Dawn Stewardson - The Full Story

At the moment, all he had to do was prevent her from calling her boss back. Or using her computer to e-mail him.

But sending her packing wasn’t the way to handle things. Even if he confiscated her laptop and cell phone before showing her the door, she’d find a pay phone.

So he’d have to negotiate, to use her term. He only intended to negotiate a little, though.

ONCE DAN GOT BACK to the kitchen, Mickey eyed him expectantly.

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s the deal I’ll go for. If the killer shows up, you get your exclusive this afternoon. If he doesn’t, if I have to go to New York and find Billy, you don’t breathe a word about any of this until the situation is resolved. Then, you get your exclusive.”

She looked suspicious, so he added, “Either way, you win.”

“And what if you end up in New York and another journalist gets wind of what’s happening?” she said. “Where would my exclusive be then?”

“Don’t worry about that, because this will be over and done with today. Now, give me your laptop and purse.”

“Pardon me?”

“Your laptop and purse,” he repeated. “Just for a minute.”

She hesitated, then handed them over.

“Oh, and one other thing,” he said.

“What?”

“When you get down to writing your story, you can report the facts of what happens. And Billy’s a public figure so he’s fair game. But my name doesn’t show up in print.”

“Then how do I refer to you?”

“Mr. Brent’s bodyguard will do. And there can’t be any mention of the company I work for, either.”

“You mean you don’t work for Billy?”

“Only indirectly. At any rate, those are the other ground rules. And before we go any further, I want your word that you won’t break them.”

She nodded, although she clearly didn’t like having additional parameters. But since there was a lot about this he didn’t like, it only seemed fair.

“Oh, and I should tell you,” he continued, “that a lot of important people deal with my company. People who like the fact that it’s low profile.

“So if you did happen to make any mention of me—or it—you’d be done at the Post. And you’d never get a job with a decent paper again.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“No. I’m only negotiating a deal.”

When he began rummaging through her purse, she said, “What do you figure you’re doing?”

“Just taking your car keys and phone.”

“I don’t think so!”

Sticking the keys into his pocket, he tossed her purse back, then started across the kitchen with her phone and computer.

“Give me my other things,” she demanded.

Ignoring her was immensely enjoyable.

After dumping the newspapers out of the recycle box, he took a minute to check the surveillance monitors.

They still weren’t picking up anything unusual. And even though he hated the idea of leaving them unmanned again, he hated the thought of Mickey getting in touch with the Post even more. Which meant that the best thing he could do was just get this over with as quickly as possible.

He put her laptop, cell phone and keys into the box, then picked it up and began making his way from room to room with it—her on his heels—unplugging each phone he came to and adding it to the box.

“I don’t believe this,” she finally muttered. “I simply do not believe you’re doing this.”

“You told me you wanted to stay,” he reminded her. “So you don’t need your car keys right now. And you haven’t got the story yet, so you don’t need your computer.”

“Well I certainly need a phone. I promised my boss I’d call him back.”

“He’ll understand. In the long run.”

Apparently, she couldn’t think of a response to that. She followed him silently into the last room, a huge, windowless theater that could seat twenty.

He unplugged the phone in there and topped up the pile with it, then said, “Okay. You stay here. If you hear any shots, hit the floor between the rows of chairs.”

“And how am I supposed to get my story from in here?”

“If the killer shows up, I’ll knock him unconscious and then fill you in. You can even take pictures.”

“But—”

“Mickey, the odds are very high that we’re talking about a professional hit man. Just letting you stay goes against my better judgement, and I definitely don’t have time to baby-sit.”

“I don’t need baby-sitting. I even know how to handle a gun. I used to take target shooting with my brothers.”

“You don’t have a gun, though, do you? So just sit tight.”

“But—”

“That’s how it has to be,” he snapped. “Take it or leave it.”

“All right,” she said sullenly.

He walked out of the room—closing the door behind himself, despite knowing damn well that she’d have it cracked open within thirty seconds—and headed back to the kitchen once more.

The monitors were still showing nothing out of the ordinary, so unless his killer had snuck up tight to the house during the past five minutes…

That thought didn’t sit well with him. Considering the way the day had been going so far, it just might have happened.

After concealing the recycle box in the back of a closet, keeping only his own cell phone accessible, he scanned the screens again.

The unsettled feeling worming its way around in his stomach was telling him that he’d better make sure things were still cool, so he took his Glock from his waistband and headed for the front door.

If he discovered someone plastered against the outside of the house, the way he’d found Mickey earlier, at least he’d have the element of surprise.

He silently unbolted the door and threw it open—his gun ready for action.

But there was no new company. Not out front, anyway.

Still, he’d better take a quick walk around the house. Be certain that he hadn’t missed seeing anything.

He strode down from the porch and started off, pausing to listen for a moment when he reached the corner.

All he heard was the raucous call of a jay and the clicking sound that some insect made when it flew.

So far so good. Then he headed around the corner and found himself face-to-face with big trouble.

Actually, face to mask, he thought uneasily.

A man wearing a rubber mask that made him look like an alien was standing five feet in front of him—with a Magnum centered on his chest.

“Put down your gun,” the masked man said. “Slowly.”

Wordlessly Dan set his Glock on the ground.

“Good. Now we’re going into the house. You first.”

He turned and began walking back toward the front door, both his heart and his thoughts racing.

Most likely, he was only still breathing because this guy figured Billy was inside and hadn’t wanted to alert him with a shot.

But he couldn’t count on staying alive for long. Not when professional killers tended to have a take-no-prisoners, leave-no-witnesses style of thinking.

However, the man didn’t know the house and Dan did. Which meant that all he needed was one little break.

Adrenaline pumping, he stepped inside.

“Where’s Billy?” the killer asked.

“This way.”

He started across the polished pine floor of the entrance area, wishing he had eyes in the back of his head.

Ages ago, he’d perfected a move that would work if the man was close enough. At least, it had worked a few times in the past, in dark New Orleans alleys.

But if he guessed wrong and the killer was too far back, he’d get himself shot for sure. Then this guy would search the place and Mickey would take the next round of bullets.

So he couldn’t guess. He’d just have to hope to hell that—