Pt. 1: “Nameless”, Pt. 2: “Nightmares”, Pt. 3: “Respite”, Pt. 4: “Illusion”, Pt. 5: “Role”

            It was hot. Hotter than any stage light and with no relief, beyond the occasional shady outcrop or scraggly clump of scrub oak that sprung up here and there across a backdrop paved in powdered dust. Even if the tiny patches of eighty-degree relief had been large enough to fit her sore and sweaty body, she had no time to take advantage of either.

            Her first option after slipping behind the hastily pushed aside window screen had been the truck stop across from the motel. It seemed too risky a move, though, what with Jonny and his driver close by and no telling who might be passing through, or whose side they would take under pressure. Because Jonny would apply as much pressure as it took, outbidding Laine with every available bargaining tool, physical and financial.

            Instead, she planned to retrace their route north, staying a good distance from the highway to prevent Jonny and his associates from spotting her amidst the filmy heat mirage that shimmered several feet high in every direction. That kind of caution would also prevent anyone else from helping her, but she couldn’t play around. Not with her life on the line. While hiking in cocktail dress and heels toward some out-of-the-way residence was hardly a delightful challenge, until a better plan presented itself…

            The harsh desert landscape hindered her progress more than anything, except for the very important fact that she had only a vague clue where she was going. Escaping bleak Jamul to hide behind the lines of jagged boulders that made up SoCal’s rugged border landscape? Child’s play. If, of course, child’s play involved blisters from shoes designed for short-term wear—most definitely not for cross-country endurance rambles.

            Ducking down into a stone strewn ravine, Laine glanced grimly at her dusty, chaffed raw feet. The strappy shoes would have to go. Selecting a sharp slab from the bric-a-brac pile at her feet, she wielded the rock like a knife. Two sharp jabs shredded the material from her dress a few inches above the knee. She tore until the circle of silky material dropped free, then further divided the cloth in two. Next, she twisted blue cloth around each sore foot until it covered them like an ugly pair of too-thin moccasins. Hopefully, the fashion creation would function better than her heels.

            Laine grimaced as she stood. Bits of fractured rock dug through the cloth and after a few experimental steps, she sighed in frustration. Heat and sharp edges dug into her already aching pads as if she had been stomping about barefoot. This wasn’t going to work after all.

            Shielding her face with a hand, she looked up the ravine in a vain search for salvation. Rescue was not in the books; that was for sure. But there, a few feet up the incline, grew a few scraggly Manzanita bushes. An idea formed quickly in her head. Gingerly climbing up the incline, she plucked several large handfuls of the tough, rubbery leaves. Then she unwound the material from her feet and layered the leaves across the length of cloth that served as a sole. This time, after double-square knots once more secured her makeshift shoes in place, the tentative footfalls felt workable, if not comfortable.

            Highway 94 lay somewhere to her right, at least half a mile by her rough estimation. She would stick just this side of the ridgeline, following the twists and turns of the road as best she could until she reached some part of civilization Jonny wasn’t liable to be watching. Admittedly, a whole lot could go wrong along the way. She had no food, no water, no protection from the sun. This set the strict time limit for when her strength would give out at a matter of hours. Longer, if she could add any of the three necessities to her assets.

            Not much of chance of that unless a country club was hiding over the next hill.

            Which left her with no choice but to move on and quickly. This was SoCal, for goodness sake. There had to be a residential area somewhere nearby.

            But if there wasn’t…

            Determined to make it through the nightmare, Laine set out across the rocky hills. She wished she could keep the highway in sight, part of her afraid she would wander too far off course and become completely lost. Then Jonny would win anyway.

            She moved as quickly as she could, feeling like molasses oozing in the hot pre-summer sun. Per usual, not a single cloud drifted across the solid cerulean sky. Sweat dripped from more pores than she felt a person should rightly possess until her clothes were drenched. Not even the tiniest breeze wandered by to create an illusion of coolness, or wick the perspiration away.

            Already, her skin felt oven-baked and her mind drudged along amidst a numbness that matched the paled sensation in her feet. If she had feet, because she wasn’t convinced. Still, she kept on. It was the only thing she had. It was the only thing left to do.

            Dust rose in miniature clouds when her feet struck the ground. She learned to pick her knees up high, or else risk a stubbed toe or damage to her fraying moccasins. The sun pressed down, relentless in its assault until she felt it like a physical pressure. Hunched, dried out, and necessarily mindless, she marched below the ridgeline, a zombie with one purpose: survival.

            After what felt like three times the two hours her crystal-faced watch told her had passed, a sprig of hope dangled tantalizingly in the future. A few miles in the distance, the tail of a gravel road meandered out from behind several tall, lumpy boulders. This was good new on its own. More important was the three-story cabin at its end. That became her destination, regardless of what the highway somewhere on her right-hand side chose to do.

            With luck, the cabin possessed a working phone. She’d settle for water and food. Shoes too.

            Also pants.

            A mirror, on the other hand, she could do without. Mitchell would have a fit if he saw her now. She was the polar opposite of public-ready.

            With a clear destination in sight, the distance felt all the greater. Her brain knew she could make the cabin, but the heat had her body fighting for every inch. Rest sounded like the best idea ever. Except that if she sank to the ground, even for a moment or two, she would not be getting up. Not on her own accord.

            She could no longer remember what had possessed her to hike across civilization-proof desert in the first place. The truck stop had been the smarter choice, the one that fell inside her limits. This? This was something that belonged in movies, where crewmembers waited just out of sight with shade tents and drinks with ice.

            It hurt to think about that. Hurt to think about anything beyond the task at hand. No, hurt to think period.

            She climbed, she slipped. Scrapes covered her legs and the palms of both hands. The ragged bottom of her cocktail dress chaffed at her thighs. Every inch of skin was covered in dull grey dust, accented here and there by rivulets of muddy sweat streaks. Her hair had come loose from its mass of pinned blonde strands, clumps of which dangled across her cheeks and curled down the back of her neck. The sticky smell of hairspray clung to each follicle, its scent sickening in the heat.

            She studied her path in fleeting glances between short, exhausted strides. Light from the afternoon sun glinted harshly off glass as she honed in on the building that could save her. It was larger, grander than expected. Lots of large windows and stained wood planks that labeled it a retreat for someone with dollars to spend. Someone who valued their privacy.

            Good. At the moment, she did too. No one would look for her here.

            At what felt like forever, she stumbled onto the foremost step. It took all her effort to drag herself upward toward the door. She knocked. And then she sank down.

            Resting her cheek on her bloodied knees, Laine waited. Her watch read half past seven.

***

            “Dammit, where is she?”

            Mitchell Jansen was furious. His ire translated easily via the nearest cell tower, blasting Kevin Briggs with each expressive syllable. If Merrimac hadn’t been snoozing against the passenger seat window, Briggs would have made him take the call. Instead, he let his partner rest while he broke California law. Driving under the influence of technology. Too bad the Chief didn’t trust BlueTooth devices, despite advances in encryption security.

            To be fair, Briggs didn’t blame him.

            “Sir, we’re working on it. You’ll know the minute we have a solid lead.”

            “Then why the damned hell are you halfway to San Diego when the evidence is right here?” the manager demanded in a tone of unrelenting iron. “These police people aren’t working near fast enough. I need you boys hitting the grey area they can’t. All angles. I want my singer back seven and a half hours ago. I don’t care the hell what it takes.”

            “Porter and Mercier can handle things fine from your end. We need to be in position to move as soon as we have something to move on.”

            “You’re so sure Jacy’s down south?”

            “We think—”

            “To hell with what you think. They never should have gotten through your people anyhow.” Jansen sighed heavily. “Look, give me results. If you don’t have anything by the morning, you get your butts back to L.A. Damn border’s too big as it is. You’ll do more good here.”

            “But we—”

            “By morning.” The connection cut abruptly, leaving Briggs with a silent phone pressed between his ear and right shoulder and a slightly dazed expression. They couldn’t possibly clear this up in less than twelve hours. Not unless they had a more exact location. And that seemed unlikely at best.

            Even if they knew exactly where to look, Mer’s body wasn’t up to speed, couldn’t react fast enough if the situation turned physical. A bullet had scraped past his chest just hours ago, his brain still swelled from its hard knock against the floor. The ex-cop’s instincts might have come through intact, but that wouldn’t be enough. He belonged in a hospital. Except that would leave Briggs without any backup, and the singer in just as much trouble as before.

            Damned whichever way he looked at it.

            Once more, a tired sense of despairing disbelief curtained his mind. The utter helplessness was overpowering in its intensity. He couldn’t begin to plan their next move. He didn’t even have a damn clue where they were headed. Just south toward Tecate.

            “We don’t have twelve hours.”

            Startled in spite of himself, Briggs glanced to his right. Though Merrimac’s eyes remained shut and he hadn’t shifted positions, there was no mistaking the wry humor in his very much awake voice.

            “Thought you were asleep.”

            “Just thinking.”

            Briggs sighed. “Enlighten me.”

            Material rubbed together with a soft sha sha sound as Merrimac shifted to run his hand along the bulky bandage that wrapped around his chest. “Jensen’s kidding himself. If we don’t have our girl twelve hours from now, we’re not getting her back at all.”

            Not alive, leastwise, but neither of them needed to hear that certainty voiced.

            “She’s smarter than a lot of people give her credit for, and I can’t see her buckling under the pressure. She’ll wait for them to make a mistake. Maybe she draws attention to herself, maybe she leaves some sort of message where someone will find it. So long as she’s conscious, she won’t go without a fight.”

            Briggs shook his head. “This is crazy. We can’t just count on her to do something and hope we get the memo. She isn’t trained for this sort of situation.”

            Merrimac smiled grimly and stared out toward the light beginning to fade from the dusky sky. “Survival’s a funny thing.”

***

            Water. She needed water. And also something else. Something she needed to do. Something important that would help her survive. But at the moment, she couldn’t for the life of her recall what that thing was.

            All she could see was darkness, silent and profound, as if her eyes had quit functioning in protest of bodily abuse. Slow at first, tiny lights appeared at the corners of her vision, softly winking above her head until black faded to indigo and varying shades of deep grey. Darker shapes appeared. Enormous serrated silhouettes that dipped and jutted in every direction. Hills. And at her back the cavernous porch.

            Unable to suppress the groan that pushed free as she carefully raised her torso from smooth planed pine, Laine waited for her brain to resettle. No one had answered the door. She was fairly certain she had knocked.

            Fairly certain. By no means positive.

            Purposely ignoring the distinct possibility that the owner might not be at home, she dragged herself six inches closer to the door and knocked again. Loudly.

            A minute passed, then another and another. The door remained shut. No sounds from within betrayed the presence of another human being.

            Plan B was rapidly becoming a reality. However much she preferred not to undertake Project B & E, there appeared little choice. No one would blame her for breaking into a deserted house when it was a matter of life over death.

            She tried to climb to her feet, but her abused body staunchly rejected the command. That initial attempt left her laid-out in a crumbled heap on the planking. Rough wood pressed against her sun scorched cheek, the grain abrasive and yet soothingly cool. Her chest rose and fell beneath her in shallow pants. Every cell begged for hydration.

            Her gaze snagged on the closest window. What she needed lay beyond it. She could be inside within the minute, honing in on a working faucet.

            That thought was the system override key. Mindless except of her goal, she crawled on bloodied palms and scraped raw knees until she could pull herself half-standing, half-careening onto the windowsill ledge. Then she bent her right elbow and threw it hard against the glass pane.

            The force of the blow surprised her, especially when it pulled her weight along with it, sending her toppling amid shards of shattered glass. Several long seconds later, she landed with a hard thud on smooth granite tile.

            Pain hit next. First from her shoulder’s collision with solid rock, then her right calf from its dragged descent over the jagged sill, before the sharp explosion of her elbow strike finally caught up. Grey settled over her vision as nerve-endings screamed their protest.

            The part of her mind that still functioned didn’t care a whole lot about that. She was in. She was one step closer to making it through.

            Water first. Then whatever.

            She stumbled to her knees. A nearby chair gave her something to cling to as she took a moment to get her bearings. Almost nothing of her surroundings registered. Unimportant. Her mind saw no direct access to water, instead instinctively focusing on a door that led through into a room with just visible counters that belonged in a kitchen setting.

            One foot dragged forward, followed by the other. She was upright now, although her hands grabbed for the back of a couch as she passed, their grip slipping along the distressed leather. She made it through the doorway and straight on toward the large ceramic sink. Shaky with the prospect of relief, she fell forward into it, one hand fumbling along stainless steel for the toggle that would get the plumbing going.

            Moments later, cool liquid poured out the faucet end and onto her gasping face. She let the droplets pull away the first layer of dirt caked sweat before her mouth began sucking down water of its own accord. She felt it slide all the way down her throat. There was a moment of shock when it hit her stomach and she coughed, sputtering on the mouthful she had been about to swallow. Her stomach settled and she guzzled as much as she could before it began showing signs of rebellion.

            The other part of her mind, the one that was better at regulating instinct, resurfaced from behind its self-protective wall. Trembling, she forced her lips away from the fall of water, instead letting it cascade over the back of her neck to dampen the stringy clumps of her hair. For a long time she slumped there, too tired to move and with no perception of time.

            Laine snapped awake when her forehead hit the sink bottom. She couldn’t sleep. Not yet. Her hand found the faucet and switched the water off again. Her next step was to locate a phone and call the police. Their phone number hardly required much in the way of memorization, plus they were the quickest help. They could tell her what to do next. Besides, she had no one else to call.

            A pang hit her hard in the gut, but Laine quickly pushed it away. She only had room for what she could deal with right now. Every other thought would have to wait until she had time to process.

            And if she kept putting it off and putting it off, maybe she would never have to.

            A stainless steel refrigerator fit into the wall next to the pantry, with the gas range stove planted between countertop space and the sink by which she still stood. Further down the long room, four leather backed chairs clustered around a square table, perfect for meals or a game of Pinochle. No phone, though. Not from what she could see.

            Automatically wiping her damp hands on her skirt bottom, she grimaced. Now they were dirty again. But that was the least of her problems. She closed her eyes and exhaled. When she opened them again, her steps were much surer as she moved down the kitchen and through another open doorway.

            Before her a dark hall split off in two directions, straight ahead and right. Her eyes had already adjusted to the dimness as much as they ever would and she couldn’t see much. Still, Laine hesitated before her hand moved to locate a lightswitch. As far as anyone knew, this house was unoccupied. Given a choice, it seemed rather unintelligent to turn on a beacon that would certainly suggest otherwise to anyone looking her way. She hadn’t messed up so far—although the desert-crossing had brought her close—and she didn’t plan to start now.

            By touch, she felt her way straight on along the corridor, past a bathroom and into a musty office. The large balcony windows let in what little light came from outside, illuminating tall bookshelves on two adjacent walls, twin leather armchairs positioned before an empty fireplace, and an expansive desk cleared of everything except a hooded lamp and corded telephone.

            Filled with exhausted relief, Laine dropped into the rolling office chair and picked up the receiver. The dull echo of a dial tone met her ears. She breathed in and out, two deep yoga breaths. Then her pointer finger punched the nine button, followed by two consecutive ones.

            Now there was a number no one could forget. Not unless they’d completely flunked grade school.

            “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”

            The woman’s voice startled her and for a moment, she forgot why she was calling. Added on to that, she wasn’t entirely sure what to say.

            “9-1-1. Can you hear me?”

            “Uh, yes. Sorry.” Laine shook her head to clear it. “My name is Laine Stuart, although they may have me down as Jacy. I imagine there’s a police report or something circulating by now. I was kidnapped earlier today. I got away.”

            There was a long pause. “Jacy, like the singer?”

            “Right.”

            Another pause. “What’s your location?”

            That was an excellent question. “I’m not sure. Sorry. I’m inside a house somewhere north of Jamul.”

            “I can pull the address from your landline. Is there someone there who can confirm it?”

            “No. I’m alone.”

            “Are you in any immediate danger?”

            Reflexively, Laine shook her head no. “I don’t think so.”

            “Stay on the line please; I’ll be right back with you.”

            Sliding back in the chair, Laine closed her eyes and ran a hand through her tangled hair. Some twisted part of her almost wanted to see the damage. It couldn’t be pretty.

            “Ma’am, are you there?”

            “Yes.”

            “Officers are on their way. They should reach you in less than fifteen minutes. I want you to stay on the line with me, alright?”

            “Alright.”

            “Now are you certain you’re alone?”

            Laine’s insides twisted. Did the dispatcher know something she didn’t? “I don’t know. I—I think so. I hiked here from Jamul. I don’t think anyone followed me.”

            Then again, she hadn’t been in any condition to notice otherwise.

            “You hiked?” Surprise intermingled with the dispatcher’s businesslike voice.

            “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Listen, could someone get a hold of my manager? His name’s Mitchell Jensen. He’s probably listed on that report.”

            “The officers will take care of that after they arrive. Let’s make sure you’re safe first. Are you hurt in any way?”

            Was she ever. But scrapes, bruises, and sunburn were hardly life-threatening. “Not especially. Just a little scuffed from the hike.”

