Chapter Eight
Melinda jerked awake, blinking, the imprint of her keyboard on her cheek.
Yawning and stretching, she checked the time on her phone.
Three a.m. She’d fallen asleep working at her computers.
Manchu had long since abandoned her for somewhere more comfortable—most likely the sofa or her bed—and her tea had gone cold.
She logged back into her screens. The twins, so far, were evading her. Maybe she was losing her touch.
The screen with the security feed remained blank, and she resisted the urge to turn it back on, to review the footage of Louis and Pierre.
Pierre’s smug smile, Louis’ wink. Their taut asses.
She checked for messages. No response from her client.
Had MysticMage not read it yet? She did the calculations in her head.
With the time difference, it should be about seven Saturday evening in San Francisco.
MysticMage wasn’t as smart as she thought she was.
Many dark web users weren’t. Maybe she was a first-time user.
Melinda wasn’t, and it never hurt to know as much about a client as you could.
Such information could come in handy. What a woman living in San Francisco wanted with a British identity wasn’t for her to question.
Perhaps she was planning to flee the States.
An unfamiliar noise had her snapping her attention toward the door.
Manchu? Melinda froze. There it was again.
What was that? She switched on the screen with her security feed.
A blank screen greeted her. Tension skittered across the back of her neck.
Softly tapping on the keyboard, she brought up the security log.
Ten minutes ago, the feed had stopped. Melinda had lived in this building for three years.
Not once had this happened. Someone had cut the feed.
Someone was in the building, and they didn’t want their faces on camera.
She checked her phone. No notifications her alarm was down. It was closed circuit. Nothing wireless for her. She knew how easily they could be hacked. If someone had tried to cut the wires, the backup battery would have kicked in, and a notification would’ve been sent to her phone.
She checked her phone again. Nothing. Wait. Her lungs seized. No signal. Shit. They’d jammed the signal.
Another noise, coming from her living room. Someone was in her apartment. The twins?
Galvanized into action, Melinda was out of her chair, tiptoeing to the open door of her office and pressing it closed, wincing at the click as she engaged the deadlock.
She debated resetting the alarm. They’d breached the one on her front door.
They could do the same with this one. She set it anyway, the small beeps loud in the silence.
If they weren’t expecting a second alarm, if they tripped it, it would wake all her neighbors on this floor, including Mr. Patel.
With a flick of the light switch, the room darkened, the only light coming from her screens.
No time to turn them off, or rip out her hard drives.
She grabbed her laptop. There were only so many places in here she could hide.
She ducked into the small built-in wardrobe, pushing behind her winter coats, and slid the door shut, leaving it open a bare sliver, and waited, her hands shaking and her whole body on high alert.
She’d been here before, many times. The angry voice of her father and the desperate pleas of her mother echoed in her memories.
The closet had been smaller. So had she.
But the terror was the same. That help would come too late.
She flipped her laptop open, adjusting the brightness of the screen.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. Back then, she’d called the police.
She couldn’t do that now. Not with the evidence they’d find on her computers.
Ambulance? Firefighters? They’d bring the police, too. Joe, the advertising guy across the hall? Never had Melinda regretted the solitary life she’d chosen. She did now.
The door knob squeaked, but the door didn’t open.
God, she hoped Manchu was okay. That he’d hid under her bed, or behind the sofa.
The knob jiggled again, louder this time.
Whoever it was had to know she was in here.
A thud hit the door, a shoulder or a boot—all attempts at stealth gone.
The door shuddered, but didn’t open. They weren’t even going to bother with picking the lock this time.
Another thud. The wood splintered and the door burst open, slamming against the wall.
A piercing wail ripped through the air, followed by loud cursing.
In English. With a British accent. Not the twins.
Her relief was short-lived as a large figure silhouetted by the blueish light of her screens moved in front of the cupboard door.
If not the twins, then who the hell was in her apartment?
Melinda closed her laptop and shrank back into the corner of the built-in.
A loud crashing and banging had her cringing.
Her screens? Her computers? This was no burglar.
This was a deliberate attack on her and the knowledge she had stored on her hard drives.
About one of her clients? The damn malware.
MysticMage. Oh, God. Melinda hoped she was safe. That she’d received her warning in time.
Over the wail of her alarm, the sounds of destruction went on. Melinda wanted to close her eyes and put her hands over her ears, like she’d done as a child, and cower until it was all over. She clutched her laptop to her chest, resisting the impulse.
The closet door slid open. A brush of cool air and then a beam of red flickered up her chest, over her chin and settled above her eyes.
