not having no real money."

Fear surged through her body; adrenaline pumped wildly through her veins. Elsa turned and ran, and in the process managed to get the whistle in her mouth. She could hear the boys laughing as they ran after her. She kept blowing the whistle, kept running. She made it to the end of the alley before they caught up with her. What now? she asked herself when she felt one of them latch his hand onto her shoulder. She knew one thing for sure and certain-she was going to give them the fight of their lives!

Just as the redhead whirled her around, a deep baritone voice coming from behind her said, "Let her go."

Both boys shifted nervously, but the redhead didn't release her. Elsa wondered who her rescuer was and if he could truly save her from these hoodlums.

"Yeah, who's going to make us?" the black teen asked.

"I am," the man replied.

"So you got a gun. Big deal. We got guns, too." The redhead tightened his hold on Elsa.

A gunshot splintered the concrete as it hit the sidewalk half an inch from the redhead's right foot, letting the boys know the big deal was that his gun was in his hand. The redhead jumped when the bullet hit so close, and in the process, released Elsa, who didn't waste any time turning and running. A tall, muscular man, in jeans and T-shirt, a baseball cap covering part of his shaggy brown hair, held a large, sinister-looking pistol in his hand. When the black teen took a step forward, as if he was going to come after Elsa, her hero fired his weapon again, this time sending the shot a hairbreadth from the other guy's foot.

"You win, man. We're outta here." The redhead backed away.

"Toss the lady's money on the ground by her purse," the man told them. "Then you can go."

The redhead jerked the bills from his pocket, dropped them on top of Elsa's empty purse, then started backing away again. The black youth followed suit; when they'd backed up about ten feet, they turned and ran down the alley.

Elsa released a pent-up breath and made direct eye contact with her rescuer. "Thank you."

"What the hell were you doing back here in this alley?" He scanned her from head to toe. "You don't look like you belong anywhere around here."

"I-I was trying to find someone inside one of the warehouses," she said, realizing as she spoke that her statement probably didn't make any sense to this man. "My brother works down there-" she pointed to the Garland Industries warehouse "-and I wanted to talk to his boss."

Narrowing his gaze, the man studied her, as if he was wondering whether he knew her. "You made a big mistake coming down here. Go home and don't come back. Whatever trouble your brother's in, you can't fix it with his boss."

"How do you know-"

He grasped Elsa's upper arm, dragged her up the alley to where her purse and its contents lay. "Gather up your things and I'll walk you back to your car."

She knelt, raised the flap on her handbag, shoved the contents inside and picked it up.

After she hung the strap over her shoulder, she turned to him. "Do you work around here? Is that the reason you-"

He grabbed her arm again and marched her up the alley, toward the end of the street. She quickened her pace in order to keep up with him. When they rounded the corner onto East Fifth Street, she stopped and dug in her heels.

"Please, if you can, help me." She gazed pleadingly up at him, but his hard expression didn't soften. "My brother's life could depend on my getting him to quit his job."

"What's your brother's name?"

Elsa hesitated. She didn't know this man, had no idea if she could trust him. But he'd rescued her, probably saved her from being raped or perhaps even killed.

"Troy Leone."

"You promise me you won't come back down here to the warehouse, and if there's anything I can do to keep an eye on your brother, I will."

"Do you know Troy?" she asked.

He didn't reply.

Realizing she'd lost the battle, she nodded. "I'm Elsa Leone. I want to thank you again for saving me."

"You're welcome." His lips twitched, but he didn't smile.

"And you're…?" she asked.

He looked at her quizzically.

"Your name?"

"Rafe," he said softly, his deep voice little more than a whisper.

When he tightened his grip on her arm and prodded her into action, she allowed him to escort her to her car. He waited for her to get inside, lock the doors and back out of the parking place. As she drove away, she glanced into her rearview mirror and saw him watching her departure.

Who was he? she wondered. Her mysterious hero. Did he work on East Fifth in one of the warehouses? Was he just a dock worker or was he employed by Booth Fortier? He'd reacted to Troy 's name as if he recognized it. So did that mean they had the same boss? If so, would it be possible for him to actually keep an eye on Troy? She'd probably never know because there was little chance their paths would ever cross again.

Rafe. He'd said his name was Rafe. No last name. No real identity. Why was it that when she finally met a guy who made her blood pound and her heart race, he turned out to be someone she'd never see again, someone who might be a criminal?

As she zoomed her little Honda along the twilight streets of St. Camille, her thoughts jumbled wildly. With concern about her brother. And with visions of a shaggy-haired knight in shining armor.

Charmaine waited in her room until everyone had assembled in Booth's office, with the door closed and perhaps locked. She didn't know; didn't care. Once-and only once-she had dared to enter Booth's office uninvited. During the first year of their marriage. He had taught her a lesson that day, one she never forgot. When she was certain nobody other than Nola might spot her, she left her room and tiptoed down the hall. After glancing around to make sure she was alone, she opened the door to the room directly above Booth's office-a large storage closet. While exploring the old house one day while Booth was away, she had discovered something very interesting about that closet, something she knew Booth knew nothing about, that perhaps only Nola and the housekeeper before her knew existed. There was a peephole in the floor between the closet and Booth's office. Who had cut through the layers of flooring and why, she had no idea, but someone, long ago, had found a way to spy on the lord and master in his study-perhaps in Booth's father's day. At first glance in the closet, the peephole appeared to be nothing more than a light spot in the dark floor. Since first discovering the hole, Charmaine had kept it covered with a large cardboard box. Downstairs in Booth's office, the peephole really wasn't noticeable because the ceiling was high and the hole itself was located near the hundred-year-old chandelier, which actually blocked the view from below but not from above.

Charmaine eased the box aside, being careful that her actions created no sound; then she maneuvered herself down onto the floor and placed her eye directly over the peephole. She tilted her head right and left, searching the room for its occupants. She saw Jaron first, standing near the door, his arms crossed over his chest. Booth sat behind his massive desk, a lit cigar in his mouth, the smoke curling up and over his bald head.

"Sit," Booth ordered.

Hurriedly she scanned the chairs scattered about the room, all forming a semicircle around the desk. Oliver Neville sat closest to Booth. She noticed a black leather briefcase propped beside his chair. Aric, Curt, Ronnie and Charlie Dupree filled the other chairs. Her gaze lingered on Ronnie. Her lover. Her love.