Lisa Phillips - Homefront Defenders

Wait for the wave.

It would pass. Then she’d be able to swim to the surface and reach her next breath. She wasn’t going to die down here in the cold black ocean.

Seconds that felt like hours passed as the wave made its journey to shore. A hand slammed into her and knocked her head forward. Alana choked on water and tried to swim against the current. Then she felt the hot sting of a knife glance across her middle.

Unable to wait any longer, she kicked out. Her foot hit something solid. Not the sandy bottom of the ocean. No, she’d hit a person. He’s still here. She fought for the surface as two arms banded around her. She grasped at his arms, his wet suit, and then felt for his face. He wasn’t using scuba gear. That meant he was holding his breath.

Which meant he would drown as well if he stayed down here long enough.

Alana renewed her fight. She wasn’t going out like this.

* * *

Secret Service director James Locke ran for these moments, early in the morning when he could clear his head. Locke pushed out a breath and forced himself to run harder. He had a six-person team on this trip, but it was the lone woman who had all his attention.

He’d seen her on her board in the water. Then pretended he hadn’t. Then felt like a moron for it. He would spot Alana Preston in a crowd, no matter what. She drew him, and Locke had been fighting the pull of his feelings for her since the first day. Still, he wasn’t going to let the rookie distract him from leading his team and keeping the president safe. He had no time for a relationship.

With the hotel in sight, Locke’s legs protested. He slowed to a stop, and a splash in the waves drew his attention.

A surfboard bobbed out of the water, but no rider followed. Then he saw a woman’s arm. Alana’s head broke through the surface. Another person emerged from the water, hair as dark as hers. A man. He grabbed Alana. She sputtered and screamed, then went back down.

Locke sprinted toward her. Alana. She was in the water, and she was in trouble.

He ran into the waves. Someone on the beach yelled. Locke replied, “Call 9-1-1!” Who knew what condition she would be in when he got her out? She might need a trip to the hospital.

He didn’t want to think the worst. God wouldn’t do that to him. Locke was going to pull her out, and Alana would be okay.

Water soaked his sneakers and his clothes up to his waist. Waves buffeted his torso and face, but he reached the spot where he’d seen Alana and dived under to try to find her. Locke moved through the dark wet, the cold. He’d never liked the ocean overly much. The water had too much power. It could dictate whether a person lived or died, and nothing could stop it when the waves were high and ready to swallow a person whole.

He found her. Where was the man, her attacker?

Locke lifted Alana out of the water and pulled her up so he could see her face, close to his. “Alana?” Her eyes were shut. She could almost be sleeping, but she wasn’t. A wave crashed against them.

Locke raced back out of the water with her in his arms. A crowd had gathered. Someone said, “Cops are coming, and an ambulance.”

Locke nodded but didn’t take his gaze from Alana. He lowered her to the sand. She wore one of those shirts that surfers wore to protect their skin from being abraded by their surfboards. Across her left side, toward her ribs, was a wound. She’d been cut, but a reef wouldn’t make such a clean line. It looked more like the work of a knife.

Her usually vibrant, tanned skin was pale. “Alana?” He checked for a pulse and then brushed dark brown hair, softer than anything he’d ever felt, away from her face. Her heartbeat was slow and faint. Was she breathing? He’d read her file. She’d been a champion surfer back in the day. He could see the scar on her knee where she’d had the surgery that had ended her career. But that was years ago. Why had she been the target of an attack now?

His breath came fast, even as his thoughts raced. He couldn’t think what to do. She had a pulse. Was she breathing?

A lifeguard ran over. “Everyone back up.” He wasted no time performing mouth-to-mouth.

She isn’t breathing. Locke held his breath until he saw her jerk. The lifeguard turned her to her side, and she coughed seawater onto the sand. His eyes filled with hot tears, enough that Locke had to walk away or she’d see. She could be dead, and it would be his fault.

He couldn’t go through that again.

He studied the crowd. These people were early-morning surfers, beachcombers and dog walkers. Not the kind of person who would have tried to hurt his colleague. None of them were even wet. Beyond the crowd a man in a black wet suit ran across the beach from the shore toward the hotel. No scuba gear. Had he dumped it in the water?

Locke jumped up, pushed through people with a brief “Excuse me” and kicked up sand as he tore across the beach as fast as he was able.

The man ran with a knife in his hand, taking the tool of his trade with him. Straight but uncombed black hair, short on the sides and shaggy on top. Asian.

Locke didn’t even have a gun, which made it tricky if he was going to confront the attacker. He never carried his phone when he ran, or his keys or wallet.

The sand switched to concrete as he hit the walkway at the edge of the beach. He skirted around an elderly couple on an early-morning stroll hand in hand, then pushed his pace harder as the man raced to a parked Toyota. A rusted-out wreck with open windows and nearly bald tires. What kind of getaway vehicle was that?

“Stop!”

The man was almost at the car, so Locke yelled again, “Secret Service. I said stop!”

Wet suit guy dived across the hood. A head popped into view as the driver sat up in the front seat, which had been tipped all the way back. This second man wasn’t in a wet suit. Not even a shirt, but he wore a white shell necklace. Surfer dude. Older, though, in his sixties, as far as Locke could tell. Caucasian.

And he almost looked familiar.

The man scrubbed his face with his hands and brushed long graying hair from his eyes. Combined with the dark shadow of stubble on his chin, Locke couldn’t get a good look at his facial features. His friend yelled, “Drive!”

The car engine sputtered to life as the knife-wielding man got in the passenger seat. Locke memorized his wide-set eyes and flat nose.

The car sped away. No license plate, but he wasn’t going to forget either of the men.

* * *

Alana sucked in a full breath of salty sea air and moved to sit up. Someone put a hand on her shoulder. “Easy.”

She blinked, and the man came into focus. An EMT. “What...?” She didn’t have the energy to get more words out than that. And why did she think Locke should be here, standing among the crowd of people and a grim-looking lifeguard?

Alana waved off the pressure cuff and sat up. A sharp stab in her side hitched through her like she’d been nicked at exactly that second. “Ouch.” She touched her waist and felt the slit in her rash guard. When she brought her hand away, her fingers had blood mixed with sand on them. She’d been injured surfing before, but never like this.

A black-gloved hand.

“He grabbed my leg.”

Locke pushed through the crowd. “The perp drove away with a friend. Old car, no plates.” He stood over her in his running clothes, his wet shirt clinging to his dark skin. His eyes were filled with concern.

“You went in the water?”

He shrugged, not happy. “I had to get you out.”

Like that was supposed to be obvious to her? She was in trouble, so he’d retrieved her. No big deal. Alana sighed and let the EMT help her to her feet. She swayed a little, and the EMT held her steady. Not the man she wanted, not the one who would never give her even one indication he might feel the same way she did. Locke kept things completely neutral between them.