Wait for Morning (Sniper 1 Security #1) (2 page)

Disaster.

Plain and simple.

That was exactly what she’d been running
toward
.

And disaster’s name was Trace Kogan.

●«»●«»●«»●

Several houses
down, parked on the dark street

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

Gripping the steering wheel with one hand,
Barry Thompson pressed the phone to his ear, staring through the windshield at
the unbelievable sight before him.

“If you’re callin’ to tell me you don’t
have the girl, we’re going to renegotiate the terms of your employment,” the
grating voice on the other end of the line growled furiously, his usual
succinct annunciations slipping, hinting at his Texas drawl.

The only
terms
of employment Barry knew of
were either do
the job and
live
or fail, which would
naturally
lead to the opposite. He didn’t have
to be an Ivy League graduate to figure that one out. And that meant what Barry
had to tell the crotchety bastard was going to likely put him in
a world
of hurt.

“House is up in flames and she’s gone, boss,”
Barry said, quickly relaying the details in as few words as possible.

“Where is she?”

“Kogan got to her first.” Silence lingered
on the line, but he didn’t dare say another word. He knew better.

“
Which
Kogan?”

“Trace,” he told the infuriated man.

And wasn’t that just the shit. Trace
fucking
Kogan—the absolute last man he’d
expected to see—had come to the rescue, saving the girl from what should’ve
been a quick snatch and grab. As for the explosion… That had been Dennis’s
idea. A way to cover their tracks.

Barry swallowed hard, waiting for the
tirade that was more than likely about to come. The guy who’d hired him to grab
Marissa Trexler had a temper to rival all.

“Where’s Dennis?”

“Dead,” he answered
simply
.
Barry
wasn’t absolutely certain of that fact, but based on Trace’s deadly reputation
and the flames licking high into the night sky, it was a relatively safe
assumption that Dennis, his dumb ass of a partner—his most recent one, mind
you—wasn’t in the land of the living any longer.

A heavy sigh sounded on the other end of
the line, followed by, “I. Want. Her. Found. And I fucking want her found now.
You’ve had more than enough time.”

A click sounded in his ear, signaling the
end of the call. Setting the phone down in the cup holder, Barry stared at the
orange blaze. The irritable asshole who’d hired him for this job was a
first-class prick, but he was right about one thing: this had gone on long
enough. Barry had been hired once again—after that failed attempt a year ago
that had forced him to lie low for a while—to snatch Marissa and, like then, it
seemed luck wasn’t on his side.

Getting the girl was the end goal, at
least according to the prick who’d hired him, but it looked as though Barry had
another target to get rid of before he could accomplish that.

Turning up the heat, he gripped the cold
steering wheel as he shoved the gearshift into drive, flipped on his headlights,
and started down the road. If he was right, he knew Kogan wouldn’t go far
tonight, and Barry fully intended to beat the man to the punch.

As he drove, ignoring the house engulfed
in flames in his peripheral vision, he let a plan form in his head.

“What do you mean, we’re
not
going back to Texas tonight?”

Trace Kogan spared Marissa
a quick glance before returning his attention to the road, his eyes scanning
their surroundings—both what was in front
and
behind him, which, at the moment, was blessedly nothing.
Not a single car accompanied them on the darkened road as they drove away from
the fiery blaze lighting up the night sky.

“It means exactly that,” he explained,
doing his damnedest to keep from expressing just how irritated he was. Not at
Marissa per se. But definitely at the situation they’d found themselves in.

“Exactly
what
?”

Trace didn’t bother to elaborate.

Adrenaline still trickled
through
his veins, making him sweat despite the
frigid temperature. His heart was finally beginning to resume its normal rate,
and soon he’d be back in control. That hadn’t been the case a few short minutes
ago when he’d been dragging Marissa out of that fucking house.

His heart skipped a beat at the thought of
what could’ve happened had he not been there. He cast another look her way,
taking her in from head to toe once more, just to assure himself that she was
alive and well, although a little pissy at the moment.

