Chapter 7
SEVEN
San Diego
Sam put the phone down for the bazillionth time, teeth grinding. Nicole wasn’t answering. She hadn’t picked up the phone the first time he called, she wasn’t picking up the phone the thirtieth or fortieth time.
He knew that the definition of insanity was doing the same thing over and over, expecting a different outcome each time.
Was he insane?
God only knew. He sure wasn’t entirely sane. He’d been pinging off the walls of his own brain ever since he’d woken up in a post-coital glow unlike any he’d ever had before, only to find that Nicole had sneaked out while he was sleeping.
Without a word, without even a goddamned note.
He must have been in a coma, because no way the noise of even the quietest person on earth dressing wouldn’t have woken him up.
In the field, he’d heard in his sleep a dislodged rock tumble down a hillside half a klick away, and when the tangoes got to the campsite, they were met by only the embers of a fire and an ambush.
Not to mention the fact that his security system sent off a message to his cell phone each time the front door opened. He’d slept right through that, too.
Everything about the morning was off, askew, after the most fabulous night of sex he’d ever had. At first, he’d stumbled blearily from room to room, foolishly expecting to find her…somewhere. Out on the balcony. In the bathroom. Maybe in the kitchen sipping a cup of coffee.
It had taken him two circuits of his house before it hit him upside the head that her clothes were gone. Together with Nicole.
He’d rubbed his chest when he realized that. It hurt, as if he’d taken a sharp blow.
That was when he’d placed his first phone call, to her house, kicking himself in the ass because he’d been too involved in his dick to think of asking for her cell phone number. Well, a quick search of a semi-legal database took care of that.
The cell phone voicemail message was a canned one, from the company, inviting him to leave a message. Which he did, repeatedly.
At the home phone number he’d gotten his first taste of, “You’ve reached the Pearce household. We can’t come to the phone right now, but please leave a message and we’ll get back to you as soon as we can.”
Rule number one in business—don’t believe a canned announcement.
It’s right up there with The check is in the mail.
But man, he’d believed it and left a long, rambling message, the basic tenor of which had been Come back to me.
While stumbling to the shower, he’d kept a cordless by his side so he wouldn’t miss her call.
Because of course, she’d make the call as soon as she could. She wasn’t calling right now because she was…in the bathroom or something. Or maybe tending to her father.
So he’d called again five minutes later, timing it to the second. Because, well, hanging up and calling again right away would be a tad…obsessive. Wouldn’t it?
It wasn’t until the tenth time he’d called, while he was driving in to the office, that it occurred to him that it wasn’t that she wasn’t answering because she was busy.
She wasn’t answering because she didn’t want to talk to him.
Jesus.
She was avoiding him.
She’d also switched her cell phone off.
The last ten calls to her house had been from the office. Each one answered by “You’ve reached the Pearce household…”
Sam stared at the phone, drumming his fingers.
He had an estimate to get out, for a client who was very rich, as dumb as a rock, and would doubtless provide a good revenue stream over many years to come.
He had some security equipment catalogues to go through.
He had e-mail to answer.
He had next year’s budget to go over.
He had to call his accountant.
He drummed his fingers again and blew out a frustrated breath.
Fuck.
Sam picked up his cell phone and called Mike.
“Yo.” Mike’s deep, calm bass settled him a little. Mike was always cool, but he was especially cool with the ladies. He’d never get in a sweat or a panic because a woman disappeared after a night of hot sex. Nights of hot sex were Mike’s specialty.
Not that Sam was in a sweat or a panic. No, no.
“Hey.” Sam’s voice was scratchy. He cleared his throat. “Listen, I’ve got a favor to ask you.”
“Shoot.” It was one of Mike’s favorite expressions—ironic, coming from a sniper.
“I need you to show up at a woman’s house.
I want you to pull up in a patrol car, lights on, dressed in your SWAT suit, the whole friggin’ deal.
Be armed. Look scary.” For Mike, that wouldn’t be hard.
The special-issue body armor turned his barrel chest into a massive wall.
You didn’t want to fuck with Mike. You particularly didn’t want to fuck with him on duty, fully suited up and armed.
Exactly what Sam wanted. He wanted Mike to scare the shit out of those two scumbags.
