Vicki Hinze - Survive the Night

“He’s an explosives specialist.”

“But we don’t know that there are explosives in the box, Paul.”

“Which is why it’s best to be prudent.” He stopped. “We do know the package was delivered under suspicious circumstances.”

“But Beech?” The military reminded her of her active duty days when she’d been stationed at the base here, and of all she’d lost while serving in Afghanistan. Things she’d worked hard to forget but failed, and now worked hard to accept. “Couldn’t the police handle it?” Actually, she didn’t want them called, either. She didn’t need the police.

Now that she’d absorbed the shock of seeing Gracie on the porch holding that box, she wanted to check it out herself. It could be a prank, related to one of her cases. Could be a practical joke of some sort, or anything other than something dangerous. She was a professional investigator, for pity’s sake. If the local police considered her a hysterical woman, her professional effectiveness would be hampered on every case she worked from now on.

Yet Paul’s reason for calling Major Beech intrigued her. Why had he done that? Oh, she’d heard what he’d said. But she knew him, and his reasons would never be that simple. There was definitely more to it.

“The local police are not explosives specialists, and they’re tied up with the festival. They’d have to get a unit from Walton County to come in and, frankly, Walton would probably just call the base for assistance anyway. Calling Beech direct saves time.” Paul led her down the sidewalk toward his SUV. “Let’s wait in the car.”

All true, but still not everything. What more was there? “You’ve got a bad feeling about this, don’t you?” Della sensed it in him, just as she felt it in the pit of her stomach. Maybe it was their military training. Paul had served in special operations. Della had served in the intelligence realm as a computer specialist. Both positions required skill sets that included honed instincts.

Or maybe it wasn’t their common military experience but the personal bond connecting them that put them on a kindred wavelength. Whatever the reason, they both had a feeling about this, and it wasn’t good.

“Yeah, I do, Della.” He wrapped a protective arm around her shoulder. “A real bad feeling.”

She shivered and he pulled her closer.

* * *

Crouching low, he hid in the darkness between two fat bushes and watched them walk to the black SUV and get inside. He’d chosen this spot across the street because it was void of light; she’d never spot him, yet he could see every move she made.

Why didn’t you just open the box? Frustrated, he cast an agitated glare at her neighbor’s house, the cottage next door. It was that stupid kid’s fault. If she hadn’t interfered, Della would have found the package. He’d have seen her open it. There’s no way she would have walked away without opening it. He’d have seen her panic and felt her fear.

He thrived on her fear.

For six weeks, the anticipation had been building, clawing at his stomach, urging him to rush. Temptation burned so strong but he’d strained mightily against it and fortunately his leash had held—at least, thus far. Discipline, man. To win requires discipline.

It did. Enormous discipline. Della Jackson was not a fool. Yet neither was he. Each step had to be weighed, considered, calculated, the consequences determined from all sides. He’d planned down to the minutest detail. Created a backup contingency plan. Monitored and measured each act, each response, every possible reaction, and it was a good thing he had.

She’d picked up on him following her right away—amazingly fast, actually. He begrudgingly gave her props for that. The woman had skills and the instincts to make her as good an investigator as she had been with computers. Those instincts made her dangerous.

But his instincts and skills were stronger, more seasoned, perfected over two decades in a series of trials by fire. Soon she’d discover just how much superiority that gave him. Soon he’d see—

Three cars whipped around the corner and slid to a stop at the curb in front of her cottage.

So they weren’t cutting and running. Mason had stuck in his nose and called for backup. No cops. Military backup. A shudder rippled through his body, pressed his stomach into the cool dirt. Well, well. Interesting if mildly disappointing yet not wholly unexpected. He could deal with it. So he wouldn’t get to see her face when she saw what was inside the box. He could imagine her reaction easily enough.

Horror and then rage. Helpless and hopeless and then finally, finally...Della Jackson eaten alive with fear.

Inescapable, merciless, unrelenting fear.

He could wait. Not tonight, but before this was done he would see all those things in her and more. And when she was emotionally drained dry and wrung out with nothing left and too weak to run, then...

Then?

Then he would kill her.

Turning away, he slipped into the night.

* * *

“Della. Paul.” Major Harrison Beech extended his hand. “Good to see you, though I’m sorry about the circumstance.”

He was a big man with close-cropped hair and a bulky build dressed in his BDU—battle dress uniform. The camo was light, but most of it was now, since they’d been at war in the desert for a decade. “I’m not sure what the circumstances are,” Della said honestly. “I hope we haven’t troubled you for nothing.”

Beech motioned to his men to retrieve the box from the porch. “I hope you have.” He spared her a smile, grabbing a gear bag from his vehicle. “Any reason to expect explosives?”

“We haven’t examined the package,” Paul said. “But Della was the target of a mailbox bomb when she was active duty.”

“Yes.” Sadness crossed his face. “You were in theater, Afghanistan, but your husband and son...”

She nodded. Clearly he’d been briefed on her dossier on his way over. “The man who did it, Leo Dawson, wasn’t convicted. He was a mental patient they’d cut loose. So they sent him back.”

“Let me guess. He’s out now.”

Again she nodded. “About six weeks, though I just learned of it. But I’m not sure this package is from him. That incident happened over three years ago. He has nothing to connect me to North Bay.”

“As I recall, you weren’t stationed here when he planted the bomb.”

“No, I’d already left the base.” When here, she had officially been assigned to Personnel, but actually she’d been in a top-secret facility only those with extremely high clearances knew existed. They referred to it as the Nest. Her mission had been to protect the Nest’s computer assets. Not that she knew the facility’s purpose. Only the commander and vice commander had clearance for that tight need-to-know loop. “When my family was attacked, I was stationed in Tennessee but deployed to Afghanistan.” She crossed her arms. Talking about this dredged up all the old feelings, painful memories she didn’t want to relive.

Two of his men methodically tested the package. Della glanced back to Paul.

“There’s a discrepancy between the return address and the actual shipping label,” Paul told Beech. “One’s Tennessee, the other a Walton County zip code.” Waloka’s neighboring county to the east.

“Any credible suspects besides the mental patient?” Beech asked.

“Dozens,” she confessed. “Working my cases for Lost, Inc., I ruffle a few feathers.”

Paul smiled. “Della’s persistent about finding people who are lost—even those who don’t want to be found. Makes for some grateful friends, but for a few annoyed enemies, too.” He hiked a thumb toward the front door. “I’m going to check things out inside while you’re here.”