He could deal with pissy. But he couldn’t
deal with
dead
.

From the instant Marissa had appeared in
the doorway of the safe house, everything in Trace’s entire world had
unilaterally centered on her. Everything he heard, everything he saw,
everything he smelled…

Getting her to safety had been his one and
only goal, and now, as he eased the Escalade onto the empty freeway, he simply
wanted her to be quiet for a few minutes. He needed to decompress before she
pelted him with a million questions. Which, no doubt, she would.

“If we’re not going back, where
are
we
going?” she
asked, clearly frustrated.

He knew how she felt. He was equally
frustrated.

“A motel.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. A
motel
? Why can’t we go to the airport?”

“No flights out.”

“Okay. Fine. Why can’t we drive through
the night? I’m not even tired. If you need a nap,
I
can drive.”

Trace glared over at her only to find
Marissa returning his stare with sheer determination in her glistening ice-blue
gaze.

She looked haggard
and,
despite her claim, tired. Her usually silky golden hair was a
mess of tangles around her face, her fair skin was chapped from the harsh wind,
the
deep purple shadows beneath her eyes said she
hadn’t slept in days, her lips…

Okay, he was not going to focus on her
lips.
Or the fact that she was still the most
beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on even when she’d been dragged from a
rigged house, thrust into the below-freezing temps in her pajamas, past a
couple of bullets…

Nope, he wasn’t going to think about any
of that shit right now.

“Trace?”

“Not gonna happen,” he told her, keeping
his eyes on the road. “We’re not headin’ back tonight.”

“Why not?”

He half expected her to stomp her foot and
pout, but this was Marissa Trexler. As spoiled as he’d accused her of being in
the past, he knew that wasn’t exactly
true
.
Hard-headed, yes. Spoiled, not so much.

“Because I said so,” he told her. “Now,
could you please be quiet for five minutes?”

Marissa huffed, but she did as he asked.

Focused on their surroundings, Trace
pushed the Cadillac Escalade as fast as he dared in the icy conditions,
desperate to get them to their destination before they garnered a tail.
However, in order to ensure they didn’t, he figured a few evasive maneuvers
were needed. Might add a little additional time to their drive, but he figured
it was necessary.

Not that he was too worried about the guy
who’d been in Marissa’s house when Trace had entered via the back door—that
poor bastard wasn’t going anywhere. Ever again. But in Trace’s experience,
these jackasses didn’t act alone. And that was the sole reason they were
heading west on I-84. It would’ve been a hell of a lot easier to get to the
closest airport and figure out the itinerary back to Texas, but as Trace had
learned, things weren’t usually
easy
for
him.

Nope. Never fucking simple. And it didn’t
look as though this time would be any different, hence the explosion and the
bullets.

Maybe Marissa was right. Maybe they should
keep driving. By his estimate, they’d be able to make it from Kent, Connecticut,
to Dallas, Texas, in, oh, say, a day and a half, worst case. Glancing over at his
now silent passenger once more, he noticed the way her hands were shaking.

Okay, so tonight wasn’t a good idea.

Tonight, they’d do as he’d originally
planned: stay at an inconspicuous, cheap motel off the highway, grab a couple
hours’ sleep, maybe a bite to eat. And tomorrow morning, they’d load right back
up and continue on their trek to Dallas.

Trace’s cell phone rang,
and he mentally cursed the damn thing, although, without looking at the screen,
he had a pretty good idea of who was calling, and the last thing he should’ve
been doing was cursing the man for being worried.

Trace had no choice but to answer. That or
suffer the consequences later.

When he hit the talk button, the phone
automatically connected with the Bluetooth in the vehicle, broadcasting the
caller’s voice through the interior speakers.

“Trace?” The hoarse, edgy voice was
amplified through the SUV.

“I’ve got her,” Trace told the concerned
man on the other end of the line. “Your daughter’s safe and sound.”

“Can I talk to her?”

