Julie Miller - The Marine Next Door

One hand rested on the butt of the GLOCK 9 mm holstered at her waist as she inched closer to the boy who was peeking at him from beneath the bill of his Royals baseball cap. John was pretty sure the protective-mama move was intentional when she turned so he could clearly see the KCPD badge hanging from the chain beneath her starched collar.

“What floor?” she asked politely enough. But her green eyes darted as though they were assessing his height and width and the distance between them.

“Seventh.”

“Travis.” She squeezed the boy’s shoulder beside the backpack he wore, drawing John’s attention to the fact that her skin wasn’t tanned so much as it was dotted with hundreds of freckles.

The boy, whom John put in the nine- to ten-year-old range, slipped his ball glove over the handle of the bat he carried before pushing the button and then twisting from his mother’s grasp. “Do you live on the seventh floor?”

Well, at least someone in this elevator didn’t think he was the spawn of the devil. “That’s why I’m going there.”

“We just came from baseball practice,” the boy announced. “I play in the outfield, but I want to be the second baseman or shortstop. Do you like baseball?”

“Trav.” The redhead chided her son in a soft tone that belied her tough-chick image. “What did I say about bothering people?”

“He’s no bother, ma’am.” Now where did that reassurance come from? He should have been happy she didn’t want to talk to him.

The boy named Travis tilted his face up to John’s, giving him a clear look at the inherited freckles sprinkled across his nose and cheeks. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers, but Mom says I need to know all the neighbors on our floor in case she’s not home and I need to go to a safe place. We’re on the seventh, too. I’m Travis Wheeler.”

Safe place? Although there were other eighty-year-old buildings on this block that were in the process of being reclaimed like this one, one of the reasons John had chosen this particular neighborhood was so that his sister could stop in for a visit whenever she wanted to. The fact that Miranda Murdock was a cop, like this woman, didn’t matter. Big brothers looked out for their little sisters—even if she was engaged to a man who was just as protective of her as John.

This building was safe. The remodeled structure now surpassed fire codes and he’d been assured by the landlord that retired tenants and young professionals—not gnarly devil men who terrorized women and children—populated the place.

“I’m Captain—” normal , civilian conversation, remember? “—John Murdock. I work for the Kansas City Fire Department. Out of Station 23.”

“You’re a firefighter? Cool.”

“Sorry.” Mama clasped her hand over Travis’s shoulder and pulled him back to her without sharing her name and completing the introductions. “You’re new here?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve been deployed overseas or stationed in the DC area for a couple of years now. Moving in today.” There he went, making a rusty effort to put her at ease.

“What apartment?”

“709.”

“Mom, that’s right next door to us.”

“So it is.” The smile for her son faded when she faced John again. “Don’t worry, I’m not looking for babysitters. Travis won’t be stopping by.”

“I’m not a baby—”

“If he needs to—”

“He won’t.” John almost grinned at Travis’s frustrated groan when his overprotective mama hugged her arm across his chest. “There are plenty of other tenants in the building we tru—”

Her gaze wavered and dropped to the middle of John’s dusty gray-green T-shirt where she could read the letters USMC .

Trust?

Yep, no need to worry about polite civility with this woman. He was free to be his moody, isolated self, as far as she was concerned.

So why did it bother him that she turned away to watch the buttons for each floor light up without making direct eye contact with him again?

“Can you play baseball with your leg like that?”

“Travis!”

Mama put her fingers over her son’s mouth and John finally got the silence he’d thought he wanted until the elevator jerked, an alarm bell rang, and the whole car jolted to an unexpected stop. The redhead yelped as she tumbled into the back wall, but she caught her son and clung to the railing with a white-knuckled intensity, keeping both of them upright.

“What the hell?” John swayed on his feet, but the boxes anchored him into place. The light for the seventh floor was lit up above the door, but the doors didn’t open. Beneath the blare of the alarm he listened for any sounds of cables and pulleys reengaging. He reached across the elevator and pounded the alarm button with his fist until it shut off. He tilted his face toward the trap door and machine works above them. Silence. Almost like the building’s electricity had suddenly shut off. But why were the lights in the car still on if there was no power to the rest of the elevator? They were good and stuck. So much for life returning to normal. His gaze zeroed in on the ashen skin of the policewoman. “Does this happen often here?”

“Mom?” The kid tugged on the sleeve of his mother’s uniform. A worried frown veed between the boy’s eyes as he turned to John. “She’s got a thing about elevators. She doesn’t really like them.”

“That’s nonsense. I’m fine, sweetie.” She cupped her son’s face and flashed a smile for his benefit. But John wasn’t buying it. Freckles there definitely had a phobia about something. Being trapped? Closed-in places? Fear of falling? “I’ve never gotten stuck in the elevator here before. But it’s an old building. Stuff happens.”

“It didn’t happen on any of my other rides up and down from the garage.”

Her glare told John that she didn’t appreciate his pointing out that fact. “We just have to notify the super, Mr. Standage, that we’re stuck, and he’ll get things moving in no time.” Assuming an air of nonchalance, probably to reassure the boy, she crossed to the rows of buttons and opened the emergency phone panel. Only, instead of pulling out the telephone, she dropped down in front of the opening. “There’s no phone in here.”

“What?”

“It’s gone. There’s nothing but wires.”

“Let me see.” John set the boxes of books on the floor and knelt in front of the panel beside her. He’d seen billiard balls ricochet across a pool table slower than the woman shot to the opposite corner of the car, pulling her son with her. So maybe he was what she was afraid of.

That didn’t bode well for her staying calm in this crisis.

Drawing on years of training to keep victims or locals calm during a rescue attempt with KCFD or raid on insurgents overseas, John pushed aside any insult or guilt he might feel at her obvious aversion to him, and kept his voice as calm as he could make it. It was a little harder to control the jerky movements that might startle her as he pushed to his feet and locked his bum leg into place.

But the woman was wearing a KCPD uniform with sergeant’s stripes on the sleeve. There had to be some training that she could draw on, too. “You have a cell phone on you, Sarge?”

“Yes.”

He remained by the door and simply spoke over the jut of his shoulder to her. “If you’ve got Standage’s number, call him directly. If not, call 9-1-1 and ask for the fire department. They’ll know how to deal with elevator emergencies.”

She pulled her phone from the bag looped over her shoulder and opened it to make the call. Good. “You said you were with the fire department now. Do you know how to get us out of here?”