Long Past Deadly (The Defenders #4)

Chapter One

The main entrance double doors of QM International sighed open on a breath of night air and the faint echo of celebration.

Quaid Daniels stepped outside into the quiet.

Upstairs, the wedding of Cait Hunter, his chief medical officer and friend, to her Navy SEAL husband had been reduced to brooms and vacuum cords after a touching ceremony and a rowdy reception.

San Diego glittered on the horizon through it all, a spilled jewelry box in the dark night.

He loosened his tie and exhaled. The company’s first big party and they had survived the mayhem; he apparently had not. Watching a woman he respected promise forever made his own life shallow and scripted. The world saw a playboy. It made good cover. Lately, though, the disguise itched.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, flicked his lighter, and drew in on the single cigarette he allowed himself a day. Smoke curled into the warm, salt-scented dark. His phone buzzed – an unlisted number. He ignored it.

“Mr. Daniels?” Jensen, the security night shift, lingered in the door. “Everything all right?”

“Fine. Needed some air.” He shifted toward the parking lot, letting the night air and greenery settle him. Order soothed him. Which was why the odd pocket of shadow caught his eye; the dwarf junipers and ornamental grass along the building formed tidy, private alcoves.

He dialed his grandfather, one of many times tonight, and swallowed the surprise when he connected.

Static, a story about monsoons, his mother reuniting with his father, and a Tokyo layover due to weather were not surprising excuses for the failure to arrive for the wedding.

Same distance as always. He disconnected after a few minutes of conversation, rubbed the back of his neck, and put out his cigarette. The city noises had thinned to silence.

Quaid drifted further along the sidewalk and around the side of the building, destination unknown.

The parking lot was painted in fresh white lines, angled for efficiency, and bordered by native shrubs trimmed to regulation height.

No weeds, no oil stains, no forgotten traffic cones.

When people came to you with their troubles, they didn’t want to see a place with maintenance issues, so QM cultivated an immaculate setting somewhere between curb appeal and tactical advantages.

Cell phone in hand, Quaid mused on turning points.

Growing up, he had a world-class gambler for a father, a dependent mess for a mother, and a globetrotting, money-making machine for a grandfather with not much in the way of belonging.

His mother and father had separated and reunited dozens of times until his skepticism about their relationship formed a bedrock of doubts about all things marriage.

The Marines and the CIA reinforced the doubt.

Lately, he’d found strength in this place with his Aunt Elizabeth, his partner Mackey Reynolds, and Cait and Hunter. These ties were the strongest, grounding and inspiring him.

About to retrace his steps, a whispered scuff stopped him.

He reached for a weapon he didn’t have.

“Down!”

He hit the pavement hard on his shoulder as the first gunshots shredded the side of the building.

Concrete chipped in a shower of grit smelling like dust and ozone.

He rolled into one of those quiet alcoves with a soft, firm body wrapped around his.

The scent of citrus, honey, and cinnamon registered.

“Someone’s shooting at you,” the voice snapped.

Alanna Williams, FBI agent and currently a liaison to QM for a case.

He patted his pockets, but somewhere in the dive he’d lost his phone. Dammit.

“None of your people are covering this side.” She peeked over the bushes, light glancing off dark hair, blue eyes, and porcelain skin.

He yanked her to better cover. More fire, suppressed and disciplined flew in the confined space. Concrete spewed in mini-shards.

She shoved at him. “Dammit, could you stop?”

“Can you stay down?”

She got in his face. “I am trained, Mr. Daniels. We have to get around to the front.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“Left it inside.”

“Terrific.” Cut off in his own parking lot with most of the staff distracted by wedding cleanup. “Where’s the shooter?”

“By the parked cars on the street edge.” Two hundred feet.

“Aiming at us specifically?”

“Yes. I didn’t see the weapon, but definitely a rifle.”

“Doesn’t sound like a standard issue. Sounds more like a Barrett MRAD. Will he follow, Doctor?” Who would know better than a profiler.

Alanna tipped her head, her cheeks flushed – whether pissed at him or the situation, it didn’t really matter. “Most likely. He’s invested now.”

More shots had them ducking.

He patted his pockets again. His fob. Car was four spots away. Glock in the glovebox.

“Move.” He grabbed her elbow and kept them below the shrub lines. Any half-trained moron could follow their route, but it was the only play.

“Where are we going? There’s no exit here.” Though she argued, she followed.

“My car. Three more spaces. Weapon, vehicle. Exit.”

“Why? Help is right there?” She pointed toward the front of the building.

