Lori L. Harris - Targeted

She set the wine bottle on the counter and gave the faucet handle a hard turn. Leave it to her landlord to be so darned eager to conserve electricity while wasting water.

Behind her, the floorboard creaked. The old flooring under her feet gave slightly. Her lungs tightened as with sudden clarity, she realized she wasn’t alone. Worse, that she hadn’t been alone from the moment she’d walked in tonight.

Don’t panic. Think. The last thing she needed was to be frozen with terror. She’d taken a self-defense course. She knew what to do. Flee if possible. If that wasn’t an option…

“Lousy faucet,” she said softly, pretending to try it again. What did the intruder want? Not money. If he’d wanted cash, he’d have already taken it from her jewelry box. He wouldn’t be standing behind her now.

The hairs at the back of her neck stood out, and her back muscles, even her abdominals, clenched in fear.

From the corner of her eye, she glanced at the back door. Too far. She’d never make it. She looked out the window over the sink. Toward her closest neighbor’s house. The light in their side yard was barely visible through the trees. They wouldn’t hear or see anything.

And then she saw the silhouette in the glass. A large man. Moving toward her.

Still twisting the faucet handle with her right hand, Katie reached for the drawer to the left of the sink, the one where she kept knives. She slid it open and stuck her hand inside. She could feel the cool, solid hardness of the bone handle. She could do this. She had to do this. She had to protect herself.

An arm suddenly smashed across her ribs as a second locked around her throat. She was hauled backward. The drawer came with her, but the edge of the cabinet caught the knife and ripped it from her fingers.

Knives and ladles and spatulas clattered across the oak floor like pickup sticks in a deadly game. At the last moment, she grabbed for the wine bottle but only managed to knock it over. As it hit the floor, it exploded. A chunk of flying glass clipped her shin and warm wine splattered her legs.

Katie brought her heel down hard, but she was wearing soft soles. Her attacker shifted just enough to deflect the blow. Utensils clanked. Kicking them aside, the man lifted her off the ground, his muscular arm driving the air from her lungs. He swung her toward the hall doorway. Pain exploded as her kneecap slammed into the oak jamb. The blow dislodged the wall phone’s handset and it crashed toward the floor, and then leaped upward like a bungee jumper.

Glass ground beneath his boots, chewing the wood floor.

“No!” Katie latched on to the door trim.

Her fingernails bent backward, separating from their beds. She lost her hold. She jammed her elbow into his ribs. He barely flinched. She grabbed his ear, the only vulnerable area she could reach, and dug in her nails.

Grunting, the man slammed her headfirst against the hall wall and pinned her there. With her head turned to the side and canted upward at an angle, movement was impossible. His heavy body continued to press in on her from behind. And still she hung on to his ear, knowing that if she let go, he’d kill her.

It was then she smelled the candle wax. Shifting her gaze toward her barely opened bedroom door, she saw the candlelight playing across the scuffed hall floor.

How long had this man been here—in her house—preparing for what he was going to do to her? The horror of what was about to happen forced the last of the air from her lungs.

He leaned in harder. She felt the vertebrae of her neck strain.

She should have answered the phone, talked to her parents. Oh, God, she wanted to hear their voices one last time.

And then, when she was completely immobile, completely powerless, she heard his voice for the first time.

“Did you really think I’d let you live, Katydid?”

Thirty-five minutes after leaving the shooting range and his brother, Alec parked in front of Katie’s bungalow. He’d tried phoning to cancel their date. But when he’d gotten her voice mail, he’d resigned himself to stopping by with a pizza.

His right hand propped on the steering wheel, he glanced at the cut flowers resting on the carry-out pizza box. He’d picked up the bouquet at the supermarket. The female clerk had thought him cheap for buying the very last of the mixed bunches. The center of some of the flowers had already turned brown. But his only other choice had been the old standby of red roses, and he couldn’t make himself pick them up.

“Say it with flowers.”

Grabbing the pizza and the bouquet, he climbed out of the SUV. Five minutes tops. He’d hand her the pizza and the flowers, wish her a good night and a good life.

The Azalea Park neighborhood, which had been built in the second decade of the last century, was one of those up-and-coming areas. Most of the people took care of their properties, but there were a few holdouts who seemed content with sparse lawns, overgrown shrubs and peeling paint.

Surrounded by an out-of-control hedge, the entry courtyard of Katie’s Spanish bungalow was dark. After knocking, he waited. When she didn’t answer, he checked his watch. Seven ten. He was early. Maybe she was running late getting home or was in the shower.

Alec changed the flowers to his other hand, and, lightly popping the cellophane-encased bouquet against his pant leg, debated just leaving a note.

A loud crash came from inside. Then breaking glass.

What in the hell was going on? He tried the door. “Katie?”

A woman screamed.

Tossing down flowers and pizza, Alec pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster. With a solid kick, he forced the dead bolt through the frame. The door slammed into the wall behind, the glass in the top half shattering upon impact.

Katie’s and her attacker’s shadows briefly filled the hallway.

Bursting low and fast through the open door, he chose the unlit room to the right. Reaching it, he pressed himself hard against the wall, trying to leave the suspect with as little of a target as possible.

Alec inched forward. A large chunk of plaster exploded several inches from his face. A second round immediately hit in nearly the same spot. A controlled double tap. This wasn’t some street thug. And it sure as hell wasn’t a Saturday night special.

Alec knew he was moving too fast, recklessly. He needed to slow down. He needed to get his adrenaline under control.

“FBI,” he yelled, but made no move to advance.

Nothing. No indication of movement anywhere in the house. Alec tried not to think about what that might mean. That Katie was already dead. Or seriously injured.

He wasn’t even sure what he was dealing with here—a burglary attempt that had hit the skids or attempted rape. Jesus. He had hoped never to face another situation like this.

“Put down your weapon,” Alec ordered.

No response again. He scanned what appeared to be the dining room for another entrance. Finding none, he realized he’d made a poor choice. With the only way in or out either this door or the front window, he was pinned down. Of course, at the time, a dark room had seemed a better choice than a well-lit one.

Alec’s heart hammered. With no other choice, he slid around the door frame and into the entry foyer again, into the light spilling from the living room. The house was cold and silent. A clock ticked somewhere, or maybe it was some type of drip. He’d once entered the bathroom of a murder victim, expecting to turn off a faucet’s slow drip only to discover the sound had nothing to do with plumbing.

He could hear movement now and advanced toward it. The wood floor creaked with the slightest of weight shift, making silent progress impossible. And having never been in this house, he didn’t know the layout, but assumed the hall led to bedrooms and at least one bathroom. There would also be a kitchen, which he would have expected to connect with the dining room, so there was no telling where it fell in the floor plan. But all these old houses had a second door, usually off the kitchen. Was the suspect trying to reach it?