            “Will you need medical treatment?”

            “No.” That would mean even bigger delays, and she just wanted to get someplace same. Someplace far away from Jonny, Joe Krimmer and their financial schemes. Someplace surrounded by people with guns who were on her side. “How much longer?”

            “Soon. They’ll be there real soon.”

            The dispatcher meant to sound calming. More than anything, Laine wanted to believe her. Until she sat secure inside a police building, however, she refused to let her guard down. She was too close to safety.

            Her eyes opened wearily. Outside the light shifted, playing across her desk in a sweeping motion. A muffled scraping sounded from somewhere outside, like tires on gravel. She froze.

            “How soon?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “This is too soon, right?”

            The dispatcher sounded confused. “Too soon?”

            “For the officers. It’s too soon for them to be here.”

            Fatigue forgotten, Laine unfolded herself from behind the desk and crept into the hallway as far as the phone cord would extend. Soft artificial light poured through the kitchen windows, and there was definitely a car engine humming in the background.

            “Ten minutes still, ma’am. Maybe less.”

            So whatever vehicle approached did not belong to law enforcement. That left either the homeowner, to whom she owed a huge thank you and apology, or someone who didn’t belong here any more than she did.
            She was betting on the latter.

            “Shit,” she breathed softly into the receiver. “Someone’s here. Someone’s parking their car right in front of the house.”

            Swift and silent, Laine backed into the office again.

            “Ma’am? Did you say someone’s there?”

            “I’ve got to go. I can’t wait. I’ll try hiding, but I don’t—”

            Her words turned to raggedy gasps as panic sunk in.

            “Ma’am, stay on the line. Tell me what you—”

            “I can’t,” she almost cried. “Tell the police it was Jonny. He took me and his driver knows too. Krimmer’s in on it. They’re using the charity.”

            “Ma’am—”

            Laine gently replaced the receiver, running through her options. She didn’t have time to plan, let alone pack a few supplies. What she had was all she had.

            The front door was out of the question, neither did she have time to search for a back way. The office balcony, though. That was a possibility. She crossed the room and unlocked the glass door, sliding it open almost noiselessly. The house was built into a hillside, so the drop down from here was not nearly as far as it could have been—maybe eight feet or so.

            A car door slammed, echoing off the rock strewn mountains. Decision made, she slid the glass closed and moved to the sandstone and stained wood railing. Spotting a pair of worn nylon gardening shoes propped beside the deck chair, she snatched them up and pulled them close against her body. There wasn’t time to change now, but they would provide much better protection for her feet than the tattered remains of her makeshift slippers.

            She tried not to think about the next part of her maneuver. Closing her fingers tight around the upper rail, Laine slid her slim body over. Immediately, her weary arms buckled and she fought to hold position. Then she dropped.

            The landing jarred every joint in her body as she skidded backward onto her behind. The last of her adrenaline kicked in. She was up and running toward what she hoped was north before another thought could form.

Pt. 1: “Nameless”

Pt. 2: “Nightmares”

Pt. 3: “Respite”

Pt. 4: “Illusion”

            Approximately thirty seconds after climbing into the Mercedes, Laine’s brain caught up with her. Jon Gold was not a person she knew in any but the broadest sense of the term. He had no reason she could see for doling out assistance. Especially at his own risk. If not for the initial bewilderment of shots fired in so public a place, she would never have ventured down that corridor with him. Moreover, how and why had he acted with greater speed than her security team? A missing link stood out glaringly among the facts of the action, and she had a strong feeling its name was “Joe.”

            It all came down to money, assuming she had the right of it. What she had overheard hinted strongly at a criminal exchange of dollars for services rendered that resulted in more dollars for both involved parties. It could not have anything to do with standard donations to the charity; otherwise, why would the man have acted so concerned about retaining anonymity? Most of the high-roller brand wanted recognition for contributing serious amounts of cash to worthy causes. And if the charity was so strapped for funds, why hadn’t she heard anything about it before? Most condemning of all, however, was Joe’s mention of “return payments.” That factoid erased all contrived guiltlessness of the conversation’s contents. And one well-framed question could lend confirmation.

            Speaking of which…

            She turned toward the golden-headed singer slouched thoughtfully at the other end of the Mercedes’ leather backseat. “Jonny, have you noticed anything…off…about Joe lately? He seemed…well, I heard him say some things.”

            His attention snapped to her. If she hadn’t been looking for it, she might have missed the look of cold calculation that flashed across hazel before settling into innocent query. “Pardon?”

            So Laine had her answer. Part of her immediately regretted the inquiry. Tipping her hand even a little likely placed her in greater jeopardy, but she needed to know Jonny’s level of involvement. From his initial reaction, she guessed it went deep.

            “Never mind. I’m sure it’s nothing,” she shrugged with forced bemusement. Let him think she had missed the significance of the exchange entirely. “Oh, but I’d better let Mitchell know I’m safe before he starts turning the city inside and out.”

            That last sounded extreme for Mitchell. Still, she imagined the likelihood of his finally taking safety over image seriously had grown quite a bit after witnessing an assault first hand. Maybe this was what it took to rattle him. Then again, maybe not.

            “Do you have a cell phone I could borrow?” She added a soft, helpless laugh. “I didn’t think I’d need mine.”

            Jonny shot her a rueful grin. “Sorry, Jace. Left mine at home too. When we stop, I’ll find you a phone somewhere.”

            Two obvious lies blasted his answer apart. Well, three—Laine doubted he was sorry. The outline of a phone stood out clearly in his jacket pocket. Moreover, she had spotted the driver’s cell sticking out of a cup-holder up front. Jonny didn’t give her powers of observation much credit. She would keep that in mind. As advantages went, it was nothing to sneeze at.

            Perhaps she could have at least indicated her awareness of the driver’s cell phone, but she wanted to keep Jonny in the dark as much as possible. The more he underestimated her, the better her chances of getting away. And she planned to get away. Not only that, but she planned on taking as much evidence with her as she could gather about whatever it was he and Joe were involved in. There was little doubt in her mind now that they were behind the attempts on her life.

            Why, of course, remained the biggest concern. Joe, if not Jonny, knew of the provision in her will that left Yellow Brick Road an exorbitant number of dollar signs. The exchange she had overheard sounded an awfully lot like an investment deal, so they were clearly looking to raise funds. For what, though? Until she found that answer, a gaping hole marred the puzzle of the last few weeks. And the final piece would probably cost her.

            Except that she had nothing to lose. Life as she knew it was finished. The most sensible road left to her stalkers was the one where they made her disappear while hiding their involvement. Either they took her out of the game, or she took them out first.

            She wished help was coming, accepted that it wasn’t. She refused to think further along than that. Unless someone had seen her leave with Jonny, her security people wouldn’t know where to start their search—assuming they were even in a position to come after her. And Kyle—

            Her stomach heaved and for a moment, she thought she might throw up. Doggedly, she pushed all thought aside and concentrated on what she did know: sooner or later, the car would have to stop. She would play dumb until that happened. And she would pray Jonny didn’t have a gun.

***

            Kevin Briggs was at a loss. Despite their best efforts, the situation had spun out of hand with astounding neatness. He still couldn’t pin down how. The venue was secure, all the guests registered, surveillance cameras in place, men present on the floor. None of it had done much good, not where it counted. Worse, with no Merrimac to call the shots, the responsibility now fell heavily on his own stiff shoulders.

            While ordinarily this would not have posed a problem, investigation was not Briggs’s strong suit. He had served a stint with the Marines, could take orders and give them too. That did not make him feel any more comfortable throwing out directions that might get the singer killed. He had watched her long enough to recognize that she knew better than to take off on her own. Whatever had gone down, chances were good she was chin deep in trouble.

            Mitchell Jansen’s snarls hardly helped the situation. The manager was absolutely livid that their team held a grand total of zero clues about Jacy’s whereabouts. The police detectives were no better. Not a single camera covered the section of room in which she had stood previous to the gunfire. Only through conjecture could they piece together what may or may not have happened after that. Because Hancock hadn’t seen a damned thing either.

            In the immediate mayhem, Hancock had inserted himself between the assassins and their target, and then laid down a few well-placed leg shots that toppled the pair in ten seconds flat. The bulky guard could certainly shoot—much more accurately than his beefed up build suggested—and his decision was defensible. Unfortunately, those scant seconds provided all the time necessary for Jacy to vanish.

            Their best chance at recovering her might lie in the hands of Porter, Mercier, and whatever useful information they brought to light. In the interim, Briggs checked and rechecked the video records from his laptop while Hancock and the police canvassed the crowd for a lead. Someone had to have seen something.

            Over and over, he watched the killers enter the ballroom and make their way across the floor. If they had a third party working with them, their accomplice blended too completely for him to detect. Or maybe they were already inside among the guests. In the next series of frames, he could see Merrimac smoothly part the crowd on his way to check out their suspects.

            And then running.

            And then falling.

            Over and over and over again. Until the scene lost its affect.

            Switching cameras, he chose the one closest to the spot where Jacy had disappeared. Nothing about that part of the crowd stood out either. Determined, he scanned the shocked faces. There. He recognized that one. A friend of hers, from what he’d seen. Maybe he had noticed something.

            Glad for a legitimate reason to put some distance between himself and the raging manager, presently giving all hell to the detective in charge, Briggs strode back into the corridor that led to the ballroom. With any luck, Bobashank was still inside.

***

            It took much longer than she anticipated but finally, just when she felt certain cold anxiety had worn chinks in her otherwise blasé expression, the car began to slow. Jostling a little from side to side, the Mercedes pulled into the pitted gravel parking lot of a run-down motel just off Highway 94 on the outskirts of Jamul. Any move she made would have to come quickly. Each mile brought them nearer the Mexican border.

            The proximity did not bode well for her prospects.

            Her only other opportunity for escape had come over an hour ago, when necessity forced a stop for gasoline at a 7-11 near San Diego. During their drive, Jonny had launched into an intricate explanation concerning plans for her continued safety. He suggested she leave the L.A. area prior to contacting her people, and when that vital phone call was placed, he insisted he be the one to do it. Playing along seemed the best course of action until she could signal someone for help. The gas station seemed the likeliest place. Unfortunately, Jonny had locked her inside with the driver while he located a payphone, and not a single patron approached the 7-11 in all that time.

            Frustration had eaten away at her, urging her to take a chance before it was too late. Still, the small part of her brain that controlled her urge to run every time her feet hit center-stage held her back. She was no secret agent, no martial arts specialist. With the limited skill-set at her disposal, her only shot was getting the timing right. Otherwise, she would have no chance at escaping pursuit. And there was no doubt there would be pursuit.

            When Jonny returned, it was to say he had contacted Mitchell after getting the number from his own agent—stupidly, she had Mitchell’s contact information saved in her cell phone and therefore had not bothered to memorize it. Her manager was supposedly relieved and urged her to hole up someplace safe until the proper authorities arrived.

            She knew all of this was another in a long series of lies. Jonny had not contacted Mitchell, nor did he plan to. And even if by some extreme chance he had made contact, then either Mitchell had turned idiot, or he was in on the whole thing. Neither option sat well with her. Her first phone call, after she figured a way out of this mess, would be to the police, and not just because she didn’t require a cell phone to keep track of their number.

            A tap at her shoulder yanked her attention back onto the current bane of her existence. Somewhere along the line, Jonny had taken over the role from Robin Kasey. “Hey, I’m gonna get us a room and give it a quick once over. Stay in the car ’til I give the go ahead.  And hey, cheer up. We’re in the home stretch now. Nothing for you to worry about.”

            Hard to worry when you’re dead, she smirked through a touch of morbid amusement.

            “Thanks, Jonny,” she said aloud. “I really appreciate your help.”

            Like hell she did.

            Another empty parking lot, another chance lost. She was running out of options more quickly than they appeared. For obvious reasons, this was a substantial problem. If she did not develop a new plan and soon, the clock would wipe any last, infinitesimal opportunity off the map.

            Time and distance were the foremost factors in achieving an exit strategy that gave her the best chance at success. The more time she wrangled before someone discovered her missing, the more distance she could put between herself and pursuit. With enough time and distance, she could call up help while giving it a chance to arrive.

            Any ideal scenario, however, now seemed doubtful. She would have to make do with what she had, before she had nothing. If she could just get them to leave her alone, even for a minute…but the likelihood of that happening was slim to none. Now that Jonny had her, he would exercise every caution he could afford. And he could afford quite a lot of caution at this point. He held all the cards. It was her job to make him hand over the trump. Every trick counted.

            She was not without a few assets. Jonny didn’t know she knew anything was amiss. He might guess it though. She was in superb physical condition, could run three miles in under twenty minutes, and her front thrust kick packed a punch. Thanks to the media, this last was virtually common knowledge. She did have a face people recognized. There was little he could do about that. Not in a public environment. She was also wearing an outfit that stood out like a dissonant chord this close to the border. Any onlookers would have to be blind to miss her sleek, steely blue sheath dress and four-inch sandal pumps. They were hardly desert-wear.

            Perhaps she should slip out of the car and make a run for it. Only there was nowhere to go. The truck stop across the street might offer some shelter, but she doubted she could make it there without cuing Jonny to drastic action. The same would come from causing a scene in front of motel management.

            Her gut insisted she play along a while longer, that this was not the right moment to bust a move. Countless hours of dance said that timing was what landed a jump, or instigated injury. Instinct kept the whole routine moving. If she wavered at all, concentrated too closely on what she wanted to accomplish, everything would fall apart.

            Personally, she preferred that not happen.

            The cracked door of the rust-stained adobe building swung open and Jonny made his way back to his very out of place Mercedes. It didn’t belong, she didn’t belong, and frankly even he didn’t belong. Someone was bound to notice. Dark sunglasses obstructed his optical focus, but Laine felt certain it centered on her. She settled for a look of impatience, entangled with irritated reproach at their present locale. Let him misinterpret the reason for her aggravation with his oh-so-grand plan.

            A nod toward the driver sent her window rolling downward and she glared out at him. “What the hell are we doing here? We should have headed straight to a police station. There are army bases that are closer. I understand wanting to keep a low profile, but this is ridiculous.”

            He slipped his shades up to perch atop his head and lifted the corner of his mouth in a cocky little grin. “Jansen wanted you to trust me, remember? He’s sending a car for us. They’ll meet us here within a couple of hours. So relax, Jace. I’ve got this under control.”

            Under cover of a heavy sigh, she pushed at the door. To her surprise, it actually opened. The driver must have unlocked it at Jonny’s reappearance. Pushing to her feet, Laine sighed again and squared her shoulders. “I assume we’re going in?”

            That infuriating grin flashed again and Jonny raised a key that dangled from a neon pink plastic paddle. “Room 122. We’ll head in the back way.”

            Even more annoyed at his ploy to avoid the desk manager, Laine followed a few haughty steps behind. The minor tantrum disguised her own scheme: memorizing the layout of both building and deserted stretch of desolate wild. When the time to run finally came, she wanted to know where she was, and what led where.

            They arrived at the door almost too quickly, though at the least it was positioned down a short hall that led out of the Mercedes’ line of sight. That facet might come in handy.

            Hunching over slightly, Jonny fitted the key to the lock and twisted. The door creaked open. Laine winced. That sound would not be easily disguised. Clearly, she was not going to catch a break here.

            “Fortunately, we won’t be here long,” Jonny shrugged in apology. “Not even a television. Phone doesn’t work either. It’s safe enough, though. No one will ever think of looking for you here.”

            Therein undoubtedly lay the problem.

            “It’s fine,” Laine brushed past him. Unless she completely missed her guess, Jonny had disabled the phone on his initial visit. Since he had thought this detail necessary, she hoped it meant he might be planning on leaving her on her own, long enough for her to contemplate a phone call. The thought almost made her giddy. This room might make all the difference.

            “Can I get you anything?”

            She simply stared at him.

            “Stupid question,” he snorted. “Not much around here worth the getting. I need to run over a couple of things with Phil and see about finding a working phone, so will you be all right if I leave you on your own for a few? Shouldn’t take long.”

            Frowning, Laine nibbled at her lip. “You’re sure no one followed us?”

            “Positive.”

            Slowly, she exhaled. “I’ll be fine. Just, would you mind calling Marshall again? See how long this’ll take?”

            “First call on my list.”

            When the door fell shut behind him and the lock snapped back into place, Laine smiled and dead-bolted the door. Then with two long strides, she crossed toward the window.

***

            He was awake. Awake, and seriously pissed off. The white walls that enclosed this room looked like giant slates that accused failure on top of failure. Until this moment, he had never doubted his team’s ability to complete the job. And yet, here they were.

            If they had anticipated another attack, if they had at all doubted their skills and strategies in the event of trouble, they would never have let her walk through those giant double doors. But the honest truth was that their confidence had cost them. They had misjudged the situation in every way that counted. Whatever happened next depended too much on factors over which they had no control. All because they had lost the focal point of their protective services.

            That was part of the reason for his angry outlook. Mostly, though, he railed at his own stupidity. Despite everything he knew about staying close to the target, he had fallen for the trap. He had walked away. Ultimately, he had no one to blame but himself.