This was not her father she was hiding from, and the police weren’t coming to save her. No one was.
* * * *
Louis collided with Pierre in the living room, the wail of an alarm blaring through the building, almost loud enough to make his ears bleed.
Melinda.
Pierre tossed him a pair of gray sweats. “Pants on.”
He stumbled into the sweats and headed for the door.
His twin grabbed his arm, pulling him up short. “Get a hold of yourself.”
He snarled at his brother, but Pierre’s grip was firm.
“Louis, stop. Others will have heard the alarm. You can’t barge out there half-shifted. Someone will see you.”
He glanced down at the dark hair creeping across his bare chest, and the claws punching through the tips of his fingers. Pierre was right. He pushed his wolf down deep, ignoring its fury that someone may be hurting his mate. Their mate.
Signs of his beast retreated. “Let’s go.”
He yanked their door open. He caught the scent of Mr. Patel behind his closed door, too frightened to open it.
It wasn’t his alarm. Louis raced down the corridor.
Joe, from apartment thirty-three, stood in his doorway looking pale and unnerved in a pair of spotty boxers.
There was only one other apartment on this floor.
“Get back inside, Joe, and shut the door. We’ll deal with this.”
“Shall I call the police?”
“No,” he snapped.
“We’ll take care of it.,” said Pierre from behind him. “It’s probably a false alarm.”
Louis didn’t stick around to watch the guy retreat into his apartment.
He was at Melinda’s door, pushing it open.
The deadbolt had been picked, and someone with a lot of expertise had disabled the alarm, maybe even jammed the cell signal.
Skilled, but not good enough. They’d not known about the second alarm.
Louis, with Pierre hot on his heels, tracked the scent of an unfamiliar male and the distinctive odor of gun oil through Melinda’s apartment, the darkness no hindrance to his enhanced vision.
In the doorway to the second bedroom, Melinda’s fear hit him with the force of a freight train.
Her whimpered pleas sent daggers of ice into his entrails.
Louis barreled into the armed figure standing in front of the built-in closet before the intruder had even clocked his presence. There was a muzzle flash and a pop of air as the gun went off and he slammed the man into the wall. Rage like he’d never before experienced gripped his wolf.
If his shot was true… If he’d hurt Melinda…
Another muzzle flash and Louis couldn’t hold his wolf back.
He part shifted, the fear in his prey’s eyes gratifying, his weak struggles to free himself from Louis’ grip useless.
Before the shooter could make a sound, he lunged, ripping through the man’s throat with his teeth as easily as he would a croissant.
A gurgle and the coppery taste of blood in his mouth had Louis wanting to howl his triumph.
He contained himself and dropped the dying man to the floor.
Heels beat a muted staccato on the carpet and hands clutched at a ruined throat, but it was too late.
The intruder’s life force was draining out.
Melinda scrambled for the door, screaming and sobbing. Pierre scooped her up, wrapping her in his arms and pressing her face against his chest. Louis leaned into the closet, pulled the cover off the control panel hidden there and ripped out the backup battery.
Blessed silence descended, except for Melinda’s soft sobs and Pierre’s soothing reassurances they were here now. That she was safe.
“Putain, Louis.”
Louis turned to his brother. “Is she hurt?”
“The shots went wide, but…” He glared at the body on the floor. “For fuck’s sake. This is a mess. Clean yourself up. I’ll take Melinda back to our place and call Gabriel.”
Louis stared at the body of the intruder.
Yes, it was a mess. No doubt Joe with the spotty boxers and the skinny white legs would have called the police, but Louis wasn’t sorry.
The man had broken into Melinda’s apartment intending to kill her.
If he had his chance over again, he wouldn’t hesitate to make the same decision.
Louis kneeled beside the man. Who was he? Why was he here? With night-vision goggles and a Nighthawk pistol, he wasn’t your average burglar. He took in the room, the mess of screens and computer towers. A burglar wouldn’t have destroyed Melinda’s computers, either.
Louis dug through the dead man’s pockets. Nothing. No wallet, no keys. Either he had used the Tube, or he had a driver waiting on the street. Not good. He ripped off the night-vision goggles. He didn’t recognize the man. If he’d cased the building, he’d been discreet.
Well-equipped and highly trained.
Louis leaned closer, spotting the edge of a visible tattoo on the side of the man’s neck. He tugged at the shirt collar, pulling it away to reveal a familiar image. Louis gritted his teeth. An F, decorative and adorned with crossed swords.
Fucking Faucherians.