Eleven #2
“No,” I made clear, watching him walk ahead of me.
“Yes,” he insisted.
“Absolutely not. Your parents are here.”
“So what? Caitlyn and I slept in that bedroom when they visited.”
“We’re not married, and I’m a man,” I reminded him. “Let’s maybe not shock your parents into an early grave.”
His brows furrowed. “You realize if this is it, if this is the thing that turns them away from me, then all those years of them telling me they love me have been a lie.”
“You have known me for barely two weeks, and you’re going to do what, change your whole life?
” I asked, taking the stairs to the second level, and then rounding on him as he had followed right behind me.
“What about the guys who work for you? Did you consider that maybe they don’t want to work for a man who sleeps with another man?
And back to your parents, are you really going to?—”
“Yes,” he snapped, slipping both hands around the sides of my neck, holding me gently but firmly. “When you’re with me, I’m different. I’m better. And I know you’re going to think whatever stupid crap you’re gonna think about gratitude and everything else, but it’s not true.”
“Luke—”
“You think you’re smarter ’cause you’re older, but you’re just scared.”
I was. He wasn’t wrong.
“Because if this doesn’t work, unlike my ex-wife who didn’t care, if you don’t get to have me and the kids for the rest of your life…it’s gonna break you.”
I didn’t want the kids to hear us, so I pulled free and descended to the first floor, Luke on my heels.
I saw Viola and John in the kitchen with Griff and headed toward the sliding glass door.
It was raining, so I changed direction and was going to go to the garage to finish our conversation, but something caught my eye, some movement outside pulling my focus back.
When I took a step closer, searching the darkness through the torrent of water, the new motion detectors I’d installed triggered the outdoor lights, and I saw a man standing on our deck.
In motion fast, I saw the guy flip over the railing as I bolted for the front door.
“Nash!” Griff yelled from the kitchen.
“Lock the door behind me!” I roared back.
Throwing open the front door, I went out into the driving rain and saw the guy across the street—had to love well-lit suburban neighborhoods—ducking down a driveway.
I knew Luke wouldn’t chase after me. His kids were in the house, as well as his parents. He was too good a son and father. He was always prepared to step up into the role of guardian.
I, however, was not prepared for what I was doing.
Having not expected to be running outside, and being unable to stop and put on shoes, as time was of the essence, I was racing across wet ground in heavy wool socks.
Also, my gun was in the attic in my safe.
Should I have retrieved the gun and boots?
Of course. Had there been time? Absolutely not.
My life had always called for quick decisions, and because I’d been in the warm house with people I was crazy about, I’d messed up.
I could only hope it didn’t cost me my life.
Whoever this guy was, I was betting he’d been watching the house and seen me with the streaks of silver and white in my hair and thought, fuck this guy, I can ditch him easily.
I was hoping that was the case. I didn’t want him to have any intel on me.
Wanted him to be clueless that I had years of military training to fall back on.
Tracking him was easy. I was careful and methodical, and three streets over, when he reached his Ford Bronco, when he opened the door, I wrenched him away and threw him down onto the sidewalk.
He rolled to his feet, but when he unzipped his jacket, I wasn’t about to let him pull his gun or whatever weapon he had.
I dove at him again. Bigger, stronger, younger than me accounted for nothing in the rain trying to drown us both.
Plus, I was carrying my Pro-Tech TR-3 X1M switchblade in my left ankle holster.
Did I know the knife was illegal in Washington State?
Not before I arrived. But it went, as my gun did, in my duffel as checked baggage.
The knife flew inside a compartment that would be impossible for anyone to find.
If TSA wanted to open my luggage and look at the hardshell, biometric gun case my Glock traveled in, they could.
But they couldn’t open it. All in all, though, my baggage was pretty boring.
Plus, the standard-issue Army duffel was not something most TSA agents, or baggage handlers, thought twice about.
That was probably not great, but at the moment, that worked to my advantage, as my switchblade, having made the trip, was far more easily accessible, and helpful, than my gun.
Surprisingly—and interestingly—the guy didn’t pull any weapon.
All the sicarios I’d met up with before in my life carried both a gun and a knife, just like I did.