            Outside the industrial steel framed window, traffic buzzed and screeched along the well-trekked boulevard. Life went on as it always did, regardless of what happened in the quiet corners of individual life. The world didn’t hold its breath for anyone these days, or if it did, the moment passed by more quickly than it had come. There were errands to run, phone calls to make, work to get done. The plight of a star singer hardly felt real by contrast.

            He registered the thud of footsteps outside the door just before a tight rap sounded. “Yeah, come in.”

            “Mer?” Briggs poked his head into the room, his face drawn and two shades paler than normal. Relief washed across the ex-soldier’s face when he saw his partner sitting up. Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitched. “You look like hell.”

            “Glad to see you too. What’s our situation?”

            Briggs clomped across the compact space, settling onto the only other piece of furniture, a barely padded bedside chair. “Porter call?”

            A short nod confirmed it.

            “Then you know about Gold. Damn good thing Bobashank saw him leave with Jacy, or we’d never have run his name this fast. The LAPD have eyes out for the vehicle, a 2010 Mercedes E-Class Coupe, but Marshall tells me they’ve got nothing yet. If he was smart, Gold got out of town fast.”

            “No,” Merrimac grunted. “The smart one’s whoever stayed behind. Unless Gold wants to pin the tail on himself, he’ll be back and soon.”

            The other man looked away. “Not good for us.”

            “What about the charity? Anything yet?”

            “According to Bobashank, there’s a rumor going ’round that puts Gold in the middle of something big and illegal. Whatever it is, he’s been asking around for investors. Don’t know for sure about the charity. Porter’s reading through financial records right now. There has to be a connection in there somewhere, something that’ll connect Jacy and whoever else is in on this. Shouldn’t be too hard to see which direction the money’s flowing.”

            Merrimac shook his head. “Not good enough. We don’t have time to waste here. There’s a bullet out there with our girl’s name on it. This isn’t about a ransom. My guess is we’ve got hours at best. Not enough to go around checking names, assuming the charity is even involved in the first place.”

            “Shit.” Briggs rubbed a hand over his eyes. “We’re stuck in a maze, here. What the hell can we do?”

            Merrimac wondered the same thing himself. His left side ached, a generalized throb that covered each of the baker’s dozen stitches clamping across his lower ribcage. He’d gotten very lucky with the bullet, a clean furrow that stung like a sonofa without the added hassle of having punctured something vital. It made him feel like an idiot for passing out. That rarely happened in the movies.

            Shoving the pain to the back of his mind, he mentally reviewed the little information they had. Most importantly, Laine was outside their direct sphere of influence, and she’d last been seen with fellow celebrity Jonagold. No interaction between the two had been caught on camera, but street camera footage did show a silver Mercedes headed on the most direct route for I-5. Most likely the car was southbound for Mexico, although there was plenty of godforsaken desert available between LA and the border. His hunch said Jonny would drop her with an accomplice, sweep the car clean, and return on a roundabout way from the north. The accomplice would take care of the rest, preferably below the border, where any foul play was outside the jurisdiction of American lawyers.

            Unfortunately, this was a best case scenario. And it made him sick to his stomach. Mostly because there was a whole hell of a lot of empty land south of the city and he didn’t even know where to start. No time, a few flimsy clues, and a hankering suspicion that all of this was his fault.

            The nightmare was back, but without the boat and murky river water. Only miles of search grid and the knowledge that someone needed help before time ran out—and they drowned.

            Grimly, he stared at the IV hooked into his arm. “I’m not sure we do anything.”

            “What, so we just wait around for Gold?” Briggs spat his disbelief.

            “I didn’t say that. You’re going to go wrangle me a nurse so I can get the hell out of here, and then you’re going to call Hancock. Have him drop off the truck.”

            “We going somewhere?”

            “South.”

            After a moment, Briggs nodded. “If something changes, we’ll have a shot at being in position.”

            Or way out of position. It was a gamble, for sure. Still, “big and illegal” in this part of the world smacked of a smuggling ring, which meant Jon Gold would know his way around the border. With security on the look out in Tijuana, Tecate became the likeliest border town with plenty of branching rural roads in the vicinity. If it were him making the drop-off, that was the direction he would head.

            He just hoped Porter and Mercier could come up with something more concrete fast. Otherwise, they were flying blind, a dart hurled at the target in a pitch black room. If they believed in luck, they might have half a chance on principle.

            But Merrimac didn’t believe in luck.

            Neither would he bet someone’s life on it.

Pt. 1: “Nameless”

Pt. 2: “Nightmares”

Pt. 3: “Respite”

            The risk of exposure was too great. With the police on high alert, not to mention that confounded security team, they could no longer afford to take her out. Sure, the money would have been nice, helped them grow the operation courtesy of a huge influx of capital to increase their investments. But now, any attempted hit would only draw more attention. Attention meant exposure, and the whole façade would collapse on top of them. His career would be over.

            He refused to let that happen.

            Calling off the hit was the smart decision. Jacy, damn the girl, was safe for the time being. He would find the money elsewhere, maybe even at the charity event in an hour’s time. Surely they could schluff off enough of the raised funds to make a deposit on the enterprise. Their contact in Colombia wanted the money paid out in installments anyway. While he couldn’t chance touching his own account for fear the IRS would track such a large transfer, the estimated take from this afternoon should cover a quarter of what they would need. Add to that the contents of their offshore account—the one he liked to call “petty cash,” not the one labeled “cushy retirement”—and they were halfway there.

            He’d call Krimmer. Get him to make the arrangements. Then they would need investors, or some other plan to help them appropriate the necessary millions. He wasn’t worried. He had a couple of options in mind.

***

            A huge banner spanned the entrance arch of the Marriott’s Kennedy Ballroom: “Follow the Yellow Brick Road! 5^th Annual Charity Auction in Support of Foster Kids!” The silver glittered letters dipped and swirled in an elaborate faux cursive font, surrounded by dual woven arrangements of flowers and balloons. Beneath them, rectangles of golden carpet interlocked like flat bricks in a path that meandered toward the catered buffet luncheon at the room’s center, then swept left past curved rows of white-draped tables that bore carefully coordinated assortments of objects. Small stands along the way held stories and pictures of fosterlings still in the system, and the path ended at an artful photographic display of smiling children, each having finally found their new home.

            In the two years she had been involved in the charity, this event did not look to have changed much. The same ice sculptures of children dribbling basketballs, slumped on a bed reading, racing a small, shaggy dog, had yet to alter. A quick glance at the posted menu showed the same fare as before: brazed beef or vegetable stir-fry, minced potatoes, white rice, steamed carrots and broccoli, cranberry-almond salad with vinaigrette, honey wheat rolls, an assortment of cheesecakes and pastries. And of course, a full-service bar.

            That seemed a good place to start.

            Even the crowd milling around this immense chandeliered room had the same look to it, consisting partly of those that ran the charity event circuit, attending dinners and dances, and writing huge checks, and partly of attendees just happy to brush elbows with the rich and famous in support of a great cause. A very few were directly involved in Yellow Brick Road, and these she easily picked out from the crowd.

            Jonathon Gold, better known in the music circuit as “Jonagold” or “The Apple King,” chatted easily near the bar with a couple of blatantly blonde admirers. Getting a few select celebrities to an event was a great way to draw in supporters that wouldn’t have attended otherwise. Jonny, however, was one of the organization’s founding board members and most vocal activists. He put in a lot of volunteer hours working directly with the kids, and had a real way of setting them at ease.

            Bobs was here too. He had donated a chunk of money and joined the board a year or so before Laine. In fact, Bobs was the one who’d pushed her to get involved in the first place. He and Jonny maintained an inherent dislike for each other, of course, but for the foster kids they managed a thin veneer of tolerance. Right now, he was engaged with charity VP Joseph Krimmer, a glass of his favorite rum-and-Coke in hand.

            Continuing her perusal of the room, Laine’s eyes fell upon Robin Kasey. Unfortunately, Robin smiled straight back at her. Very slowly, Laine acknowledged her with a nod, and then just as deliberately turned toward her entourage. If she left their connection at that, maybe the reporter would leave her alone.

            Wishful thinking at its best.

            Kyle and Hancock were her escorts this afternoon, although she had a feeling Kevin Briggs likely hung around nearby. She had been introduced to a new guy, Derek Porter, the previous evening, but he was searching for leads on her attacker with Rick Mercier. Though she didn’t count Mitchell as an official escort, he was present at her side. That she had deemed it necessary to take the day before off had plainly spooked him. Nevertheless, it wasn’t concern for her state of mind that kept him hovering around the perimeter—it was concern that her state of mind would cause her to do something that might negatively affect her image.

            That very same image had begun to pluck at Laine’s nerves. She was no longer quite sure that she cared. About any of it.

            One day of contemplation had proved enough to alter her game-plan. She still refused to give into the fear—that wasn’t the way she operated—but she would control more of the risk factor. Her life was plenty worth it. If she kept her head firmly atop her shoulders and her mind strong, she had the best chance of staying out of danger instead of gravitating toward it. She was her own first line of defense. Kyle and his team were only backup.

            And the police? They knew their business and would pursue any leads. No need for her to get involved there. Regardless, she couldn’t count on them to stave off harm without more useful information, most notably a motive. As things stood, she was perfectly aware of the rumors circulating around that named the entire incident a simple publicity stunt. She doubted Marshall was capable of anything that devious. She certainly wasn’t and her career hardly needed more help, though none of this would keep people from speculating.

            Even here in the ballroom, she could sense the curious thoughts of every head that turned her way. They wondered about why she was there instead of tucked securely away in the Bahamas, and who (if anyone) would want to come after her, and whether there was any possibility of her presence attracting more trouble that afternoon. The morbid appeal of this last bit lingered on the faces of more than a few. Danger held a sort of fascination, so long as it happened to someone else.

            In her case, however, the best course was to set fear aside and address the problem directly. If she approached the crowd on her own terms, she held court on the perceptions.

            “Don’t think you have to breathe down my neck,” she swept a rueful smile over the watchful threesome. Her manager held her in the grip of his intense scrutiny, while Kyle’s casual gaze lingered on a group of gawkers who had found the bar early. Hancock simply stood there and looked intimidating. “It’s a charity event. No one’s going to try anything here.”

            Marshall’s upper lip tightened in a miniscule frown. “I’m not about to leave you on your own, Jacy. And I don’t want the scavengers pelting you with questions. Not until we’ve had time to develop an official statement.”

            She fought an automatic eye-roll, settling instead on a less-than-polite snort. “I’m her in support of the kids, not to take questions. Go mingle or something; I’ve got this handled.”

            Before he could say another word, she turned and strode into the crowd. Several yards of pressed together bodies later, a quick glance revealed Hancock following half a step back. Kyle had meanwhile dissolved into the crowd, probably in hopes of finding a viable observation point. Thankfully, they all seemed willing to play this her way—mostly because this time, her way wasn’t chock full of opportunities for something to go wrong.

            Free at last, she paused at the bar for a flute of champagne mixed with sparkling green apple cider. Over a series of sips and smiled greetings, she pegged down Joseph Krimmer’s position and plotted a course that would hopefully lead her past a couple of other charity-goers she wanted a word with, while keeping her well beyond reach of Robin Kasey’s investigative claws.

            Jonny stopped her near the auction tables.

            “Hey,” he dipped his head. “Glad you could make it. Bid on anything yet?”

            “No, but I will. Not this hat, though.”

            Sharp black eyes followed her gaze toward the nearest table. His solitary dimple cued a lazy smile. “Yeah, hideous, isn’t it?”

            “Someone will bid on it,” she shrugged. When she had last checked, Joseph was headed the opposite direction and she really wanted to catch him before his speech. There wouldn’t be much opportunity to talk with him after.

            “Probably wear it too,” Jonny’s head swung mockingly sideways. His teeth flashed white. “For a good cause, though.”

            “Of course,” she agreed. Only practiced control kept anxiety from tainting her relaxed tone. “Have you seen Joe around? I’m trying to catch up to him.”

            Eyebrows drawing together, he bent toward her. There was something speculative about his expression. “Around somewhere,” he shrugged vaguely. “He seems pretty busy tonight.”

            Finally spotting Joseph at the room’s far end, she heaved a silent sigh of relief. The VP had paused to chat with a dark-haired man she didn’t know. Based on their position just outside the main flow of traffic, she hoped their conversation might take more than a few cursory sentences. “Never mind, I see him. Would you excuse me?”

            The silent Hancock at her heels, she made her way along the yellow-bricked carpet all the while praying her quarry would stay put. It did. In fact, by the time she came within hearing distance, the conversation was still going strong.

            And what she heard didn’t make any sense.

            “I like the sound of the payoff, sure. But I just don’t know. It still sounds risky,” the man was saying.

            Joe shook his salt-and-pepper head. “It’s not. We pull in a lot of money at these kinds of events, not to mention what we get on paper. Yours will blend right in—one pledge among many.”

            A pledge? Why would that pose risk to anyone? Laine looked around for Hancock to see if he’d heard, but he was several feet away talking into his cell phone.

            “You’re absolutely certain they’ve no means of tracking the deposit.”

            “Donations are entirely anonymous. We’ll need your account number for the return payments, of course, which we can deposit without alerting certain interested parties. One of the advantages of a non-profit organization, you understand.”

            The man considered this for a moment. “Give me two days to think it over.”

            “Right. I’ll be in touch.” Joe nodded and turned away, his demeanor obviously distracted. Then suddenly, his gaze locked with Laine’s. There was no mistaking it: he flinched.

            Immediately, a strong urge to back away permeated her body. Former questions no longer seemed important. If she followed the wise course of action, she would confront him here and find out if the exchange really merited her initial distress. All she had to do was ask.

            “Jacy! I was hoping we’d run into each other. Do you have a minute?” Robin Kasey appeared with predictably awful timing, her habit of crashing in unannounced the moment she sensed her target’s distraction in fine form.

            Frustrated at the interruption, Laine repelled the reporter’s verbal onslaught until Marshall materialized at her side, a step behind Hancock. There were only so many ways to imply “no comment” without speaking the actual words. When she finally had chance to turn around, Joseph Krimmer was gone.

***

            Then take care of the problem.

            Krimmer glanced at his cell phone screen and winced. He wasn’t one-hundred percent certain how much of his conversation the singer had overheard, or more importantly, how much she had understood. Regardless, they had an immediate problem that desperately needed solving. And they could not under any circumstances tolerate another screw-up.

            Means were already in place for a rejected scenario from the initial planning stages. Earlier that morning, the knowledge that a pair of trained killers still planned to circulate through the unsuspecting crowd had given him a smug sense of self-satisfaction, though he had not intended to use them. The killers had never been informed of that detail, nor did they know their original target. Regardless, the flawed plan held some potential. The problem would be taking the girl out without drawing deep inspection into the charity’s financial activities, or scaring away potential investors.

            Never mind. Another text popped up on his screen. I’ll do it myself. You provide the distraction.

            Relieved in spite of himself, Krimmer smiled. Now that he could do.

***

            From his vantage point against a wall a short ways from Laine, Merrimac commanded a solid view of almost everyone in the room. Hotel surveillance cameras tucked strategically beneath the ceiling eaves; Briggs had hacked into these and was presently relaying information. Whatever security arranged for this event wasn’t enough. He preferred to keep his own watch—in his experience, instinct rarely transcended any technological format. He wanted the detail direct observation could give.

            “Small commotion brewing by the bar.” Briggs’s voice buzzed in his ear via the tiny headset hidden beneath his carefully arranged hair.

            Ignoring the more than likely intentional pun, Merrimac focused on the indicated area. A few guests showed off raised voices and a carefree disregard helped along by large amounts of alcohol drunk too quickly, though they didn’t yet appear a serious problem. If that changed before hotel security dissipated the potential situation, or if any similar anxieties arose, he would simply have Laine leave early.

            She had been unusually cooperative since his return. That last attempted hit had shaken her; that much was clear. She hadn’t so much as hinted at her original excuse of keeping up image as a reason for sticking with her prescribed schedule. However much he wished they could fade her into the background like an ordinary Jane, it simply wasn’t possible. Unless she radically altered her appearance, she ran the risk of recognition wherever she went. Nor could she vanish from public radar without causing a stir. Deprived of desirable options, their best bet was to allow her a few public events—strictly supervised of course—and grip the reins of security tight the moment she ducked from camera view.

            A crackle of static burst in his ear. “Mer, get eyes on the main door. Some bozos are making a scene at ticketing, but I can’t get a good angle. My thoughts say trouble.”

            Merrimac hesitated, torn between leaving Hancock to briefly manage on his own and checking out the problem. It seemed unlikely that anyone would stage an assault here, but they didn’t pay him to dismiss potential danger.

            The movement casual, his right hand rose to brush against his ear. “I’ll head over. Hancock, maintain your position. Hustle her out the back route at my signal.”

            “Copy,” the big guard’s scratchy voice grunted in acknowledgment. Over near the auction tables, Merrimac saw him move two steps nearer their charge.