Every hair on his body had stood up when he’d seen them come out onto the porch to stare at Nicole, hooting and whistling.
The way they looked at her had had his gut churning.
Their behavior had been classic predator behavior.
Circling warily, coming ever closer. One of the fuckheads had touched her car while she was in it, Nicole had said.
The next step was touching her. And the step after that was a snatch and grab, the next time she came home after dark, and rape.
Over his dead body.
Sam had no illusions about the way the world worked.
The strong preyed on the weak and in this world, the weak more or less included all women and all children.
He’d seen enough women and children beaten into submission growing up to know that someone perceived as weak, without a protector, was going to attract violence, sooner rather than later.
It was inevitable. He’d spent his entire life putting himself in front of the weak, standing for them.
The three of them, Sam, Harry and Mike, had spent their lives trying to stop something that could never be stopped, only slowed.
Nicole was like a lamb staked out as bait.
Whatever the house had been like in her grandmother’s time, now it was smack in the middle of a neighborhood that degenerated daily.
With the recession so bad, he’d bet that every other man there was unemployed.
Out of work, resentful men, many high on booze or drugs, with nothing to do all day but fantasize—well, those weren’t the best neighbors for a woman to have.
Especially a woman like Nicole.
Off-the-charts gorgeous, living alone with a housekeeper and a sick father. Oh yeah, to men like those two fuckheads on the porch, and probably others in the run-down neighborhood, she was ripe prey.
Well, Sam would put a stop to that. First, Mike would drive by for a couple of days and make it clear that Nicole had friends on the force and that they were looking out for her.
And then, whatever happened between him and Nicole, Sam was looking forward to a little chat with those two.
And they could pay their own goddamned hospital bills.
First Mike. “I need you to go to 346 Mulberry Avenue. It’s the house of a woman called—“
“Nicole Pearce,” Mike said, only not into his cell, which he was slipping back into his jacket pocket. He was standing in the doorway to the outer office and Harry was right behind him. Harry, much taller, towered over Mike. “Yeah, I know.”
They both came in, settled down in the two armchairs across from the sofa where Sam was sprawling. Both hunkered down as if it would take bolt cutters and a crane to get them out of there.
Oh Jesus, the double whammy. All three of them had been on the receiving end of that one, at one time or another.
One of them got in a mess and the other two ganged up on him. Looked like it was his turn. He sank lower in the sofa, knowing what was coming and knowing it was not going to be fun.
Sam looked at them, at his brothers, men he relied on, men he loved, men he’d kill for, men he’d unquestioningly die for, and wished them both gone. Poof. Disappeared in a puff of smoke.
But the whammy part could wait because first he needed to take care of business.
His gaze fixed on Mike.
“Yeah. Nicole Pearce.” He’d rather die than let them know that just saying her name hurt.
“Right across the street is a boarding house, at Number three twenty-one. There are two dickheads, one black and one white. Dreadlocks, pant crotches down to their knees, the usual. They’ve fixated on Ni—Ms. Pearce, harassing her.
I want you to drive by and make a show of force.
Walk up to the house. Make it clear she’s protected, that the police are looking out for her.
That anyone who messes with her will be real sorry.
And I want you to do that for the next couple of days.
I want to make sure the fuckheads get the message. Loud and clear.”
Mike nodded. “Sure thing.”
Harry simply looked at him pensively, long fingers under his chin. Harry looked awful, like he hadn’t slept in months. He’d been on the receiving end of the double whammy a lot since he’d come home, particularly while he tried drowning his sorrows in beer.
Sam and Mike tried to get him into physical rehab but when Harry refused, they simply hired a guy Mike knew.
Bjorn looked like a wrestler and started whipping Harry back into shape, whether Harry wanted it or not.
Harry was moving just a little more easily, and not like an eighty-year-old now.
Harry bitched endlessly about Bjorn, the therapist, and called him the Nazi, though Bjorn had emigrated from Norway.
Harry tried every trick in the book, including not answering the door when Bjorn showed up with his bag of massage oils and what Harry swore were his instruments of torture.
Sam simply gave Bjorn a copy of the key to Harry’s apartment and everyone ignored Harry’s bitching until it eventually stopped.