Instead, this guy lunged at me, and I rammed the knife into his side, straight, not trying to hit any vital organs, solely trying to hurt him enough so he’d stop fighting.
I didn’t want him dead; he couldn’t answer questions that way.
His scream was lost to the downpour and the thunder before he pulled me down with him into the quickly running water near the storm drain.
As we rolled around, each of us getting scraped up on the concrete, he landed some punches, but I got in more, finally fisting my hand in his jacket and lifting him up so I could hit him.
It was harder to punch down than people thought, because if someone moved, a fist into the curb or sidewalk could very well result in a broken hand.
Once he was finally knocked out, I turned him on his side, and got in the passenger side of the Bronco so I was out of the deluge.
My phone was cracked, that quickly dead, but when I checked the glove compartment, his was there.
Calling 911, I got the Newcastle Police Department, reported the emergency, and told them I was on my way to Overlake Medical Center in Bellevue and could they please send officers there.
After a few moments, a deep male voice came on the line.
“Mr. Miller, this is Deputy Chief Gabriel Sampson. Is the man who was on the Duchesne property in danger of losing his life?”
“Probably not, but he’s losing blood.”
“I’m on my way now with two officers, and I have two EMTs coming as well. We’ll meet you at the Eena police station in five minutes tops.”
“How are you so close?”
“We just left there. We’ve been going through files all day. We have been since Wilson was removed.”
“Okay, I’ll meet you there.”
I was surprised as I sat outside the police station that the guy did not wake up.
He didn’t even stir when I took off the T-shirt under my cardigan, wadded it up, and pressed it to his wound to stem the blood flow.
But between the shallowness of the injury and how cold it was, I realized he’d lost far less blood than I thought he had.
True to his word, Sampson arrived on time, followed in short order by the EMTs, who worked on the man to ready him for transport to the hospital. He woke up when the IV needle went into his arm and was quickly restrained and cuffed to the gurney.
Once he was secured, Sampson pulled the guy’s wallet and his gun before he was sent with an officer in the back of the ambulance, and two patrol cars following, to Overlake Medical Center in Bellevue.
The Ford Bronco was pulled into the station’s garage, and Sampson waved as his crime-scene technicians showed up.
“That is a lot of people to call up on a Saturday night,” I told the deputy chief.
He grinned. “Not a lot going on in Eena other than you, Mr. Miller.”
“Nash, please.”
“Come sit with me,” he said, and walked me not into the police station, but to the garage where everyone else was.
He kindly found a space heater for me to sit in front of so I didn’t freeze to death.
“Nice socks,” he remarked, tipping his head at my mud-covered wool ones.
“And you look like absolute crap, by the way.”
“Thanks.”
“We wear shoes at this level, Nash,” he baited me.
“You’re funny,” I said drolly. “But I was home, and that man was suddenly there on the back deck, so I had no choice but to go after him.”
“You could have called the police.”
“And cowered inside until someone showed up?”
“From the file I read, that’s not you.”
“No, sir, it is not.”
“Impressive.”
“Less that and more necessary in my opinion.”
He nodded. “I don’t know about running in socks, though.”
“Yeah. I might rethink my no-shoes-inside rule.”
“You’re lucky you didn’t run over any broken glass or anything else.”
“True. All I hit were a lot of puddles and mud.”
“Okay, so down to business,” he said with an exhale. “How did”—he pulled the license from the wallet of the man who tried to attack my family—“Ward Firmin get the wound on his side?”
Reaching into my back left pocket, I passed him my switchblade.
“Oh, now, she’s a beauty. And not at all legal here in the great state of Washington.”
“Which I should have checked before I got on the plane,” I confessed. “That’s my mistake.” When he didn’t keep it, but instead held it out for me to take, I was surprised. “Are you sure you don’t want to confiscate that and hit me with a fine?”
“Not after what you did for Eena by getting rid of Wilson. No, you keep that. If anyone asks, we’ll say it went down the storm drain.”
“Thank you.”
“Some people would call that corruption, me handing you back your weapon, but I think we’re both smart enough to know the difference.”
“Yes, we are,” I agreed, liking the man more and more with each passing second.
“So you know, we’re permanently closing the station here in Eena. We’re going to turn it into an arbitration center.”
I squinted at him.