            One last visual sweep of the area later, he was trickling through the crowded ballroom on course for the main entrance. The crush worsened along the themed carpeting, so he stuck near the edges. Colognes and perfumes mixed and clashed against folds of exotically colored fabrics and pressed suits. He caught snatches of conversation, but these he let fade into the background. Unless he heard something out of place, he wanted his audio attention on alert for any updates from Briggs.

            After he cleared the commotion, he would also have Briggs contact Porter. With any luck, he and Mercier would have tracked down some sort of lead. As a licensed P.I., and a damn good one at that, Porter was their best bet at uncovering the information necessary to keep Laine out of harm’s way. Celebrity status may have granted her a significant amount of police resources, but investigative cops weren’t big on sharing. Their policy made sense most of the time; in this case, however, a few detailed updates on what the captured assailants had revealed would have improved their chances in a major way.

            “Mer? Anything? I’m flying blind, here. Can’t see a thing below head level with this many people packed in like sardines.”

            From where he stood, Merrimac was having trouble picking out visual detail himself. This whole affair put more distance between him and Laine than he liked. He should have called Mercier in for back-up instead of pairing him with Porter. Unfortunately, he’d had no choice. Porter didn’t know the case, didn’t know the job. He needed someone who did to help fill in the blanks and mull through theories. They’d even gotten Laine’s accountant and lawyer involved for insight into possible financial and legal entanglements. There had to be a reason someone wanted her dead. Without motive, they had nothing.

            “Give me specifics. Who am I looking for?” he brushed a finger along his jaw while activating his microphone. The thing was so sensitive, leaving it on all the time would only result in migraines for everyone wearing a headset. Plus, the added background noise would increase the likelihood of missing one of their fellows’ communications.

            Another hiss of static. “Woman in a loose navy dress, man also dressed in navy with matching fedora hat. They’ve pushed past the ticketing booth and are on their way in. Not stopping to talk with anyone though. No, they look like they’re trying to blend.”

            The described navy pulled at his eye from maybe fifteen feet away. The swarthy folds on the woman’s dress could easily hide a weapon, and the same could be said about the cut on the man’s sport coat. Briggs was correct. Nothing about the couple drew attention, except that this was a complete one-eighty from how they had acted behind the ballroom doors.

            Briggs cursed over the feed. He must have kept his hand on his headset. “The bar group’s acting up again. And they’re headed her way—a perfect screen if someone’s waiting for opportunity. I don’t like the feel of this.”

            Silently, Merrimac echoed his colleague’s choice phrase. It was time to get Laine out. Even if this was nothing, they couldn’t take the risk. One wrong move would lead to outcomes they couldn’t take back. His hand tapped down on his ear again. “Hancock, get—Shit!”

            The rest of his order disappeared behind the force of his dismay as the woman in navy pulled a gun from the elaborate knot near her waistline. All appearance of casualty cast aside, Merrimac lunged toward the couple in a diagonal move that placed him center-stage in the line of fire. At least, it would if he made it before the woman pulled the trigger.

            He didn’t. The sharp crack of a muted weapon—not near so quiet as the soft tup portrayed in movies—rang in his ears. Several people screamed, and not all of them women. It took every ounce of willpower he possessed to stick to his training and fix his eyes forward. All two-hundred pounds of his body collided with the woman four and a half seconds later. As they tumbled groundward, his ears finally registered the second splintering explosion.

            And then he felt the first ghostly spark of pain.

            He was hit.

            Icy heat peaked across his side. His vision went black.

***

            She was back inside the nightmare. The sound, a brutal burst of death, resounded in her mind, joined with memories of two other bullets pointed her direction. Fear permeated her body so thickly every muscle froze in place. Laine couldn’t think what to do, couldn’t think where to run.

            That first shot—she didn’t see where it went. She was too busy getting shoved toward a back hallway. People scrambled out of the way, most of them separating from her until she stood out among the fleeing crowd. A second shot followed close behind. The screams doubled. Only one thought whirred through her head: she had read the situation wrong. No matter where she was, no matter how many eyes watched her, the danger was not going to go away. Worse, whoever wanted her dead would not balk at hurting anyone who got in the way.

            “Come on.”

            Despite the stark confusion that ruled her reactions, she spared a glance for the man with an iron grip on her elbow. He hauled her along at a good clip, shielding her body with his free arm cast around her waist. Hancock, this certainly was not. So where on earth had he gone? Where was Kyle? And when had Jonny Gold arrived on-scene? He was crazy to be anywhere near her.

            “Wait!” she pulled away, but Jonny merely adjusted his grip and continued their march.

            “You’ve got to get out of here. It’s too dangerous.”

            No one could argue with that logic, but part of her refused to bail without at least knowing that everyone back in that room was alright. If one of those stray bullets had caught a fellow auction-goer, she might never forgive herself.

            Breath escaped her mouth in uneven exhalations as her lips just managed to form the query. “Did you see? Was anyone hurt?”

            Briefly, his gaze darted to meet hers. She saw the hesitation there and knew immediately what it meant.

            “Yeah,” he admitted at last. “I didn’t get a close look, but I think…” He paused so that the sound of their footfalls echoed audibly down the wide corridor, overpowering the muffled chaos of the ballroom at their backs. “It looked like one of the guys you came in with.”

            Laine slammed to a stop, forcing Jonny to do the same. The world seemed to freeze around her, or maybe she had stopped breathing. When she finally remembered to draw in air, her constricted throat choked on nothing.

            “Hancock?” The name barely scraped free.

            He shook his head, obviously wanting to get moving again. “I don’t know. Not the big guy.”

            Laine swayed on her silver-laced heels. Jonny would have recognized her manager. That left only one other option.

            Dimly, she heard Jonny’s voice urging her on, but without comprehension. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn’t Kyle who had been hit. Without a good view—which she doubted Jonny’d had—any conclusion was prone to error. How would he have recognized Kyle in that brief a moment? He’d only seen him once, maybe twice. In all likelihood, the bullet had hit someone else—which didn’t help her conscience any.

            Still, she had regained a bit of perspective and that helped. Now her priority was to get in touch with Mitchell and the security team, let them know where she was. Her destination was probably an important thing to note too.

            In a moment of less than brilliant deduction, Laine realized that they were no longer in the corridor. The side door of a silver Mercedes propped open in Jonny’s left hand as he ushered her within.

            “Wait,” she said for the second time. “I need to call Marshall.”

            “Call him from the car. It’s too open right here.” Firmly, he placed his free hand on her shoulder and pushed until she slid somewhat reluctantly into the backseat. Safety was the priority here. As soon as they were away, she would make the call. And also share her new concerns about Joseph Krimmer.

            My car keys were missing. I’d had them minutes before; I knew I did. But as of this precise moment, I had no idea where they had gone. Beyond any doubt they had to be somewhere in the house. After all, I’d driven myself home not ten minutes before and had since visited a grand total of three rooms.

            They weren’t in any of them.

            In my jacket pocket? Wasn’t wearing a jacket. In my pants pocket? A quick check revealed nothing. In my purse, where they belonged? After emptying the thing, still no keys. Every usual place, each possible location that might have made sense—they all left me empty-handed.

            Though agitated, there seemed little I could do. I follow a very precise routine where important belongings, such as keys, are concerned. It seems smart to limit the chance of losing things by careless chance. So how could this have possibly happened? Where the heck were my car keys?

            Fortunately, I knew just where my spare set lay safely tucked away in a drawer. The original must be somewhere within these walls. No sense in feverously worrying about them. That’s what backup plans are for; why bother having them otherwise?

            So reluctantly, I set the incident aside for awhile. I would find my keys eventually. Sometime soon, I’d stumble across them and experience a moment of epiphany, in which I would recall the exact moment of placing them in an atypical location, and my reasoning therein.

            This, however, did not happen.

            One afternoon, two days after the initial disappearance, I reached into my purse for my chapstick. First fingering a tiny vial of perfume, followed by a pen and small stack of post-it notes, I recovered the tube, uncapped its end, and applied the balm to my lips. Next, I picked up an empty bottle of Coppertone Sport Sunscreen, SPF 50 (tribute to my strong belief in taking precautions to avoid unnecessary burns), and went in search of the recycle bin.

            It wasn’t until I reached the kitchen that I made an important discovery: the sunscreen bottle was in my right hand, my missing car keys were in my left.

            I have no explanation.

            Nothing drives me crazier than the inexplicable.

Pt. 1: “Nameless”

Pt. 2: “Nightmares”

            The apartment door closed behind them with a sense of finality and Merrimac turned the lock in place. Further down the hall, inside an old storage room recently outfitted with a couple of cots, the other three would be getting ready for some shut eye. As the most rested of the security team, and the only one not present for the afternoon’s near-disaster, he had opted to take on the more arduous task of keeping track of Laine.

            At the moment, the singer moved about the room, switching on light after light until ever shadowy corner lay exposed. She paused from the kitchen doorway and looked back at him. “Do you want a cup of tea or something? There’s coffee too.”

            “Tea’s fine, thanks.” With Laine out of the room, he strode straight to the big bay window that looked out over the city toward the Pacific. Four levels below, a few cars slid along the narrow avenue and a rhinestone harnessed Chihuahua dragged his aging owner down the sidewalk. It was eerie, this one-way glass, and he wished for curtains that could block out the night, but the walls on either side of the enormous window remained bare.

            Reluctant to show discontent over what felt like a giant hole in the security of Laine’s sole sanctuary, he moved back toward the couch when he heard soft footsteps announce her return.

            Neither had said a word on the drive here; he felt hesitant about letting that extend much further. Laine looked a mess—emotionally-speaking, of course, because not a single strand of hair dared make an independent move—and she needed sleep in a bad way. From the tension in her eyes, though, he sincerely doubted she would get it tonight without a little pharmaceutical help. That option, she’d refuse point blank.

            “Thanks,” he said again as he shifted a blue-glazed mug from her grasp. Tiny finger marks suggested the stoneware was handmade, and he searched for the tell-tale initials: a stylized “LM” below the braided handle. “You made this?” he asked with some surprise.

            A faint blush raced across her cheeks, vanishing when she nodded. She switched the subject before he could say anything further. “If you don’t need anything, I’m going to get changed. Gladys should have washed the sheets on the guest bed—Kevin’s been using it the last couple of nights. Oh, but you know that. I’ll be up for a bit longer; there’s a movie on TCM that I want to catch.”

            No, she plainly did not plan on sleeping tonight. And from the uncharacteristic way she was babbling on, she really, really needed to.

            “I might join you, if that’s alright.”

            Laine actually looked relieved. “Sure. Be back in a bit.”

            Frowning, Merrimac sandwiched a coaster between the mug and coffee table, and pulled his cell phone from its belt clip. He punched in speed dial three. Briggs answered on the second ring.

            “Miss my voice already?”

            He chose to ignore that comment. “What’s the schedule look like for the morning?”

            “Thought you’d memorized the schedule. Hang on a sec.” Papers shuffled in the background. “Huh. Just breakfast with the evil manager at nine. She’s also got an appointment with her personal trainer at two, but that’s the whole shebang.”

            “Seriously?”

            “If I were gonna make something up, it’d be a helluva lot more creative.”

            Merrimac sighed. “Do me a favor and call Jensen. Cancel breakfast and if he throws a fit, give him my number and I’ll take care of it.”

            Clicking off, he clipped the phone back into place and hefted the duffle he’d dropped by the door earlier. A few steps took him inside the guest room. He set his baggage on the bed’s end. Jeans and a black tee came with him into the bathroom, where he changed and splashed lukewarm water on his face. Then he picked up his laptop and moved back into the main room. Settling himself down on the couch’s rightmost end, he sipped at his tea—something with large amounts of cinnamon—cross-checked references on every charity named in the will, and waited for Laine.

***

            Dressed down in over-sized black yoga pants and a clingy pale blue cotton tee, Jacy paused at the door, hesitant about venturing out in her equivalent of pajamas. Not that she thought Kyle would care, and she did want him to think she meant for sleep at some point—she’d hate if he felt obliged to stay up all night just because the thought of sleep scared her beyond anything she’d openly admit. She couldn’t place exactly what she thought might happen if she closed her eyes and passed out for a while, but had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with fear of not waking up again, or of another attack occurring while she wasn’t conscious enough to protect herself.

            Today’s incident was mostly her own fault; she recognized that. But she also understood that no kind of security was completely infallible, especially when pitted against a determined antagonist. She couldn’t count on anyone to protect her. Not Kevin Briggs, not Hancock, and not Kyle Merrimac.

            One deep yoga breath prepared her enough to push through the door, and she drifted down the hall and into her kitchen. Slipping a tea bag into another glazed mug, she filled it with water from the instant-boil tap. While it seeped, she threw a bag of lightly buttered popcorn into the microwave and retrieved a large ceramic bowl. Seeds sizzled and popped behind the glass barrier, the larger cracks horribly reminiscent of gunfire. Annoyed at herself, she stubbornly pushed that thought to the back of her mind, where it belonged.

            Her fleece-lined slippers crossed the hardwood floor slabs with soft tuptuptups. Kyle glanced over his shoulder as she nestled among coal-black pillows at the couch’s opposite end. She set her bowl on the cushion between them and reached for the controller.

            Classic movie marathon with the security guard. Her life was so very enviable.

            Or not.

            A local news station appeared on the HD flat screen and she paused to catch a few stories. On a practical note, it glitzed up her image whenever reporters threw out a couple of current event questions and she could answer back semi-knowledgably. When the sportscaster launched into highlights from the Kings’ game, Kyle’s gaze jerked up from his computer. She stifled a smile. That obvious interest softened his on-edge demeanor. Very few of the guys she hung around cared much about sports, other than to be seen at an occasional game.

            She tucked her now bare feet beneath her and began to change the channel—and froze. There she was on the screen, a still-frame smile with Bobashank’s arm draped around her waist. The entertainment reporter gushed on for a few seconds about how singer Jacy refused to let a little thing like attempted murder get her down, and had attended a star-studded get together at her friend’s L.A. penthouse. There was even a short video clip of Marshall, who emphasized her alleged reluctance to allow the threat of these crazed fanatics to dictate her life.

            Laine snorted softly and hit the numbers for TCM. She was more than ready for a vacation, maybe some little town in Scandinavia where no one would recognize her, and where she could escape this suffocating So-Cal heat. Both kinds.

            The opening scene of Charade had just begun, and she settled back to watch a little French boy douse Audrey Hepburn with his water gun on the ski lodge deck. Not the most exciting opening sequence, but Audrey sure could deliver those zingers. By the funeral scene, she could tell Kyle was paying more attention to the movie than his laptop. With his quick-thinking mind and attention to detail, he’d easily solve at least a few of the plot’s intricacies before the characters did.

            Since she’d seen this movie once before, Laine expected no problems with taking the plight of a widow caught in the danger-ridden whirlwind of her husband’s sudden death at pure entertainment value. Until a goon cornered Audrey in the restaurant phone booth. Laine’s body began to shake as if it were her trapped inside that small space instead of the actress.

            “Want to watch something else?” Kyle’s voice broke the spell. He didn’t bother asking if she was okay; it was obvious that she wasn’t.

            Unable to speak, she shook her head no while Cary Grant appeared onscreen to check on the heroine. Audrey’s reply would have summed up her response if Kyle had voiced the question after all: “I’m having a nervous breakdown!”

            This was too pathetic. Against every fiber of her will, she burst into tears.

            An arm wrapped around her shoulders as Kyle traded places with the popcorn bowl. Dammit, she couldn’t believe she was losing it so fast, but the sobs refused to stop. Someone freaking wanted to kill her. She was sick of pretending she didn’t care.

            Kyle kept silent, holding her steady while she soaked his shirt with tear drops. She would have felt embarrassed, except she was so damned tired. The movie droned on in the background as she fell asleep, his hand gently stroking her hair.

***

            This was maybe the most awkward position Merrimac had ever found himself in. He switched off the movie around 2 a.m., when the credits began to roll—it had been way too obvious that the Interpol agent was posing, although the stamps had thrown him a bit. Now, with his laptop discarded on the coffee table just out of reach and Laine snuggled close against his left side, he felt the dangerous tug between professionalism and making this job personal.

            He’d always taken work seriously; that was part of what made police dive work difficult for him, its success too often defined by the mere act of finding whoever had gone into the water, dead or alive. Dead never felt like success. Oh, there was a fair share of mechanic-based investigation, and water rescues always left him feeling like he’d made a difference in the world, but for him, body retrieval and worse—failed rescues—tainted the rest irrevocably.

            Still, the number one rule of any security job was to keep it impersonal. The moment emotions got involved was the moment that compromised the bottom line. If he was smart, he’d pull himself off this contract right now; get Chief to send someone else in as a replacement. The problem was he didn’t think anyone else could handle the job better.

            Not that Briggs or Mercier did inferior work—but how the hell had they let an armed man get in that close? And that wouldn’t even have been an issue if they’d insisted on the town car. Hancock had an excuse. He was the kind of muscle that kept people in line and rarely thought more than one step ahead. Maybe if Hendricks or MacMullan were available… He kind of doubted it though. First thing in the morning, he’d call Chief anyway, just to check. It was the right thing to do.

