Leslie Parrish - Black at Heart

"What is it?"

Christian was a pro, an excellent agent who'd worked with the DEA in south Florida trying to put a crimp in the drug trade. He was a man of few words, and he never wasted them.

"They just let me go. Anna, too. The others are all still being questioned, and every one of you is on suspension."

"As expected."

Christian didn't ask questions, didn't want to know why he and Anna had been excluded. He didn't even call Wyatt a stupid son of a bitch for being so reckless and leading his team with him into total destruction. He simply said, "What can I do to help?"

"There's nothing. Fm on my way to find Lily, and I'm going to bring her in."

"You know where she is?"

"I think so."

Christian didn't ask, as if knowing Wyatt would never tell him. Wyatt trusted the man, but that didn't mean he would let his guard down completely. Not when it came to Lily's safety.

"All right. Call me before you bring her. I'll make sure there are plenty of witnesses this time, though I don't think there's going to be any trouble."

"Why?"

"I know the truth. We all know. Once it got so serious, one of Anspaugh's own men admitted that he'd gone upstairs to see what was taking so long, and heard Anspaugh attack her."

Wyatt’s hand gripped the steering wheel so hard, the leather pattern imprinted itself on his skin. "He's a dead man."

"I didn't hear you say that," Christian said coolly.” The point is, everybody's on this thing-it goes well above Crandall. Nothing is going to happen to Lily-she'll be treated with kid gloves-as long as she turns herself in. And once we clear her of these murder charges, this should all go away."

Maybe for Lily, the only innocent party in all this. Not for Wyatt or his team, however. He wasn't foolish enough to imagine they'd all escape unscathed.

That, however, was the decision they'd made. He only wished the rest of them wouldn't have to face the consequences. He didn't care about himself-as long as Lily was all right, he would pay any price the bureau asked him to. As much as he liked his job, and knew he did it well, it wasn't as though he actually needed to work.

But the others deserved so much better than to be punished for hard work and loyalty.

Hopeful, given what Christian had told him, he took a chance and said, "Look, let them know I'm going to bring her in, all right? They don't need to come at her guns blazing, even if they do figure out where she is. I'll have her back in Washington by tomorrow."

"I'll do what I can," Christian said, not making any promises he couldn't keep. Damn, Wyatt liked the man. It was too bad he'd just ruined his own career before they really had a chance to do much work together.

"Actually," Wyatt said, knowing that if there had ever been a time to call in the favors he had accumulated over the years, or reach out to one or two friends of his late father's, it was now, "I'm going to give you a phone number. Dial it, tell the person who answers you're calling on my behalf, and ask him to see what he can do to help the others. I don't want Dean, Jackie, Kyle, Alec, or Brandon getting crucified over this."

He rattled off the number, waiting while Christian repeated it back.

"Do I want to know who's going to be answering?"

"No," Wyatt replied. "That would probably make you too nervous."

"Huh," Christian said, reminding him that the man seemed to have no nerves at all.

"All right, not nervous. Let's just say it's for discretionary reasons."

"Got it."

Disconnecting, he resumed the drive, riding the gas pedal hard, despite the gathering storm clouds and the cold drops of rain that began to stab the windshield. The drive took half as long as usual. Soon enough he reached the private driveway, half-hidden from the road, and swung onto it. His heart was in his throat as he drove around one curve, then another, peering through the rainy darkness, trying to see if the Jeep was parked at the base of the steps.

"Thank God," he mumbled when he saw it there. Alone.

Pulling up beside it, he hopped out, felt the dwindling warmth of the engine, and knew she hadn't beaten him here by too long.

"She's fine," he reminded himself as he headed for the steps, his head down against the spitting rain. By habit, he glanced toward the motion sensor, certain it had alerted her to his presence. She was probably watching him right now on the surveillance cameras. Reactivating them would have been the very first thing she did when she arrived.

The red warning light was not gleaming in the near darkness. Neither was the green one that said he was free to proceed up the steep stairs.

The system had not been activated.

Tense, Wyatt glanced at the security camera on the garage. No sensor light there, either.

"Lily," he whispered.

The car engine hadn't been that warm. She hadn't arrived here such a short time ago that she hadn't had time to set the system. And no way would she have walked into that house and not seen to her own protection immediately.

Gripped by worry now, Wyatt began to jog, then to run up the steps, taking them two or three at a time, slipping a little on the wet wood surface. Reaching the top of the cliff, he darted to the porch, but hesitated before entering the house. He tested the knob. Unlocked.

This is not good. Wyatt reached down and removed his.40 Glock from its holster, then pushed the door open. It slid noiselessly, allowing him to creep into the darkened house. A few feet in front of him, he saw Lily's purse, lying on the floor, its contents strewn around. Along with everything else, it told a terrifying story.

He almost strode forward, but Wyatt suddenly remembered those crime scenes, all those lures that had to have drawn the victims inside those hotel rooms.

Instinct made him spin just as the person who'd been behind the front door lunged forward. He saw a blade, heard it whistle as it rent the air. An ax. Sharp metal bit into his shoulder, but he got off one shot, seeing a face as his attacker was thrown back.

Claire Vincent.

Blood dripped down his arm, pain eating him alive as his muscles and tendons gaped open. Thinking only of making sure the psychopath didn't get past him to the woman he loved, he ignored it, stepping closer to the lawyer who lay on the floor.

Claire wasn't dead; she was still wriggling, conscious. The bullet had hit her in the middle, above her right hip, and she bled profusely. Wyatt lifted the weapon again, not to finish her off, of course, despite how satisfying it might have been. He merely needed to cover her until he found out how badly she was hurt. "Don't move," he said, "or I'll send you where you belong, into a grave right beside your fucking brother's."

The woman stared up at him, insanity and rage warring in her eyes. Then she looked just past him, as if seeing the ghost of her twisted lover, and managed a weak smile laden with evil.

She whispered, "You first."

Her tone gave him a second's warning and he tried to get out of the way. But his responses were slowed by blood loss, his reactions a split second off due to the pain. He moved too late.

By the time he realized she hadn't been alone, pain, bright and intense, exploded in his head and he was lost.

Lily heard the shot. Not violently explosive, not like in the movies, but unmistakable to someone who'd been alert for that sound, or any other threatening one, every night she'd been in this house.

She didn't panic. Didn't even reach for the shower handle to turn the water off. Instead, she stepped out in silence, grabbed her shirt, and pulled it on over her wet, naked body. Underwear, too. The jeans and shoes she'd taken off in the bedroom, on the other side of the closed bathroom door, not that she'd have wasted time with them, anyway.