Lie In The Dark (Night Herons #2)

Chapter One

TAKING A BULLET to the chest hadn’t been on Natalie Nygaard-Brown’s bingo card for the day.

Sadly, it wasn’t even the first thing about her team’s op in Lucerne that had gone horribly wrong.

An informant had been murdered right in front of her teammate, Emma.

A man with dubious motives had ended up with the memory card she sought, forcing her and Natalie to use underhanded means to retrieve it.

And Emma had just fled with the very man they’d duped, leaving her alone with a dead body.

On the plus side, the Swiss police were due any minute.

Hopefully with paramedics in tow, because Nat might just bleed out on the cold tile if they didn’t hurry, and she’d rather live, thank you very much.

She shuddered, an oppressive fatigue lashing her limbs to the floor.

A bodyguard had saved her from a killer four years ago, but maybe he’d only delayed the inevitable.

Maybe fate had her marked for a young, ugly death.

She would’ve laughed at her maudlin thoughts if her chest didn’t hurt so fucking much. “Get a grip. You signed on for this.” She’d knowingly put herself at risk by joining the Night Herons. Fate or not, she’d made that choice, fully aware of the potential for danger.

Flicking a glance at the feet of the gunman lying motionless on the other side of the kitchen counter, she forced herself to exhale slowly and trained her gaze on the plaster swirls on the ceiling.

She weakly reapplied pressure to the bandage on her chest, and hissed air through her teeth at the bolt of pain triggered by the move.

Perspiration trickled down the side of her face despite the chugging of the condo’s wall-unit air conditioning and the ice seeping into her veins.

Biting down hard on her lip, she closed her eyes and took shallow breaths until the need to hurl subsided.

Hang in there.

Emma and Jason had wanted to stay with her, but Natalie had convinced them to run.

If they were caught, the men they were after would not only win this round, but they’d also keep hurting people, and continue using their power and influence to escape the repercussions.

The Night Herons’ efforts, their informant’s death, and Nat’s injuries would be in vain.

She’d do everything in her limited power to keep that from happening.

The Beretta Emma had left behind settled into Nat’s free hand, a cool, solid anchor. Something to focus on while she waited for the police and paramedics, their shrill sirens reverberating off the tightly packed buildings of the Altstadt—Lucerne’s old town.

With luck, the imminent arrival of the first responders would scare away anyone else who wanted her dead, but even if she made it to the hospital alive, she’d be a sitting duck there.

Surely, her boss would send someone to protect her, but without knowing how the gunman had found this condo, was it safe to contact Gretchen?

The last thing Natalie wanted was to lead their enemies to the rest of the Night Herons. If someone had figured out what she and Emma were doing, getting in touch with anyone on her team could put them at risk.

She could only think of one other option.

Well, fuck.

Dialing from memory, she continued taking slow breaths and hunting for patterns in the ceiling’s plaster as the line rang.

“Ford Beaumont,” a deep, clipped voice said in her ear, achingly familiar.

Relief flooded through her. Four years ago, he’d made her memorize his number in case anything went wrong.

Unfortunately, today—as back then—things had gone very, very wrong.

The first person Natalie saw when she woke later in a private hospital room was the last man she’d ever expected to see again.

He stood in a shadowy corner, eyes fixed on the door, but she’d recognize the sharp angles and planes of his handsome face anywhere, despite the thick stubble that darkened his jaw. She could’ve majored in the study of that face.

Until he’d nearly died four years ago, protecting her.

Nat’s throat tightened, but she rasped out his name. “Ford?”

His head whipped toward her, lips twisted into a scowl. “You’re awake,” his deep voice rumbled as he stepped into the wan light coming from above her bed, dark brows drawn, pale blue eyes full of concern. “Are you in pain?”

Maybe? Her chest hurt, but was that from being shot, or from her pounding heart? “Why are you here?” she whispered, her mouth dry as dust. Yes, she’d called him, but she’d expected him to send someone else. Anyone else.

As she attempted to sit up, pain tore through her shoulder, making her hot and dizzy and nauseated.

“Whoa, there.” He moved to the side of the bed and fiddled with something over her shoulder. “You’ve been shot, Natalie. Do you remember?” he asked, stepping fully into her field of vision again, little parentheses on either side of his mouth.

While still in the recovery room, her thoughts had been a scrambled mess of memories of the gunman pushing his way into Natalie and Emma’s condo, the shock of being shot, and former underwear model Jason Chin tending to her wound. Or had she hallucinated that part?

Jason was nothing more than a gorgeous fantasy she’d pinned to her ceiling as a teenager, but Ford Beaumont was a real man.

One she’d foolishly pinned her hopes on as a young adult.

If he wasn’t actually here now, helping her drink water through a straw as her eyelids grew heavy and the pain faded into the cottony background of her mind, then she didn’t want to wake up from this dream.