            Except Laine trusted him. None of the other security operatives had taken the initiative to get beyond her outer shell. Granted, they also hadn’t seen her drag herself up from a heap at the foot of the stage, heard her detail the safest route out of there and to take it on their own since she couldn’t do more than crawl. Celebrity status aside, most people wouldn’t have tried sending potential help to safety. Self-preservation would have held their total focus.

             Laine was different, and very much alone. She had few close friends from what he’d seen and virtually no support system. She desperately needed someone to turn to. On top of that, she was the first client he’d met since signing on with the security group that he actually liked. And she was so freaking scared. At the first glint of tears, he hadn’t stopped to think, just reacted. Instead of retreating to her room like he’d half-expected, she’d pushed closer and cried herself to sleep.

            Quitting now felt like betrayal, but how long before he crossed the line completely and upped his risk of mistake?

            With a sigh, he settled his head on the back of the couch and let his eyelids fall shut. There was no help for it, emotions be damned. He was in too deep to back out now.

***

            Laine woke to the smell of cinnamon and sugar. The sun’s rays had just barely crept far enough inside the room to strike at her pupils, and a light cream afghan covered her body. She felt better than she had in weeks, probably since before the tour began. Her motion idle, she glanced at the quartz slab clock that hung adjacent the television.

            Almost nine o’clock?!

            She tore free of the afghan and made a dash for the kitchen, where her cell phone rested in its charger. She hadn’t set an alarm, hadn’t expected to sleep. Marshall usually kept to a precise schedule, but there was a chance she could catch him before he arrived at the restaurant.

            At the arched doorway, she slammed to a halt. Kyle stood in front of the stove, dressed in jeans and a navy tee and flipping pancakes. The previous night’s events suddenly materialized in her mind. Unless she was very much mistaken, she’d fallen asleep after bawling her eyes out on his chest. If he hadn’t already thought her a certifiable nutcase, he certainly would now.

            “Morning,” he flashed a casual smile as he took in her chaotic appearance. “We went ahead and cancelled your breakfast appointment. Jansen agreed you needed the extra sleep.”

            She blinked back, her mortified blush fading away as confusion took its place. “He did?”

            “Sure,” he answered in a tone that hinted at tactics of forced persuasion. That was okay by her. A whole recovery day would get her ready for tomorrow’s charity luncheon and fashion show. The event guaranteed a packed full crowd, and every bit of mental prep time helped.

            Tentatively, she allowed a touch of relief to show through the slump of her shoulders. “Well thanks. The sleep helped and also, last night…what I mean is…you didn’t have to…and well, thanks,” she finished lamely, then looked away. She sounded like such an idiot.

            “Don’t sweat it, Laine. Now how many do you want?”

            She glanced up sharply, still surprised each time he used her name. He was the only one who ever did. But that didn’t help her understand the question. “Pardon?”

            “Pancakes. How many?”

            “Oh. Two’s fine.”

            He gave her three and slid the remaining four onto his own plate. As they sat down at the little glass breakfast table, it finally occurred to her that he had cooked her breakfast in her own kitchen.

            “You didn’t need to do this, you know.” She planted a forkful in her mouth. The morsel dissolved in a perfect twist of cinnamon, sugar, and strawberries, no syrup required.

            “Cook breakfast? We cancelled your meal, and all you’ve got around here is cereal and fruit. I hate cereal. Believe me, mixing up a little batter is the least I could do for both our sakes. How is it?”

            She nodded, hurrying to swallow her mouthful. “It’s fantastic. Where did you learn to cook?”

            He laughed. “I guess I’m not exactly a homey looking guy. I moved in with my brother for a while after his divorce, helped him out with my niece. Kids can’t live off Go-gurt and grilled cheese, and Nick’s culinary feats are barely edible at best. It was either learn or let him poison us all. He’s mastered a few of the simpler meals since then, or I’d worry more about Haley.”

            “You went back to visit them, right? How was it?”

            Kyle shrugged. If he was surprised she had remembered, it didn’t show. “Same as usual, though Haley must have grown at least an inch since I saw her last. She’s on a dinosaur kick right now. It’s pretty cute, actually.”

            Feeling the first twinges of guilt, Laine glanced down at her half-eaten pancake. She sometimes forgot what it felt like to be part of a family, to eat dinner and do things with people who cared about her—non-industry people. And she’d dragged Kyle away from that.

            “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. “I didn’t mean for you to have to fly back so soon.”

            He shifted in the brushed aluminum chair, making sure her eyes were on his before framing an answer. “First off, Laine, I didn’t have to—I wanted to. And second, none of this is your fault, you got that? If you were cutting closed door deals, or smuggling drugs or something, then yeah, maybe I’d see reason for you to blame yourself. But then if that were the case, I’d be back in Washington right now, kicking around a soccer ball with a pack of six-year old girls. You’re worth a little extra effort.”

            He talked to her like she was Laine the person, not Jacy the pop-star, and the difference pricked up tears that she swiftly blinked into oblivion. “Well I really appreciate it. Thank you. And I’ll try to be smarter about everything.”

            “What, no more walking through crowds?” he shot her a wry smile.

            Grimly, she nodded. “If I go anywhere, it’ll be well outside walking distance.”

            “I’ll hold you to that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a couple of calls to make about bringing in some extra guys. Don’t look so worried. The police have an unmarked car parked across the street and from the sound of it, they’re hacking into this fiasco with everything they’ve got, but our people will take a peek too on the off chance we pick up on something the official investigation might miss. In the meantime, did you want to keep your appointment this afternoon with that trainer? I’d rather you stay put for today, but it’s up to you.”

            Laine blinked under his scrutiny. “Then I guess I’ll call and cancel.”

            “Seriously?”

            “Well, yeah. I make this job hard enough for your team, and however it looks, I sure as heck don’t have a death wish. Camping out for a day won’t kill me.” She winced at her unintended phraseology. “I do have to attend that luncheon tomorrow, so I hope you or whoever’s coming in with me packed a suit. If not, call Marshall. His assistant will make the arrangements.”

            “Not necessary,” he brushed off the offer while pushing up easily from his seat. “We came prepared for anything your black-tie crowd throws out. And finish your pancakes. I’ll be right outside in the hallway.”

            Filled with unease, Laine watched the guard beat an almost hasty retreat from the kitchen. Something obviously nagged at him, but whether it had to do with her personally or professionally, she couldn’t quite corner it. As instructed, she forked another strawberry-laden section of pancake into her mouth.

            She didn’t want to get involved in the investigation, aside from whatever questions she could answer for the police and her hired security team. Marshall was right when he’d warned her against dwelling on the attacks; that wouldn’t do her any good.

            Leaving town? Not an option, except as a last resort. She refused to even go there right now. Nevertheless, she planned on following the security team’s instructions to the letter from now on whatever Marshall said, unless she found an extremely good reason to do otherwise. No more reckless outings, no more making herself an easy target.

            What she needed was a plan. Something to concentrate on that would keep her mind on her career and the life she’d so painstakingly established. The charity luncheon tomorrow would make a good start. She’d see about stealing a few minutes with Yellow Brick Road’s Vice-chairman Joseph Krimmer, see if the children’s charity had any projects going she could help with. In the meantime, she had that new song to practice and dance training. She’d work in some kickboxing too. Having saved her life yesterday, that was worth keeping up on.

            “Come here a minute, J.J.” Coach waved me over from rinkside. Instead of directing practice this morning, his concentration was busied with a cell phone that hadn’t left his ear for more than maybe five minutes since we’d hit the ice. Getting called to the bench? Rarely a good thing, and I wondered what I’d done to call down his scrutiny on me.

            My skate blades sliced through the ice, roughened by an hour of hard warm-ups and drills. Behind me, my teammates set up for a short scrimmage to wrap things up for the day. I angled my skates and chipped to a stop, hoping that whatever Coach Gil had to say, he’d keep it short so I could get back out there and join my line—and on a more practical note, fix whatever aspect of my playing had presumably gone wrong.

            I leaned against the arena wall, fingers tapping along my carbon stick shaft. “What’s up, Coach?”

            His gaze traveled out onto the ice where our top line, Ensley-Krupp-Casper, set up against line two, Cooper-Mattheis-Bordeleau. My line, ordinarily, but Mattheis skated at my center spot for now. I looked back toward Coach and saw his eyes on me again. He didn’t seem angry or upset, like he usually did when chastising a player. No, he looked…uncomfortable, and not in way that made me think happy thoughts about the coming conversation either.

            “Just got off the phone with Allan,” he named our organization’s General Manager and my world shifted horribly. I knew what today was. “We’ve traded you to Phoenix. They want you skating against Dallas tonight, so call up their GM and get yourself a ticket to Texas. Sorry, Jake. You’re a tough forward and I hate to see you go.”

            Every pro hockey player understands the ever-present possibility of a trade, especially in the weeks between January and March. Our whole sport’s a business, after all, and the teams own the players. They can do whatever the hell they want with us. So yeah, I knew like I did every season that there was a chance I’d have to make a sudden transition elsewhere. That didn’t make the reality of it any easier. Today was the deadline, and I’d thought I was safe.

            I hadn’t even packed.

            I sucked air deep inside my lungs, then blew it out just as slowly. “At least Phoenix has a good shot at the Playoffs. Who’d you get for me?” I tried not to sound bitter.

            “Hastings and Marleau,” he named a decent enough defenseman and goaltender prospect who’d pulled off a number of impressive saves for Phoenix’s AHL affiliate this season. I was worth two guys, at any rate, and both of them solid players. That helped.

            Not much, but enough.

            “Well.” I stared out at the team, fighting for the puck on the rink’s far side. The team, not my team anymore. That distinction felt like a blow to my gut. But this was how hockey worked, and I’d act like a professional if it killed me to do it. “You have the number for the Phoenix GM?”

            “Right here.” He held out a folded slip of paper.

            Slipping the bulky glove from my right hand, I took it and pushed through the half door and off ice, headed for the locker room. “I’ll get on the phone.”

***

            I showered quickly, changed into jeans and a black Easton tee, and made the call. My new GM seemed thrilled to have me on roster. He actually apologized for the short notice and had already arranged for my flight—he’d given me two and a half hours to get myself to the airport. Someone would meet me in Dallas and drive to the arena.

            The guys were trickling in from practice by the time I hung up. Tim Ensley, the assistant captain and a friend I hoped to keep, came straight over and slung an arm around my shoulders.

            “Gillie just told us. Bummer of a trade, J.J. Don’t know what management’s thinking, letting you go.”

            “They’re thinking they want that prospect goalie,” I forced a half-hearted smile. “It’s okay. They could have traded me to Edmonton, or some other god-forsaken place.”

            Ensley’s from Edmonton, and he whapped me hard on the shoulder. “I’d call you out on that one, but I think instead I’ll make you eat ice at the game Saturday.”

            My brow furrowed with confusion. The game?

            “Forgot about it, eh? Puckhead. We play Phoenix tomorrow night. You can’t get away from us that easy.”

***

            The plane ride Denver to Dallas/Fort Worth sucked majorly. I sat crammed in between the window and a platinum blonde Texas miss, who leaned way across her first class seat and drawled at me for the entire flight. It was my mistake, really. Telling anyone, especially a busty blonde, that you play sports professionally is a terrific error. Hockey players tend to understand this concept, football players do not—which is why they get all of the nasty headlines.

            After a quick escape down the concourse as fast as my long stride could carry me, I scanned the arrival waiting area for my contact, and their supposedly obvious sign.

            There was no supposedly about it. A three foot square of red poster board carried the words “Phoenix Jackalopes” in gigantic black-ringed, white letters. The team logo—a rabid-looking rabbit with a rack of sharply pointed antlers protruding from its head—took up the entire bottom left-hand corner. Attached to the sign was a tall brunette, college-aged, maybe a handful of years younger than me.

            “That,” I pointed to the sign with distaste, “can go away.”

            She folded it in half, relief obvious. “Thanks; I feel ridiculous waving it around. I’m Mara Holt, one of the publicity interns. You must be Mr. Johnston?”

            “Yeah, but it’s Jake, or J.J. I’ve got a couple of bags to pick up, then we can go.”

            “Awesome. Baggage claim’s this way.” She led off and I followed a step behind.

            “You travel with the team?” I asked, curious about an intern’s presence at an away game.

            “Sometimes,” her shoulders shrugged up a fraction. “The P.R. director drags one or two of us along on occasion to help with interview setup and other odds and ends. Usually it’s just the bigger games, but with the trade deadline today, he wanted some extra hands on deck.”

            “Sounds…fun,” I acknowledged politely.

            She flashed me a wry grin. “Not really. Bruski’s a bear. The other interns are having a blast back in Phoenix right now.”

            “How’s the rest of management?”

            “The insider’s opinion? They seem pretty savvy across the board. The GM’s blunt, but accessible. Coach Miller gets excellent results. Oh, he also has a bit of a temper, so wear your hardhat. I can’t speak on Assistant Coach Holt. He’s my older brother, and my view of him has been known to change sporadically.”

            “So you’re, what, a journalism major?”

            “Double: journalism/poli-sci. My internship in D.C. doesn’t start ’til the summer, so I thought I’d pick up another one this spring and finish up those graduation requirements.”

            I’d left Dartmouth in my third year to join the NHL. Meeting graduation requirements had never been a priority.

            “So they call you up and hours later, here you are, packed off and moving on.”

            Now I shrugged. “That’s hockey.”

            “Still, must be hard. Were you even packed?”

            “No.”

            “Shit.”

            My thoughts exactly.

***

            I met the rest of the team an hour and a half before game time, when they bussed in from the local Marriott. I’d arrived maybe another twenty minutes before and made a beeline for the locker room, where a stubby assistant with one of those complicated French names that I’d have to ask for again gave me the pick of the team’s extra equipment. I’m fairly particular about my sticks, and predictably, the bag containing that important aspect of my gear hadn’t joined me in Texas. Ensley might ship my collection to Phoenix for me with all of the other crap I’d neglected to bring, or I could buy new ones. It wasn’t like I didn’t order new sticks all the time anyway—most seasons, I can’t make it two weeks without snapping at least one. Needless to say, I don’t get all that attached to them.

            I taped up a couple of one-piece carbon models that felt like they’d suit me okay: toe curves, with shaft flex around 85 lbs, supple enough to get power and accuracy on my favorite wrist shots. I like a little bit of loft to the stick blade and a lie around 6; at 6’2”, I’m tall enough to merit a higher lie, but I skate in a bit of a crouch.

            By the time I finished waxing the second tape wrapped blade, boisterous banter echoed from the outer hall as my new teammates began filing into the locker room, black equipment bags slung over shoulders.

            I swallowed, wondering if I should be the first one to speak.

            Miller came to my rescue, a burly version of Sean Penn who’d coached at Boston University for a few years before taking a job in the big leagues. This was his second season as head coach for the Jackalopes, and he’d done a hell of a job whipping the team into shape, if numbers on paper meant anything.

            “Glad to see you, Johnston,” he held out a hand, fingers clenching around mine in an iron-clad grip. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. Seen ’em too. You’ll skate right wing tonight on the second line with Pax and Jonesy, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

            “Sounds good.” My eyes rambled around the room, wondering which curious faces belonged to my new linemates. While I’d never actually played with any of these guys, I recognized a few from previous games and the familiarity that comes from just being around the league. One of the defenseman, Brady, we’d studied hard in video preparation for a match-up earlier in the season. He’d scored something like fifteen goals so far this season, very impressive for a D-man, and was wicked fast to boot.

            Coach Miller looked me up and down. Self-conscious, I straightened under his scrutiny. “We’ll chat for a bit later. Everyone on the ice by quarter after!” He barked that last bit loud for the rest of the team, then headed out the door with what I guessed was the rest of the management staff.

            A thickly built man about my height approached next and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Alec LeBlanc. Let me introduce you around.”

            Like the good captain he was, “Lucks” pointed out every player in that locker room, checking to make sure I had every piece of necessary equipment primed and ready for our imminent game. He also gave me a rundown of how our opponents, the Dallas Shooters, had played lately and the strategies our team hoped to use against them. As the team dispersed to climb into our individual arsenals of padding, he left me with Devin Jones and Anton Paski for a little linemate bonding time. We talked over the game some, and a couple of the defenseman wandered over to join us.

            I remembered guys being traded onto my own team, and wished I’d made more of an effort during their first night beyond the cursory “Hi my name is J.J., nice to meet you” formula. The instant familiarity these guys treated me with made a world of difference, and my psyche appreciated the support.

            Shrugging my new white-and-red sweater over the pads, I heard a throat clear behind me and turned. Mara stood nearby, a look of discomfort warring with journalistic professionalism at the locker room activity surrounding her.

            “Our television correspondent would like a quick interview before you go out, if you wouldn’t mind.”

            No easy out immediately presented itself, so I followed her into the tunnel, towing my stick in one hand, skates and helmet in the other. I tucked them against a wall and stood where she pointed, a headset planted firmly atop my head and a camera locked on my face. Mara watched from beside the cameraman as I fielded a relatively easy set of questions from the network’s pair of sports commentators.