Grinding his teeth, he struggled for a neutral tone and failed. “And how many civilians are in the building doing wedding cleanup, Williams? Do we want them in our crossfire?”

“No.” Her eyes were murderous, but, miraculously, she moved with him.

“Run,” he whispered harshly.

They sprinted for the vehicle. He hit the fob. Beep-beep.

Gunfire followed, hitting his car. Fuck. His red Alfa Romeo 4C was just out of the shop this morning.

Alanna returned fire. Quaid dove in. “Get in! Get in!”

He squeezed into the driver’s seat and swore. He needed his SUV.

She fired again – rapid rounds and loud, then she was inside and slamming the door.

He stomped on the gas, steered to the gate, and accelerated. A dark-suited man appeared, firing a Glock 19 this time. Even in the dark, Quaid would know that handgun anywhere. The man’s sniper rifle – the Barrett – hung from a strap on his back. He’d been prepared.

“He transitioned,” Alanna muttered.

“Switched when he lost the shot.” Quaid made a sharp turn and careened past him and into the street.

Alanna checked her weapon. “Four rounds left.” She twisted in her seat to search for the man. “He’s getting into a black sedan. We have to tell Mackey!”

“Agreed.” He skirted around other cars, speeding and watching the rearview. “Sorry. Something caught up with me.”

“Something caught up with you?” Alanna shifted in the seat to check the side mirror. “Let me out. I can make my way back.”

“No, he saw you, too. These guys don’t leave witnesses.”

“Weapon?”

“Glovebox.”

She pulled on the latch and the door popped open. “Ammunition?”

“Only what’s in the gun. I wasn’t planning on getting shot today.”

She kept her mouth shut and checked behind them again. “I wasn’t planning on an assassination either.” She slapped the dashboard. “This car might as well have a neon flashing light on it – bright, beautiful, and banged up. Where are we going?”

Quaid refused to look at her. What came next was non-negotiable. “Safe Harbor.”

“What? What is that?”

“Cait and Hunt’s house. It’s seven minutes from here. We can take back streets and lose him. They won’t be home. They’re on their honeymoon. But I can get in.”

“Why?”

“Guns. Phones. First aid. Clothes. Then we figure this motherfucker out. And may I point out you’re FBI. A hunter of serial killers. It could be you.” Alanna’s presence rubbed his every nerve the wrong way. Sexual tension he could handle, but this wasn’t attraction. Annoyance qualified, though.

She gave him a deadly glare. “It’s not me. I wasn’t working on anything that would escalate to this. You’re gonna steal from them?”

Quaid huffed loudly. “Borrow, Williams. Borrow.” While he was pretty sure Hunt wouldn’t kill him for taking his guns, Cait would not be happy her Safe Harbor sanctuary had been invaded with violence – even though it was prepped daily for such an occurrence.

His course set, he accelerated, finally losing the shooter in a maze of turns through the surrounding neighborhoods.

The man had ambushed the playboy but triggered the warrior.

&&&&&&&&&&

Alanna studied the neighborhood. Even with her past in San Diego, she had no idea where they were.

Large expensive homes were surrounded by long stretches of rolling lawn.

Christmas lights and yard scenes decorated house after house, lighting the area with a welcoming coziness.

But they were trying to hide, and visibility was not helpful.

Quaid slowed and turned off his lights. “Hunt and Cait’s house is around the corner, and they live next door to a San Diego police sergeant. We’re pulling in the driveway and getting this car hidden in their garage as soon as possible.”

“Why do you have access to their house?”

“QM manages the security of the property. I check the house personally from time to time. Deal I made with Hunt when we hired Cait. Although, it was supposed to be protection from SEAL threats, not mine. He’s not going to be happy.”

“We need to call in.” She brushed off her black slacks and bit her lip to stop from saying more. She’d repeated the phrase multiple times already.

“Cait has a landline. We’ll use it. I need out of this tuxedo, too.”

“Then what? The office?”

“No. They found me there and party breakdown has left it vulnerable. We’ll Uber. Coronado Regency Patton Hotel. I have an SUV parked there.”

“I have no wallet on me.”

“Me either. I’ll use the business account – but we’ll have to move again.”

“Where to?”

“The LA Downtown Regency Patton.”

“Did you pick Patton hotels on purpose? There are other more discreet places.”

Quaid pulled in the driveway to a lovely, one-story home stretched across the lot in spacious, modern elegance. Doctor/SEAL pay. She had no frame of reference for big spacious homes. She barely managed her tiny LA apartment.