The next few hours passed in a haze of pain, nausea, gut-clenching nightmares, and perky medical staff who urged her to take deep breaths, checked her IV, and inspected her dressing.

And Ford—always Ford—at her side, raising or lowering her bed, helping her drink water, and piling on more blankets when she got cold.

“What are you doing here?” she managed to ask at a point of moderate lucidity.

“You called me, remember?” He ran a hand through his thick hair, enticingly disheveled, his stubble a little longer than last time, his gaze troubled. “Someone tried to kill you, Natalie. I’m here to make sure they don’t get another chance.”

Her chest warmed, but as she was pulled into the fuzzy whirlpool of sleep yet again, she reminded herself that his words meant nothing. All the care and attention she’d once hoped were a sign of deeper sentiment had simply been him doing his job.

Finally, at some point, she woke feeling different, stronger, her mind mostly clear, concern for Emma foremost in her mind. She turned her head to ask Ford if he knew anything about her teammate’s status, but he was gone.

Had she imagined him?

She studied the room more carefully. Unlike last time she’d awoken, the window shade now stood open to reveal a sycamore tree just outside, its broad five-fingered leaves filtering the morning light. Inside, pale gray paint coated the walls, and a blue armchair had been wedged into a corner.

Nice enough, but— How long had she been here? Were her parents on their way?

She scanned the walls but didn’t see a clock. Only a small dry-erase board with everything written in German.

Pulling back the sheets with her good hand, she located a call button and pressed it.

Another controller let her raise the head of the bed, and she gasped at the hot poker that shot through her right shoulder with the change of position.

Sweat prickled across her forehead, and she focused on taking slow, careful breaths.

A loud click drew her attention to the door, as a short, curvy Black woman in scrubs entered the room.

Had the door been locked?

“Ach, Frau Braun,” the woman said with a bright smile, pleasantly butchering Nat’s last name. Continuing in heavily accented English, she said, “You are awake. Good. How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been shot.”

The woman chuckled, the skin around her eyes crinkling.

“I am Doctor Amadi. You are doing very well.” She explained that Nat had undergone surgery to remove the bullet that had cracked her collarbone, and she now had stitches both internally and externally.

The latter would need to be removed in a week or two, and she wouldn’t be able to lift anything heavier than a book for about six weeks.

The anesthesia had mostly worn off, but would likely bring lingering fatigue, especially combined with pain meds and the trauma she’d been through.

“I expect to discharge you at some time tomorrow.” The doctor made a little tsk sound.

“You were very lucky. The damage could have been much worse.”

Nat didn’t want to think about it. “How long have I been here?”

The doctor glanced at the clock on the wall. “Nearly twelve hours.”

She could feel her eyes widen. That was all? It felt like days already. “Do you know where my phone is? I need to call my family.”

The doctor frowned. “You will have to ask Herr Beaumont.”

She blinked. “He’s really here?” Her heart drummed painfully in her chest.

“Yes, ma’am. I believe he will return soon.” The doctor clucked sympathetically. “He will be upset that he was gone when you awoke.” Dr. Amadi gave her a quick examination, made some notes in her chart, and turned for the door.

A rustling noise drew Nat’s attention to Ford, who had appeared in the doorway holding a paper cup, dark smudges under his eyes, jaw dark with stubble. “Hey.”

If she’d been standing, her knees might’ve buckled. “Hi,” she said, her voice hardly more than a whisper.

The doctor smiled and started toward the door.

“I’ll be right back.” Ford followed the woman out of the room.

Nat could only stare at the door. Ford. Ford Beaumont. Here.

Her stomach did a little flip when he returned a few minutes later, letting the wide door fall shut behind him. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here when you woke up,” he said, running a hand through his dark hair. “Dr. Amadi said everything looks good. How are you feeling?”

How could he talk to her like everything was normal? Like they hadn’t gone four years without a word? She opened her mouth, but hesitated, not sure where to start.

“You probably have some questions.” He hovered at the foot of the bed, wearing an untucked charcoal polo and blue jeans that did nothing to hide his lean, muscular body. Just one of many things about him that had fascinated her four years ago.

“Why are you here?”

“I told you earlier, but maybe you don’t re—”

“I remember,” she said. “But why are you here?”

He nodded, his jaw muscle tightening. “I was the only one close enough on such short notice.”

“Oh.” Of course. Her cheeks turned hot. “Well, I’m sorry then. I’m sure you were hoping to never see me again.”

He shook his head, an exasperated gesture that she used to go out of her way to elicit. “I could say the same.”

Whatever. “Do you know if my parents are on their way?”

“Uh, no. They’re not.” A grimace twisted his handsome face. “Not anymore.”

Her face scrunched in confusion. Not anymore? “Why the hell not?”

Ford studied her grimly and rubbed his jaw with obvious discomfort. “Because they believe you’re dead.”