            How did I hear about the trade and what were my first thoughts?

            Coach called me over in practice, and I was pleased to go to a team with an almost guaranteed playoff spot. Oh, except my old team held a playoff berth too.

            Was I excited about playing with Phoenix tonight?

            Yes, definitely. Nice to get straight to playing with the boys. Gives us a chance to get to know each other right off the bat. A whole half-hour warm-up for prep time—yes, anyone could see how very excited that might make me.

            How did I feel about playing my old team tomorrow night?

            Glad to get it out of the way so soon. It’ll be strange seeing old teammates on the other side of the line, but Phoenix’s my team now and I’m gonna come out raring to go, ready to help us win. How the hell did they think I felt?!

            “Sorry about that,” Mara ducked her head almost sympathetically once I’d finished thanking the invisible commentators for their offered welcomes.

            “No problem.” I grabbed my equipment and headed for the much safer rink, where I belonged.

***

            Coach chose to start our second line out. Silently, I thanked him for that. Waiting on the bench for a shift change would only frazz up my nerves more. Opposite me on the far side of centerline, Mikey Summers, a guy I’d played with back in juniors, grinned his greeting. A gap marked his missing left incisor.

            “Hey there, J.J. Looks like I get to cream your ass twice this week.”

            We’d played the Shooters four days ago and lost 5-3, the last goal an empty-netter. Deliberately, I winked and returned my focus to the puck. When the ref let it drop approximately four seconds later and Jonesy sent a pass my way, I shoved my right shoulder into Mikey’s side and neatly skated by.

            I’d never liked him much.

            The rest of the first period went okay. One of our defenseman tipped the puck up the boards toward me and I skated it into Shooter territory, punching a solid pass across ice to Pax, who hammered it in. It sounds stupid, but the assist relieved a lot of the pressure I’d felt up until then. An official point meant I’d made a tangible contribution to the team, always a plus when you’re the new guy on the rink. It also showed my seriousness about playing for my new team.

            Though up by two goals, we couldn’t meet the desperate intensity of our opponents in the first ten minutes of Period Two. One of their guys went sprawling with a little help from our third line winger, and the Shooters went on power play. I wasn’t too surprised Coach kept me benched for the penalty kill. He didn’t know my skills well enough to put me in that kind of position.

            Dallas scored ten seconds from the end of their one man advantage, and then again not a minute and a half later. The goals riled, of course, but a part of me was secretly glad I hadn’t been on ice for either of them.

            My shining moment came right at the end of that period, when Coach sent me in with the third shift of our own power play unit. Pax blasted a slapshot on goal from the left point. When it ricocheted off their goalie’s chest, I backhanded it over his outstretched leg pads and into the net. An awkward shot and I nailed it.

            Skating back to our bench amidst a ring of friendly slaps to my shoulders and helmet from the rest of the unit, I winked at Mikey again.

            He got his revenge though. Four minutes into our final period, he tripped me hard toward the boards, where my right knee ground against white panel siding. It hurt like hell, but no penalty was called. The other Jacks laid a couple of brutal, marginally legal hits on Mikey after that.

            And we kept our lead for the rest of the game.

            Energy pulsed through the locker room as we stripped off our sweaters and pads, laughing and joking like we’d all played together forever. I didn’t even mind the interviews, and it seemed like every reporter in there had a set of questions (mostly the same set of questions) for me. I hit the showers at first opportunity and packed up my gear. We were headed straight to the airport for our chartered flight—right back the way I had come a handful of hours before.

***

            From the plane to the shuttle to the hotel, Lucks kept me involved and occupied. Not in an insulting way; more as a kind of friendly support system. I worked to simplify all of my thoughts down on hockey—our team vs. their team—like the veteran players always seemed to when they found themselves ricocheted around the country. Trades happened all the damn time. I just hoped it got easier after the first go round.

            No one on the team was stupid enough to ask if it felt weird prepping for play against a city that had been my home for the last three years, the length of my career in the NHL. They didn’t need to. Of course it felt weird. Those sorts of obvious questions were better left to reporters, or fans that didn’t have a clue what else to say.

            No one mentioned the trade either, or their former teammate, Hastings, who they would see again in a smattering of tense hours. Our teams were set, the line in the sand drawn, and while I faced a new direction now, I’d play for these guys with everything I had. That was my job.

            Plus I really wanted to bear down hard on Denver.

            I hadn’t asked for a trade. It was part of the business of hockey, yes, and I understood all of the reasoning, how each organization wanted to make their team stronger on the whole. Getting the shove hurt all the same.

            Whatever happened next wouldn’t turn back time. But if I had my way tonight, I’d make it look like Phoenix got off with the more desirable end of the deal.

***

            It didn’t really hit me until we swarmed down the back corridor of Shaun Drake Arena and my feet made a right turn instead of a left, and into the Away Team locker room. Across the hall, I could hear music blasting and the muffled shouts of conversation as my friends geared up for our coming match. I’d ducked into that room before morning skate to retrieve the gear Ensley had left stacked in a corner for me. While I’m not a superstitious player on the whole, I held more confidence in my own sticks. Sure I’d played alright last night, but each time the puck connected with that borrowed blade, it hadn’t felt quite right.

            I stayed quiet in the foreign locker room, and the other guys let me be for the most part. I appreciated the space since truthfully, what could they say? Every ounce of my focus centered on the game and a roster of players whose moves I knew well, as they knew mine. Paulie Weir provided top notch netminding, but he tended to go down low in his blocks. I’d need elevation and precision to get anything by.

            Already my thoughts were counterproductive. The moment this became about me, about my performance, I let down my team. However much individual efforts had their place, my first goal had to be support. Because you won as a team or not at all.

            Early fans dotted the stadium as my skate blades hit ice for our pre-game skate. A few wore red-and-gold Jackalope sweaters, and I realized with a start that those were my fans, and the ones decked out in green-and-white belonged to my past.

            I nodded at Cooper and Bordeleau when we passed each other at center ice, only a tad surprised to see rookie Scott Pulaski skating up behind them to join their line for shooting drills. Coop grinned in response and Bordie flexed his arm mockingly.

            Great guys, the both of them, and they were going down tonight.

            I completed each warm-up maneuver with more fervor than usual, a huge part of me keenly aware of the number of eyes that watched from both sides of the professional equation, waiting for me to either make a mistake or pull off something brilliant. Coach Miller called me over partway through.

            “Save it for the game, J.J.,” he growled and then leaned closer. “Feeling okay?”

            “Sure,” I replied, feigning a carefree attitude we both knew was a total lie.

            He moved to the point. “You know these guys, they know you. But they’re not gonna change up their game or they’ll run each other off the ice. So you stay unpredictable. And for damn’s sake, shoot the puck. Don’t you dare get soft out there and pass it on when you’ve got yourself an opportunity.”

            “Got it,” I accented my agreement with a solid nod.

            “Good. Now head on into the tunnel. The press wants a word.”

            Of course they did.

            Fighting back a grimace, I headed off ice. If any reporter asked a single new question, I would be very, very surprised.

            They didn’t.

***

            Our first line held the ice for opening face-off. From the bench tucked beside Pax and Jonesy, I relaxed my grip on the white-taped stick shaft, mind tallying through a list of self-instructions: shoot high, skate strides short and quick, head up, and for shit’s sake stop squeezing the stick.

            I glanced out over the ice toward where Phillip Hastings waited for play to begin, his first shift in a Dragon’s uniform. His face was a mask of apparent calm, and I wondered if he felt the same pressure I did of having to perform especially well tonight with minimal screw-ups.

            The puck dropped into play and bodies scrambled. When Hastings slammed our left wing into the boards less than twenty seconds later in a tussle for the puck, I figured he felt exactly the same pressure.

            Coach tapped my shoulder and called a name. One light vault over the side later, I was on ice and racing down our offensive end. As right wing, that meant I had to cross a heck of a lot of rink before I got into position when we skated right to left like this. Part of me was aware of Pax moving into position near the far post while Jonesy swept behind the cage. I had some space and he passed the puck back. Instantly I sent a one-timer on net. It bounced off Weir’s skate and straight for Pax, who slapped at the rebound with his stick-blade. Weir’s glove shot out and he pocketed the save.

            Ensley skated past as our teams set up for face-off.

            “Guess you found your stick.”

            “Hey, I always know where my stick is,” I returned with a smirk.

            “That’s not what she said.”

            The whistle blew. Pax won the scuffle and sent the puck straight to me, where it skidded awkwardly off my stick and toward Denver defenseman Iain Flynn. Stick extended out before me, I dove over the ice, catching the puck with the tip of my blade as I swept it toward the crease. Pax tapped it to Jonesy, who tipped it in.

            First shift of the evening and I had an assist. Unfortunately, my bruised knee from last night’s game now stung like hell. But not enough to wipe the grin from my face as I slammed into Jonesy for a round of shoulder claps and helmet taps. We skated to the bench feeling pretty damn pleased with ourselves.

            A few more shifts into the period, and I knew my knee was going to be a problem. I missed a chance at an almost open net when I couldn’t beat the defenseman to the puck, and went crashing into the boards a few minutes later when a light check in the corner got me tripped up over my own skates. The crowd booed like I was trying to draw a penalty or something, but that wasn’t it. Any pressure in the wrong place had my knee smarting hard beneath me. I skated to the bench and had one of the trainers take a look at it. For the rest of that period, I sat in the locker room with a mound of ice taped over my stupid joint and watched the score shift to 2-1 in our favor.

            The ice stayed on while Coach preached the rights and wrongs of our play in the first twenty minutes, and highlighted areas that needed more push come period number two. There was nothing wrong with my knee except for a bruise in an awkward place, so I had the trainer wrap it tight and assured Coach I was ready for play. If it came down to a choice between sitting the rest of the game out and playing through the pain, I’d take the pain. It would hurt less in the long run.

            Turned out, the knee actually helped me score.

            Coach Miller’s theory on unpredictability during warm-up was much easier to apply when my freaking knee wouldn’t bend and twist the way it normally did, so tightly had the trainer wrapped that bandage. But the elastic also gave my joint a stiff sort of stability. With their top line on ice, the Dragons charged through the neutral zone, passing between their right wing and center. Pax planted himself in front of the center, who slipped the puck toward Ensley on left wing.

            I got there first. Pirouetting around my rigid right leg, I scooped the puck off Ensley’s blade tip and sprinted up the ice. Flynn appeared in front of me and I shifted my weight hard right while elevating my stick, like I was going to fire off a shot. I didn’t. At least, not for another half second, after Flynn had skidded out of the picture in what would otherwise have been a spectacular block. My wrister sailed straight over Weir’s outstretched pad. And then white sweatered bodies pummeled me from behind.

            I sat on the bench for most of the rest of the game, an ice pad cupped against my knee where defenseman Rolf Wiles had accidentally clipped it with his stick in the post-goal crush. In between periods, the dratted thing had actually started to swell and with our team up by two goals, Coach saw little reason to risk aggravating it more until I could get it properly checked out.

            The final buzzer sealed our win at 3-1. When the media named me first star of the game, to their very great credit only a handful of Denver fans booed while I skated my little “gee thanks” circle on the scuffed up ice.

            After slews of interviews and a warp-speed shower, I waited outside the Home locker room for my old teammates to file out. I didn’t know when I’d be back this way—probably not until summer or whenever our playoff season wrapped up, assuming we kept a spot—and I wanted to see the guys one last time. This game marked the end of our teams’ regular season series, and we wouldn’t face each other again until fall unless we met in the playoffs. And who knew where we’d all be in the fall.

            Ensley came out first and stuck out a hand, which I shook firmly. “Thought you’d be out here. By the way, Michelle says to tell you she’s royally pissed you won’t be here for the charity auction next week. She doesn’t have a player to auction off anymore.”

            Biggest perk of the trade, in my opinion. “Have her give Kingsey a shot. He looks enough like that Old Spice guy to bring a big check. You know; the one on the horse?”

            He cracked a grin. “He’ll kill me if I pop the question. I’ll get our fearless captain to do it; serve him right for missing that open net earlier. You guys headed out?”

            “Yeah. A game in New Jersey day after next, then I get to pick out an apartment or something in the big AZ.”

            “Well play like you mean it, J.J. And try not to sweat to death in the desert.”

            Coop and Bordie came out next, Paulie Weir not far behind. We joked about my big fake out—and Flynn sneaked up and smacked my head partway through. Just after I’d finished a last few goodbyes before collecting my gear for the airport shuttle, Phillip Hastings ducked into the corridor.

            “Hey,” I offered my hand. “Nice game tonight. Wanted to say hi, and well, good luck.”

            He nodded back, a small smile tugging across his lips. “Yeah, you too.”

            I’d turned toward the locker room where most of the Jacks had already shuffled out, gear bags slumped over matching black shirts, when a throat cleared behind me and I looked back.

            Hastings moved a step closer. He whispered something in my ear and I grinned in reply.

            On the bus, I caught up with Lucks and plopped down in the seat behind him. “Let’s hear about this ‘Tracy incident’.”

            Lucks groaned as every head within hearing distance honed in like sharks on a scent. New team, new style of play, and a thousand new ways to rib at each other. I owed Hastings one. This story promised to be good.

Pt. 1: “Nameless”

            Darkness obstructed her vision, so complete it became a blindfold. At her back, quiet drafts of breath drew nearer and nearer on the stage. She held perfectly still, afraid even the smallest step would give away her position. Muffled footsteps creaked across the floorboards. Oxygen-drained air pooled heavy in her lungs, allowed escape only in diminutive amounts. She fought the urge to call for help, aware that any danger dwelt in her head. After so many concerts, numerous venues, and one near-deadly encounter in Houston, dreams and reality merged into one terrifying weight on her mind.

            She took one tentative step, and then another. All around her, musicians and dancers filed off stage. She would be among the last to leave. Though the blackness pressed in, she felt her shoulders relax. Nothing bad could get to her; the new security team was too good.

            A warm trickle of breeze swept past her ear. Within it bubbled the hint of a malignant chuckle.

            “Found you.”

            Jacy bolted upright, her hair draped across her shoulders in long, straight curtains of honey-wheat gold. Beneath her silky white camisole, the planes of her chest heaved, rocking her slim body back and forth in panicky surges. Her throat ached with every leashed scream and sob; tonight, not one had broken free. That, at least, was progress.

            Panic slowly draining away, she wiped at the beads of perspiration that covered her face with hands that trembled. One week. One week and two concerts since the Houston show. One week since the first faceless assailant nearly dashed out her life, a follow-up attacker close on his heels. Luck of a single missed shot had saved her on the performance platform. One scant hour later, her inner flame remained ablaze on account of the gleam from a streetlight off metal, seen just in time. She’d reacted instinctively, dragging Kyle down beside her, desperate to elude the bullet.

            No other threats had followed, but police investigators soon confirmed that the shots originated from two different guns, likely two separate gunmen. Only the second was in custody.

            Her chin lifted and the room shifted into focus, emerging from the obscurity of fearful bewilderment: glass topped desk, antique four-poster and matched wardrobe embedded with carvings of oak leaves and acorns, floor length mirror down the far wall, drawing table with half-finished sketch of the spaniel that lived next door, framed landscape prints of places she wanted to visit, a small photograph of her family taken from the carousel fifteen years ago at the Santa Cruz Boardwalk.

            She preferred this room to the rest of her condo, where some big name decorator Marshall recommended had gone to town with new age angles, glass, marble, and modern art themed white-and-black. She hated the sterility, but not yet to the point of doing anything about it. Not enough time in the day, and little justification what with her rare appearances at home. Marshall kept her schedule full of practices, coaching sessions, recordings, public appearances, interviews, concerts, and whatever other image-building sensations he could think of.

            Cool metal met the pads of her fumbling fingers, and she switched on the brass table lamp. Eggshell walls and her creamy white duvet practically glowed in its softly shaded light, a welcome contrast to each shadow that haunted her mind.

            Setting foot on-stage for her final appearances of the tour topped the list of hardest things she’d ever had to make herself do. Nevertheless, she’d marched out one strappy platform pump after the other, grinned like a fool through every upbeat lyric and gymnastic dance step, and escaped backstage with no one the wiser of her crushing terror.

            Except for Kyle Merrimac. He’d recognized when she needed a moment apart; of everyone on staff, he actually seemed to care.

            And of course, he was no longer here.

***

            “What’s up, Briggs?” He leaned into the receiver, gaze lazily fixed on his niece as she played on the floor. Dinosaurs vs. Puppies: an epic late night battle of near-comical proportions.

            Briggs’ favorite band, the Beach Boys, sang in the background about California girls and their alleged superiority. “Just a check in call; I figured you’d be awake. Jacy’s punching up a storm in the workout room. Other than that, not much going on here.”

            Merrimac glanced at the clock. Midnight. Time the munchkin was forced to bed. Sparks would fly if Nick found out about the delayed tuck-in time. “It’s late for a workout. She’s got that park shoot tomorrow.”

