Erica Spindler - Cause for Alarm

Luke shut off his computer in disgust, stood and crossed to the window. He stared out at the darkened street, mulling over what she had told him. Her story was more high drama than real life, like something from one of his novels.

But it was real life. Kate's.

He was frightened for her.

From the research he'd done for his books, he knew this guy. John Powers was like Condor. At the truth of that, Luke's blood ran cold. He recalled the loving way Condor had held the gun at the range that day, thought of the things he had said about life and death. About killing.

John Powers was like Condor, he thought again. But without the honor. Without the code of ethics.

He was a walking, talking killing machine.

Fear grabbed Luke by the throat. With his mind's eye, he saw Kate lying in a pool of blood. He saw Emma beside her, face contorted in death. The images took his breath away.

Luke turned his back to the window. John Powers could have followed Kate here. From what she'd told him, there had been time. He could have been parked outside Kate's home, calling from a cell phone. He could have been there waiting, watching, laughing at their pitiable effort at escape.

Heart thundering, he crossed to his desk and retrieved the.44 Magnum from the bottom right-hand drawer, recalling his conversation with Condor. He smiled grimly. Right now he was damn glad to have the Magnum's firepower. Up against a man like John Powers, he would be lucky to get off one shot-he would want that shot to do as much damage as possible.

Luke snapped open the cylinder, checked to make certain it carried a full round, then strode for the stairs. He took them two at a time to the second-floor landing, paused a moment to listen, than started for Kate's room.

It lay at the end of the hall. He closed the distance between him and it, opened the door and stepped inside. He crossed to the bed. Kate was there. Asleep on her side, her face pressed deeply into the feather pillow. Crescent-shaped shadows stained the delicate skin beneath her eyes, and her dark lashes stood out in stark contrast to her pale cheeks.

Luke reached out to touch her, then drew his hand away and shifted his gaze to her daughter. Emma slept beside her on the queen-size bed, nestled in the bassinet they had fashioned out of bed pillows. He tipped his head, studying the child. She was small and sweet and pretty, her face angelic in sleep. Her chubby arms were thrown above her head in total relaxation; her chest rose and fell with her deep, even breathing.

No wonder Kate loved her so desperately, Luke thought. No wonder she would sacrifice herself to save her. He drew his eyebrows together. How could Richard not have felt the same? Emma Ryan would be easy to love. Easy to grow attached to. Too easy.

Sweet Jesus, he had to help Kate. He had to help them both, had to stop this man.

"Luke? Is everything all right?"

Kate's eyes were half-open. Regret that he had awakened her skittered through him. "Fine," he whispered, thinking again of John Powers. He forced an easy smile. "Just checking on you. Go back to sleep. Everything's going to be fine."

Her lips lifted slightly even as her eyelids fluttered shut. She mumbled something he couldn't make out, and he realized she was already asleep.

He watched her for a moment, then exited the room, leaving the door ajar. After checking all the doors and windows to make sure they were locked, he brewed himself a pot of coffee, poured himself a cup and took post on the couch.

Someone had to stand guard. Tonight and every night until John Powers was stopped.

And he seemed the most likely candidate.

Kate awakened to the smell of coffee and bacon. She stretched, breathing deeply, taking a moment to savor the luxury of being pampered. She smiled. How long had it been since she had awakened to those smells? Since the baby, of course. But how long before then? Somewhere along the line Richard had begun to refuse to make coffee-he said she made the process too complicated-and he considered bacon toxic waste, unfit for human consumption.

Thoughts of Richard brought the present crashing in on her. She didn't think of him in the past tense, she realized. Tears flooded her eyes, and she shut them tightly. She couldn't. Not yet. It hurt too much.

Tears squeezed from the corners of her closed eyes and slipped down her cheeks. She missed him. Not the man he had become in the past few months, the one whose frailties and flaws had surfaced to overshadow his many fine and admirable traits. She missed the Richard who had carried her over the threshold, the man who had made her laugh, who had encouraged her to open her own business; the man who had taught her about love.

She didn't have time for this, she thought, brushing the tears away. She couldn't give her energy to grieving for Richard. She had a daughter to protect; a madman to outrun.

The events of the day before and the gravity of her situation thundered down on her, in an avalanche of fear and helplessness. She glanced at the bedside clock, noted it was after ten, then dragged herself into a sitting position. She brought her hands to her face, working to center herself. She had to stay strong and focused. She, Julianna and Emma would be on the road again in a matter of hours. Between now and then, she had to come up with a plan.

Suddenly, the lateness of the hour sank in, the quiet of the room. Kate twisted to face the bed she and Luke had created for her daughter.

It was empty.

It took a split second for the realization to register, then with a sound of terror, Kate leaped out of the bed and raced for the door. She yanked it open and darted into the hall, stumbling slightly. "Luke!" she cried. "Luke! Where are you?"

He called that he was in the kitchen, and she ran in that direction, heart thundering, hysteria rising up inside her. John had found them. He had slipped into the house during the night and had stole Emma away. She brought a hand to her mouth, a horror of images unfolding in her head.

She stopped dead in the kitchen doorway. Stunned. Speechless. Luke sat at the kitchen table, cradling Emma in his arms while he fed her a bottle.

He looked up and smiled. "Morning, Kate."

"What are you doing?"

He looked down at Emma, then back up at Kate. "Giving Emma her bottle. She woke up hungry, and you needed to sleep. That was about six-thirty, by the way. This is her second bottle."

He had slipped into her room and out with Emma, and she hadn't heard a thing. Unsettled, Kate moved fully into the kitchen, legs shaking. "But how…how did you know what to do?"

He smiled, the small lopsided smile that had always made her heart go pit-a-pat. "It's not all that technical, Kate. Take bottle, fill, warm and offer to baby. Simple."

She laughed then, a high, nervous sound. He moved his gaze over her, eyebrows drawn together in concern. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I-" She brought a hand to her chest and let out a long breath. "I woke up and she was…gone."

She crossed to the table, legs shaking so badly she must have looked like an epileptic having a seizure. She sank onto a chair. "I thought…I thought the worst."

His smile faded. "I'm sorry, Kate. I didn't think about that. Considering the circumstances, I should-"

She held up a hand, stopping him. "No, don't apologize. I appreciate you letting me sleep. Richard never-" She bit the words back, forced a smile and held out her arms. "Now that I'm up, I can take her."

"Actually, I'm rather enjoying myself. Do you mind?"

She said she didn't, swallowing hard. "Coffee?" she asked.

"In the carafe. Cups are in the cabinet right above."

"Thanks." She crossed to the cabinet and selected a mug. Obviously a promotional item for Dead Drop , the mug's handle was shaped like a gun grip. Luke's name, the book title and release date were printed in red on the gunmetal gray exterior of the mug.