            “Christ, what, you’ve memorized her schedule? You’re supposed to be on time off. Besides, she hit the sack pretty early tonight. Probably woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.”

            Nightmares again. The first night after the shooting, her waking screams had sent him hurtling through two sets of locked doors and into her hotel suite bedroom. Eager to avoid a repeat performance that would unquestionably bruise his left shoulder beyond all recognition, Merrimac slept on her outer room couch for the tour’s remainder. “She seem okay?”

            “I guess. I mean, it’s hard to tell with her. Did Chief give you a ring?”

            “Not today.”

            “He’ll send us a couple of extra guys if we want ’em, and he’s juggled our schedule since this contract extended out longer than planned.”

            Originally, their security agreement spanned the tour solely. After Houston, however, manager Mitchell Jansen had requested they stay on for another month, potentially longer. He wanted Jacy in the public eye, but not unprotected.

            “Let’s make it a yes on the extra hands. We’ll need more players on our side of the court.”

            Briggs grunted his confirmation. “On that note, I made some calls this afternoon. Word is, they seem like two separate incidents. The guy in custody denies any knowledge of another shooter, motive is twenty thou. Nothing on the first guy.”

            “Who put out the contract?” Over near the couch, half a dozen plastic dinosaurs hemmed in the puppy pack, some of whom easily outsized the largest brachiosaurus.

            “For our second man? A guy called Ritchie. The police are tracking him down, but it looks like a dead end. I’ll see if Chief will give us Porter. He’s got the right contacts for this sort of thing.”

            “And on the security front? Any problems today?”

            The sigh on the phone’s other end imparted all the annoyance of an eye-roll. “I’d have told you if there were. So no. Jacy’s a touch jumpy, but then, so am I. That manager’s crazy, thinking a handful of men can secure these wide open areas from the sidelines.”

            No arguments there. “If you need me back early, I can be on a plane first thing in the morning.”

            “Nah, we’ll manage. How’s the family?”

            “Good.” A fluffy brown-and-white St. Bernard poked its head out from under the couch. “I’m watching Haley for Nick tonight. Dive team got called in for a boat crash.”

            Brigg’s breath whistled through his front teeth. “Jeez. Bet you don’t miss that.”

            “No.” The word stiffly burst free, almost an interruption.

            Too many people who went into that river’s dark waters never came out, or at least not alive. He preferred a job with a better shot at success, where death wasn’t always his close companion. As a security professional, he sat posed at the center of the action, ready to provide assistance or protection quickly if called upon. However much he preferred serving the layman, this stint among egocentric celebrities and their retinues would do for now.

            Because contrary to popular belief, beneath Jacy/Laine’s composed exterior, she was just as fragile as everyone else.

***

            The photographer, Phil, clicked his camera for maybe the millionth time that morning and gave a satisfied nod. “That should finish us up. Good shoot, everyone.”

            Expression set on pleasantly neutral for the benefit of the small crowd gathered around Exposition Park Rose Garden, Jacy made a beeline for the water table. L.A. was too hot, too sunny, too crowded. The nearby beach helped make it bearable, though she rarely got much chance to spend time there. At present, even that much-loved locale held little appeal; her day-to-day duties already put her at risk enough.

            She lifted a small bottle of water from the table and twisted off its cap as Kevin Briggs wandered toward her side, his sharp gaze scanning the perimeter.

            “Are you sure you want to do this?” he asked, tone deceptively casual. “I’d rather we took the car.”

            And admit her fear publicly? Hell no.

            “The café’s only a couple of blocks away. It’d look really bad to drive that short a distance when there’s nothing wrong with my feet.”

            “Jacy, it’s fine. People will understand.” He left the more critical factor unspoken: he lacked confidence in his security team’s ability to protect her through so unsecure an area.

            “We’ll walk.” And face her problems head on, the best way she knew how. Confidence, or the appearance of it, was the only weapon she had left. “Are your guys ready?”

            He sighed, obviously unhappy with her decision. “Whenever you are.”

            They set out along the sidewalk, headed for one of the lesser thoroughfares. Hancock moseyed a few yards ahead of her, Kevin and Rick Mercier a few yards behind. After dodging bullets with Kyle, she’d made it a priority to learn the names of all four security personnel. Mercier had not been present initially. On assignments that lasted more than one day, the team rotated duty so one man could catch up on rest while the others worked. Kyle, for example, had recently flown home for a well-deserved stint of R&R.

            While she recognized the thought as selfish, she wished he had stayed. Rick seemed okay, and the combined efforts of Kevin and Hancock had taken down the second shooter, but it was Kyle who had stuck close by her side throughout that terrible night, and for the rest of the tour. Two days left before he returned.

            Other pedestrians flowed up and down the street curb, an eclectic mix of college students, tourists, businesspersons, joggers, and shoppers. Several glanced her way curiously, and two asked for autographs before they came within sight of the little sports bar and café where Marshall waited, like as not with martini in hand. The security men looked uncomfortable at each halt, but her manager had made it very clear that she not alter from her approved routine in any way.

            Half a block from their destination, a preppy young blonde stopped her, holding out the denim book-bag that hung from her shoulder. Obligingly, Jacy took the offered Sharpie and started in on the stylized “J” she’d practiced to perfection. Curious stares impaled her from every direction as they always did whenever someone recognized her on the streets and made public acknowledgement of it. One hefty woman wielded her camera phone like a weapon, recording pictures or video, she couldn’t tell which.

            Her hand had just started in on the plunging “Y” when the undergraduate inhaled sharply. Jacy didn’t stop to think. She shoved the girl away from her and whirled around. Light flashed off the knife blade and instantly, her foot rose and struck out in a forceful front thrust kick, proving all those hours of kickboxing well worth the effort. The suit-clad Ben Affleck wannabe stumbled back, caught off guard by her sudden reaction. Kevin and Rick jumped on top of him before he could make another move, while at her back, Hancock’s bulky presence warned onlookers away.

            Her face a mask of composure, Jacy plucked the baby blue iPhone from her purse and dialed 911.

***

            “Why, good afternoon, dear brother. Did we have a late night?”

            Nick glared at him from the kitchen doorway and crossed to the pot of coffee percolating on the laminate counter. “You know I didn’t get back until almost five.”

            “And you look fresh as a daisy.” Seated safely behind the kitchen table, Merrimac smirked at his disheveled older sibling. “Extra pancakes in the refrigerator, if you want them.”

            “Thanks.” Nick snagged the Tupperware container and placed its contents on a plate, shoving it inside the microwave. “Where’s Haley?”

            “Outside playing in the sandbox. I thought her dinos needed a bit of fresh air.”

            “Huh.” Sunlight poured through the open kitchen window, intertwined with gentle wisps of fresh air. Twin faded blue curtains rustled lightly as Nick stared out after his daughter. Then the microwave dinged and he retrieved his breakfast. “Everything go okay last night?”

            “Yup. Dinos almost had the puppies cornered at one point, but her littlest St. Bernard led them all to safety through the secret couch dust-flap.”

            His brother laughed. “About time those puppies caught a break.” He nodded toward the muted television screen. “Anything happen in the world?”

            “Haven’t really been watching. Briggs called last night, and the one lead the police have is shaky. I’m still checking into it, of course, but I just can’t see why someone wants to kill this girl. She’s popular and non-controversial, practically to the point of being Little Mary Sunshine. While her manager has no problem painting a giant target on her head, she does him more good alive than dead. And that second man was definitely out for the kill.”

            Thoughtfully, Nick chewed a bite of pancake. “Have you taken it the next step? I mean, let’s say someone tries again and this time, they get everything right. Who stands to benefit?”

            “That’s what I’ve spent the morning working on. Relatives, rivals; nothing pans out.” Merrimac shook his head, frustrated.

            “And the money? Where does it go?”

            A half-bemused grimace trailed along his mouth. “Mostly charities; the biggest chunk to an organization that cares for foster kids and finds them permanent homes.”

            “Hard to argue the ‘follow the money’ adage on that,” Nick admitted.

            “I know. As much as I hate to say it, we may have to wait for the next attempt before we can tie anything together.”

            Nick frowned and reached for the controller, finger on the volume button and expression ill at ease. “Hope you didn’t speak too soon.”

            Craning his neck around, Merrimac’s stare hit the red news banner that scrolled across the screen bottom. “Shit.”

***

            On the digitized display in front of him, a grainy image revealed the young star bent toward another shorter girl. Her head snapped up suddenly and she pushed the girl back, neatly whipping around to plant her foot against the stomach of a dark-haired man, seen here from behind. The would-be assassin stumbled backward, where two men dressed in casual jeans and polos grabbed him and took away the knife. In the background, a woman’s voice narrated the news story.

            “—captured this footage of the singer as she fought off her assailant. The man was taken into custody by the L.A.P.D. shortly after; his name has not yet been released.”

            A heavily made up older blonde and her intern-age co-anchor replaced the amateur film job. The anchorman nodded, impressed. “That’s some quick footwork, Marty, and another close call for Jacy. Late last week, the singer was attacked on tour following her Houston show. Two gunmen fired one shot each. The second gunman, identified as Jared Gleason, is now in custody. The police have yet to release details on the first.”

            But they would soon, he thought to himself as he clicked the power off. The police had their suspect now, and enough evidence to connect him with the earlier incident. Both Burkhart and Gleason would quietly serve out their sentences on his lucrative payroll. In a few year’s time, they’d hit the streets again; they hadn’t, after all, actually hurt anyone. Good thing too. Orders had changed as of fifteen minutes ago. Hopefully, Ritchie got the message before going incommunicado. Otherwise, they were all in big trouble.

***

            “Excuse me for a sec?” Jacy flashed a quick smile and fled for the bathroom, anxious to escape every eager journalist and well-wisher that mingled throughout the penthouse. Attending fellow singer Bobashank’s cocktail mixer was a mistake. She should have insisted Marshall let her go home, where she could shake and cry within the safety of her bedroom, away from each shallow compliment and whispered conversation.

            The ebony door swung easily beneath her white-tipped fingers. Cool air rushed out to meet the warmth of a hundred socialite bodies as her feet touched down on black marble tile. She glanced into the enormous gilt-framed mirror: not a wrinkle of fatigue or anxiety marred her cosmetically ornamented visage. In her eyes, though, she could see something of the fear that plagued each moment spent in the outer world. Door lock firmly in place, she sank down onto the polished floor, spine against sink cabinet and arms wrapped tight around her knees. She heaved quiet breaths into the silky cerulean fabric of her sari-style wrap skirt, the entirety of her body quaking in tune with the San Andreas Fault.

            This was the first time she’d been alone all day. Instead of lunch with her manager, the thwarted knifing had forced a trip to the police station, where she made her statement and answered seemingly endless questions while the police searched for motive, means, and opportunity—that last was the easiest to establish. After a quick wardrobe change in the women’s locker room, she’d traveled straight here, joining a slew of music industry brass, performers, and management, on top of the celebrity reporting staff. Except by slight acquaintance, she knew hardly anyone here.

            Motive. No one had much reason to kill her as far as she could tell. Nevertheless, three attacks in a little over a week forced her to see the reality: someone out there clearly wanted her dead. What held her huddled in a ball was the inevitability of this unknown threat trying again and again until they got what they wanted.

            Even now, Marshall insisted she keep on like normal; no alteration of routine, no allowing this glitch to affect performance. She understood. Buying into the fear, publicly at least, let it dictate her life. She wouldn’t give her anonymous adversary that kind of leverage, or that kind of satisfaction.

            Her utter helplessness burned. No one knew when or where the next assailant might strike, and she understood all too well that by keeping to her game-plan, means and opportunity would never disappear. She needed another solution, but what?

            Grabbing for the counter, she hauled herself upright and checked her appearance in the mirror. Every hair in place, a look of pleasant unaffectedness plastered over the tightened spring of her emotions. Time for another hour of questions. Kevin and Rick prowled around somewhere out there; after earlier, they were rolling on high alert. Nothing would happen.

            She repeated the words aloud, willing them into truth. “Nothing will happen.”

            When she pushed through the door, a glint of light instantly pierced her sight and she cringed away, heart thudding hard against her chest.

            Chandelier light caught on a wineglass, nothing more. Her eyes shut for the barest moment while her composure went on reboot. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head clear. Get a grip.

            Bobashank chatted with a photojournalist near the room’s center, his mocha skin tones exaggerated by the stark white of his button-up shirt, worn untucked over grey slacks. Resigned, she crossed to join him.

            “Jacy!” Deep brown eyes crinkled at the corners as he pulled her into an airy hug. “My god, you look gorgeous. Saw the footage of you from earlier. Sure scared the heck out of me, but hey, if you ever want a job guarding my body, you’ve got it!”

            She laughed, the sound a perfect mix of modesty and discomfort. “Not an experience I’d like to repeat, Bobs, thanks all the same.”

            “Yeah, well awesome moves. Have you met Alex, here?”

            Courteously, she allowed the introduction and posed for a picture. The photographer wandered further into the crowd. “You haven’t seen Marshall, have you?”

            His curl-topped head angled left and he gave it a little nod. “Over by Jonagold, the Apple King himself. I’m surprised he came. Jonny doesn’t like me much.”

            The corner of her lips quirked. “But you throw awesome parties. That makes up for a lot.”

            Bobs grinned in response. “You know it, babe. Now how ’bout we give the paparazzi something to speculate about before I make my rounds?”

            “Ah, no,” she neatly ducked a step apart. “I’ve already gotten more than my share of the spotlight today. You might give Trisha Lee a shot.”

            “Nah,” he leaned in quick and planted a kiss on her cheek. “I prefer the nice girls. Give me a call if there’s anything I can do to help you out. And seriously, Jace, be careful.”

            “Sure,” she smiled goodbye and turned away from a flashing camera—straight into the bane of her existence.

            StarScope reporter Robin Kasey pushed close, digital recorder in hand. “Hey there! I hoped you might answer a couple of questions for our readers after all that drama earlier this afternoon.”

            She managed a mannerly response in the affirmative. Hidden deep behind ice blue eyes, her mind screamed frustration.

***

            Merrimac watched from near the bar beside Briggs, their water glasses untouched. He’d flown in from Sea-Tac less than an hour before and driven straight over.

            “She shouldn’t be here,” he muttered with disgust. That demon manager of hers deserved a sharp slap to the head. Laine could have overruled Jansen, but if he’d learned anything this week, it was that she refused to shy away from danger. She called it not letting fear rule her life.

            He called it an unacknowledged death wish.

            Had the assaults been simple nightmares, she’d never have considered ditching the event; so despite her clear lack of enthusiasm, to Bobashank’s she went. That rough-and-tumble rapper kept well within the boundaries of what she could take. The interrogator now layering query after query, on the other hand, obviously pushed those limits. Laine’s contact-colored eyes darted about in search of escape each time the pushy brunette gave her a moment’s space.

            “Hey, I tried talking her out of it,” Briggs protested. “Just like I tried talking her out of walking to the café this afternoon.”

            “Then I think it’s time we insisted. We need to regroup, and our girl, there, needs a break. I’ll bet she hasn’t been home since this morning.”

            “She hasn’t.”

            The reporter pressed in closer toward Laine and inadvertently, the singer stepped back, nearly tripping over her own feet. Now seemed an appropriate moment to get involved. “Grab Mercier and head for the car. We’ll meet you there.”

            He strode across the room, glad for his fortunate wardrobe selection earlier that morning. His chinos and black polo blended in nicely with the other men of this casually formal crowd. Firmly gripping Laine by the elbow, he pulled her from the brunette’s expansive sphere of aggression.

            “Kyle?” she blinked, confused at his presence.

            “Hi, hon.” All polite professionalism, he nodded toward the brunette. “We’d better get going, if you don’t mind.”

            Laine blinked again, and then turned her gaze on the reporter. “Was there anything else?”

            Equally puzzled by Merrimac’s appearance, the brunette’s eyes swept back and forth between the two. She shook her head. “I think that should do it.”

            “Great,” he half-smiled and unceremoniously strolled off, towing Laine beside him. Minus a single word of protest, she drifted along easily, caught in a state of sheer bewilderment that lasted until the elevator doors closed behind them.

            “You’re not in Washington?” she asked finally.

            “Hancock met me at the airport a bit ago. How are you holding up?”

            Her lashes lowered and she shook her head, as honest an answer as she was likely to give anyone. Hesitant, he reached out and squeezed her shoulder.

            “Let’s get you home.”

***

            He cursed and lowered his weapon. More men surrounded the target than he’d counted on, and he couldn’t get off a clean shot. So much for taking care of this himself. He refused to risk arrest. Shit, and two of his best guys taken in already. No, he’d call Krimmer and they could discuss options. Better options.

            Slipping his emergency mobile from a pocket, he switched it on. The blinking envelope alerted him to a new message: Abort. Mission cancelled.

            Bright lights flashed around her head, exploding stars that dimmed to nothingness as new ones took their place, only to vanish with speed just as swift. The cycle repeated itself again and again while thousands of cameras glittered throughout the immense darkened theater.

            Thrust partway into the audience atop the platform’s curved edge, Jacy bowed her head, stealing a moment of composure before the center spotlight singled her out once more for her finishing bow. These people didn’t know her. She’d never visited the city before this morning. Not one of them knew her name. No, that wasn’t true. They knew her name, the one her manager had concocted in a flight of marketing fancy—“all the class of ‘Lacy,’ with a feel that says ‘Racy!’”—but the one from before was lost. Even her friends, the few she had left from before this whole incredible disaster, never used it. Somewhere deep inside her mind, a voice spoke it now and then, a last, desperate attempt to remind her that there was a world out there. A world she no longer quite believed in.

            White and gold burst around her, so blinding in their combined intensity that she could no longer see the twinkling cameras. Here she was, trapped in an ephemeral light of her own, burning, blazing, a spark flaring through the empty black of nothingness.

            She pumped a fist high in the air, cocking her hip at a sassy angle with her other arm curled around her waist, fingers resting on her opposite hipbone. The smile, how easily it split her mouth, displaying teeth perfected with the artistry only a well-zeroed check could buy. Brilliant cerulean eyes, the recently added contacts contributing to their pure color, spread wide between lush, blackened lashes, rendered sightless by the stage lights. No surgery, no artificial highlights, no permanent modifications for beauty (beyond the teeth). That was part of her carefully crafted image. Only giant globules of extensively applied makeup to match her painstakingly straightened hair, layered in perfect angles.

            Voices joined together in an indiscriminate roar, responding to the energetic joy that radiated from her cocky, critic-approved grin. She made a jaunty, wide-sweeping gesture toward her left, and then right, pausing three counts each in acknowledgement of the accompanying band and dancers. The wooden stage floor vibrated beneath the physical presence of the crowd’s deafening approval. More than one fan out there was screaming herself hoarse. The sound built and grew until it overruled all of her senses. Stimuli assaulted her from every angle, overwhelming her grasp on reality. She couldn’t see, couldn’t breath.

            Then everything went dark.

***

            He waited, calm and unfazed by the pitch black house. A moment before, the stage had shone like a cold sun around its bright, young core. He hadn’t seen. His eyes were shut tight, protecting the sensitive pupils. If they contracted too much, the disorientation of the sudden light transition would devastate his aim. He needed all neurons firing, all cones and rods receiving whatever visual data this strictly controlled environment generated.

            Separated from the tri-sided platform by a mere dozen rows of theater-style seats, he stood at a perfect angle for the performers’ departure. The cleverly disguised door in the steel siding lay engraved in his mind, and only the production staff used the prop entry on the other side. When the pretty young celebrity crossed the line of his Glock in approximately seven seconds, the blind and bewildered crowd would panic, and he would run with them.

            If he missed, if he hit, it didn’t matter. After all, he was only the distraction.

***

            “Think we’ll be done by two?”

            He shook his head, one eye on the digital footage that streamed from the laptop tilting toward him on the desk. Green-shaded figures hurried across the largest onscreen window and through the door fixed just below the camera, vanishing from sight. Other smaller windows showed crew members prepping to clear the stage, or in wait of the slender diva and her entourage. In the bottom left corner, General Manager and self-dubbed demon, Mitchell Jansen, lounged on a couch in what the crew referred to as the “Debriefing Room”, where he would shortly administer post-performance criticism or praise, depending on the show and how many drinks he had downed over the previous hour.

            “Shit. I thought with staying in town overnight, that’d clear up our timetable a little.” The sharky ex-soldier slapped the table, emphasizing his disapproval with another unoriginal expletive.

            “Wishful thinking, Briggs.”

            “I know, but we’ve been running hard since, what, last Tuesday? I’m tired, Mer. We could use a break.”

            Instead of answering, Kyle Merrimac watched the feeds, his mind on his six-year-old niece and the birthday party he’d missed earlier that afternoon. All around him, the building shuddered under an ongoing avalanche of stomps and shouts, fed by the satisfied masses, the sound so deafening that it almost cancelled it out: a sudden crack.

            His feet hit threadbare carpet in the next instant, levering his body upright with the full force of adrenaline.

            “Was that a shot?” The shorter Jon Briggs leaned nearer the feeds, as if he could peer through the rush of bodies that now streamed through the stage door, or the maze of fans swarming steadily away from the performance platform. In the laptop’s bottom corner window, Mitchell Jansen plucked the olive from his martini and neatly fit it between his lips, notepad balanced on his thigh. “Mer?”

            But Merrimac was gone.

            Bodies pressed together in a moving wave that spanned the narrow hallway wall to wall. He already knew the diva, Jacy, or whatever she called herself, was not among them. Darting through the service corridor, he burst through the door marked “Prop R” and crossed at a sprint, aiming for the smaller stage entrance. Hancock, one of the bulky bodyguards, should have been inside the room. He wasn’t. Hopefully, he’d made himself useful on stage.

            When Merrimac slammed through the final barrier, gun drawn and safety released, his first glance panned across the stadium seating in lightning-quick motion, for the moment unconcerned with the white-clad singer he’d seen fall from the stage into the pit area. No obvious threat stood out under the houselights some technician had finally flipped back on, but then, a smart shooter would have gotten his butt out of there, hidden among the still fleeing crowd. In all likelihood, he or she watched yet from the near side of the exit doors, weapon cast aside or hidden in a jacket or bag.

            That, of course, comprised the best case scenario. A psycho creep shooter wouldn’t leave their mission unfinished. Assuming the singer wasn’t already dead, she might still be in danger—and Merrimac along with her.

            Knees bent in a crouch, gun extended before him, Merrimac made his way across the smooth wood of the stage, eyes peeled for any sign of aggressive movement from the widespread audience. Too much space for one man to successfully cover, he knew, but ignoring the threat smacked of stupidity.

            At the platform edge, his gaze flashed down, then back up, scanning the half-empty house once more. She was down there, all right, in a tumbled heap of too high heels, white faux leather, and metallic sequins that glittered silver, gold, and bronze. She’d landed on her side, and long tendrils of honey blonde hair obscured her face. With only that brief look, he couldn’t tell whether she breathed or no.

            Decision time. Put the gun away and jump into the pit, essentially exposed, or wait for back up, also exposed to a bullet that could come from any direction?

            Movement towed his attention back toward the diva, as one long leg slid over the other and an elbow pushed from smoothened concrete, a clumsy attempt at rising. So far, she’d survived to sing another day. Their best chance at extending that timeline lay in getting unexposed as quickly as possible. Deliberation over, Merrimac flicked the safety back into place and vaulted down onto the pit floor, landing a few feet from the cropped off toes of her white strappy shoes.

            The muffled sound spooked the girl, and she struggled to pull her legs underneath her. One moved more awkwardly than the other, but no obvious evidence of blood. Always a good sign. The terror on her face? Not so good. In his experience, freaked out victims lacked all ability for cooperation. And he’d need cooperation to get them out safely.

            At least she wasn’t drowning. During his first water rescue, the situation had nearly reversed itself when the desperate victim won a death grip around his neck.

            “I’m with you,” he flashed the backstage pass clipped to his belt. “Did you see where the shot came from?”

            Now confusion mixed with fear as she worked out the meaning behind his words.

            Shit, he thought to himself. She’s going shocky.

            Certainly, the near-white pallor of her face beneath the stage makeup backed up his conclusion, as did the trembling in her hands.

            Ah, hell. He took two long strides and squatted beside her, close enough to feel the soft puffs of each panting breath.

            “I can get you out of here; I can get you someplace safe. But you need to work with me, honey. Where did the shot come from?”

            At last, her eerily blue eyes focused on his face and seemed to clear. She closed them for a moment and inhaled once, drawing the air deep within as if for fortification. Long black lashes moved apart and she sat up fully, turning to squint over the bowed, ascending rows. Slowly, her arm extended, subtly indicating a section that lay in the main stage door’s direct line of sight. No one stood near there now. It must have been one of the first areas to clear.

            A smart shooter, then.

            “Okay,” he took in the sweeping curvature of the stage front, too high for them to effectively climb without sacrificing speed and cover. “Let’s get you on your feet, then you stay behind me, got it? We’ll head around the stage and up the side stairs.”

            The singer shifted position, curling one leg beneath her. For a moment, Merrimac thought he saw a flash of pain cross her face, but it vanished so swiftly, he couldn’t say for sure. She did not, however, make an effort to rise, instead looking out over the fleeing crowd.

            “Hon, did you hear me?”

            “There’s a service door on the other side that leads below stage. That might be safer.” Her latte-smooth voice held steady. Still, she didn’t move.

            Biting back frustration born of her apparent obstinance and his unease at standing in the open, Merrimac tucked a hand beneath her armpit and heaved.

            Instantly, she recoiled, tumbling back half a foot, her left ankle dragging behind her. No mistake this time: she winced. And she was much stronger than she looked.

            Frustration won out. “Look, hon—”

            “My ankle’s busted. And no way am I crawling out of here. It’d be all over YouTube by the end of the night.”

            YouTube? She was worried about freaking YouTube?

            “Fine. Then I’ll carry you or you can hop, because like it or not, hon, we’re leaving now.” Without waiting for her answer, he forcibly hauled her upright, supporting her against his hip. “Now where’s this door?”

***

            Inside the Debriefing Room, Jacy wrapped her arms around her bent right knee, her left leg stretched and elevated in front of her on the back of a folding chair. Ice pressed around her rapidly swelling ankle, sandwiched between ace bandages. To her right, Mitchell loomed, fists planted firmly on trim hips, and incandescent light glinting off his shiny bald head. He studied her shrewdly, one half of his thin bottom lip sucked tight inside his mouth.

            “Great performance, kid, start to finish.”

            Three years over the legal drinking limit, and still he called her “kid”. She hated that. It was almost as bad as “hon”.

            “And I mean that, about the finish. Christ, all those interviews on the breaking news stories? They’re calling you a god-damned hero. Brilliant move, by the way, telling the crowd to get out of there after that shot. Really shores up your image. And that footage on YouTube of you limping away after that fall? That’ll move you right up the charts, kid.”

            Not heroic at all, shouting the warning. Even less so, falling off that stage. The shot and the dark had disoriented her, and she’d jumped the wrong way.

            But she’d been right about YouTube.

            “We can use this. A press conference, maybe a couple of primetime interviews…I’m seeing serious possibilities.” He always saw possibilities, which made him good at his job.

            What would he do if the next bullet hit? She shuddered to think it.

            Over near the door, the pushy security officer bent in close conversation with one of his colleagues. He’d kicked through the narrow emergency exit from under-stage, which she’d thoughtlessly forgotten was kept locked from the inside, and practically carried her up a short stairwell and through the drab backstage corridors. No other shots accompanied their flight, but his actions might have saved her life all the same.

            “—about getting you to the hospital for some X-rays, just in case,” Mitchell spoke on, unperturbed. His lips never once formed words of concern, leaving that sort of sympathetic formality for the half-dozen fawning assistants and staff EMT. “The police can ask whatever questions there. Plus, we’ll get better press coverage.”

            Which was all that really mattered, from his perspective, leastwise. That his star singer had nearly run a last curtain call hand in hand with the Reaper? Nope. Not a blip on his radar.

            “I’d rather not.”

            “Answer questions? I don’t see how you can avoid it, kid.” Condescension coated his reply, thick and oatmeal heavy.

            “No, the hospital.” It left too many openings for someone to slip through unnoticed. More terrified than her neutral expression let on, Jacy didn’t want to leave the room, much less go anyplace public.

            The security officer glanced across the semi-active expanse. His dark blonde hair stood up in short, lightly gelled spikes, its shade an exact match to the light stubble of beard that peppered his jaw line. Despite the evening’s action, only a few wrinkles and dust marks adorned his navy blazer. The blue and silver tie, he’d loosened until it hung a few inches below his throat. Their eyes met and she looked away.

            “Manager’s orders, kid. If you’re hurt, we need to know soon so we can make plans to deal.” No worry, only business.

            “It’s fine. Like Andy said, a sprain. I’m not going out there.”

            “You will, if I have to make Hancock carry you. Where’s that bastard run off to anyway? Never mind; I’ll have Pete bring the car around.”

            He prowled toward the unsuspecting assistant, knocking aside a short, formidable brunette and her armful of folded blankets.

            “No pillows, so these’ll have to do for now,” Andy gently lifted the ice-wrapped ankle, tucking the blankets atop the slim chair ridge. “Better?”

            She forced a smile. “Sure. Thanks, Andy.”

            The EMT trotted away for a quick check on the drummer, who had tripped in the frantic stampede and sliced open his knee. This was the most medical action she’d seen since the show three weeks ago, when a dancer’s botched cartwheel had prompted Mitchell to slam his fist through a glass table, neatly severing one of the less important veins in his wrist.

            Exhaustion replaced adrenaline and Jacy rested her forehead on her knee, eyes shut. So many days of nonstop preparation and performance hit at once, mixing badly with fear and apprehension. Hospitals, press conferences, interviews—all horribly insecure venues, especially the way Mitchell liked to do things. Her image thrived on accessibility; he would want her interacting with fans and media as if nothing had happened. And once more leave her vulnerable.

            “You okay?”

            Jerking her head up, ashamedly startled, she stared at the security officer. His eyebrows raised an expectant fraction.

            Hesitant, she glanced at her bulky foot. “Just a sprain.”

            “I mean, are you okay to go back out there?” He nodded toward the door. “That was pretty intense, earlier.”

            Intense? No, intense was a thousand screaming fans demanding perfection. Intense was weeks on the road with minimal sleep, five live performances in as many days, brutally physical workouts on a restricted diet. A gun going off on top of everything else merited a complete mental collapse.

            Because why would anyone want her dead?

            Two well-timed blinks rid her of the unbidden tears that suddenly burned against her contacts. Was she okay?

            “I have to be.”

***

            The singer leaned against his side once more as she hobbled down the hallway, his supporting hand around her waist. Outside, the finally located Hancock manned the sheltered valet curb where their car awaited them, leaving Merrimac as temporary acting nanny.

            It worked best that way. Hancock’s steely muscles were more for show than anything else, and his bulk admittedly useful for holding back crowds.

            “Briggs will go through the door first. When we get out there, we’re not stopping for any reason. If something goes wrong, you stay between me and Briggs until you’re at that limo door. Inside’s the safest place for you, understand?” He paused before the exit, waiting for Briggs to make his way in front.

            She nodded. “Yeah. Just—just give me a minute, could you?”

            He watched her close her eyes again, felt her body shudder against his. Shit, the girl should have held out for a more discreet vehicle, and a less conspicuous exit point. Not a freaking limo in the middle of a double-freaking crowd. But that wasn’t his call to make.

            “Hey, look at me.”

            Disturbingly clear blue eyes met his and this time, the seamless wall that blocked away her well-concealed anxiety bore a visible fracture.

            “We’ve got your back, Briggs and I. This’ll work out fine.” It didn’t always, which was why he’d turned in his badge last July. She didn’t need to know that though.

            “Okay, let’s do this.” Tense features smoothened and a small smile etched its way across her face. If he hadn’t caught the fear evident in her tone, he’d never have thought the expression feigned.

            Briggs pushed through the double door’s left hand side, igniting the eruption of a dozen flashing cameras. They followed three steps behind, the singer’s hand raised in a carefree wave, her grin reassuring. More flashes, microphones jostling, voices shouting questions. Off to the right, Hancock warned the crowd back, his muscles flexed threateningly.

            Half a dozen yards to go.

            Now five.

            Now four.

            The singer dropped, wrenching him to his knees on the roughened concrete beside her. A crack and a crash sounded almost simultaneously, and he dove on top of her, counting on Briggs to locate the threat and remove it. Especially that last part.

            Another shot. Screaming. He felt her chest expand and contract beneath him as she gasped. Still alive, for the most part.

            “Can we reevaluate that stance on crawling?” He chanced a glance over his shoulder, but couldn’t see what was happening.

            “I thought we weren’t stopping for any reason.”

            Was that humor? Not a chance. “Hence the crawling.”

            “The ankle’s wrapped tight. Get me on my feet and I’ll run it if I have to.”

            “Count of three.” Slipping his arms beneath her slim body, he pulled her against his chest as he counted aloud. “And here we go.”

            Hunched over her protectively, he pushed her toward the open limo door. A circular chink in the glass showed where the bullet had hit and he turned, following its trajectory while Jacy fell inside the limo. Briggs, Hancock, and a ring of familiar blue uniforms stood over a fallen figure.

            An insistent tug drew his attention down to his arm, where manicured fingers clutched at the sleeve.

            “Please.”

            It was the desperation in her voice that did it, the fear of watching another human being die that had driven him from the police force after his seven year, his third on the dive team with his brother.

            He slid in beside her and shut the door, waving a go ahead to the driver. Mitchell Jensen and his great big plans could wait for the next vehicle.

            The sound of her shallow breath filled the small space, mingling with his.

            “I never got your name.” Roughly eight hundred miles traveled together cross-country in the past week, and only now an introduction.

            “Kyle Merrimac.”

            “Huh. Well, nice to meet you, Kyle.”

            “And you.” He felt awkward using her stage name.

            “Laine. Call me Laine.”

FIN