Of
course
he could. Bryce Trexler could do anything he damn well pleased. As one of the
owners of Sniper 1 Security, Bryce had established a reputation over the years
as being a man you didn’t want to find yourself up against. Trace wasn’t scared
of Bryce, but he did respect the hell out of him.

“Hi, Daddy,” Marissa said, sounding
significantly more lively than she had a moment ago. After everything
that’d
just gone down, Trace respected her
ability to put on a brave face—or voice, as was the case now. “I’m in one
piece, so all’s dandy on this end.”

A thick silence hung heavily in the car,
and Trace could sense Bryce’s relief without the man having to say a word. When
Trace had
initially
informed Bryce that
he was personally taking on the most important assignment Sniper 1 Security had
ever handled to date, he’d seen the relief in the older man’s eyes. Relief that
was mixed right in with concern.

“I’ll see you in a few days?” Bryce asked,
his question not directed at either of them, so Trace glanced at Marissa,
urging her to answer by nodding his head.

“Yes. We’re making our way back now,”
Marissa informed him, shooting a glare in Trace’s direction.

Ornery. That was another word to describe
Marissa.

Trace rolled his eyes and returned his
attention out the front windshield.

Trace despised the bitter cold of the
northeastern states. He much preferred the nearly tropical winters in Texas,
where he’d been born and raised. At least there was one positive in the whole
fucking mess… It had stopped snowing. For the time being anyway.

“Good. And Trace?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Call your father. He’ll want an update.”

“Will do,” Trace told Bryce and then the
phone disconnected.

Calling his father, Casper Kogan—Bryce’s partner,
and the other creator of Sniper 1 Security—would have to come later. As in
much
later. Getting Marissa safely set
up somewhere for the rest of the night was Trace’s only plan. And until he
could make that happen, he wasn’t interested in chatting it up with anyone.

Thankfully, Marissa managed to remain
silent for the next half hour, giving Trace a fair amount of time to think.
They made it farther than he’d initially intended, but he’d take it. Now,
exiting the highway, Trace followed the sign for the Holiday Inn Express up the
road.

When he pulled into the parking lot, he
took stock of the parking lot’s contents, starting with t
he four cars—an older-model white Nissan Sentra with a
dented rear bumper, a rusted brown Ford pickup with a cracked rear window, a
fairly new black Toyota Camry, and last, but certainly not least, a dark blue
Chevy Malibu with a broken windshield wiper backed into one of the parking
spots.
All of the cars, with the exception of the Malibu, had at least
several inches of snow on the top, which meant…

What
were the fucking odds?

He didn’t know for a fact that the Malibu
was someone waiting for them or if it was just a weary traveler who’d spent
most of the night driving before stopping for a rest, but he wasn’t going to
take the chance either way.

“Where are we going now?” Marissa’s head
snapped around as Trace circled the building and pulled back out onto the
service road.

“A little farther.”

“Paranoid much?” Marissa muttered. “I
don’t suggest you read Stephen King then.”

“What?” Glancing her way, he frowned,
trying to understand what the hell she was talking about.

“Never mind,” she answered. “It’s because
of the blue Malibu, right?”

Trace smiled. “Still as perceptive as
always, I see.”

“I try. Hard not to notice all the little
things when I grew up with people like you my whole life.”

“It’s not a bad thing,” he informed her.

Marissa didn’t respond, merely turned her
head and peered out the window once again. They drove in silence for another
half hour before she took his cell phone from the center console and pulled up
the navigation. Trace glanced over at her a few times, watching as she keyed
something in and then held up the screen for him to see.

“Ten minutes?” he asked, referring to the
motel information she had pulled up.

“Yep. And it’s off the highway in a small
town. I’m sure we’ll be safe there for a few hours.”

Trace
wasn’t
sure
that he would ever be safe with Marissa, let alone while they were
isolated in a motel room, but he knew that wasn’t what she meant. As for being
safe from whomever was after her, he wasn’t going to argue. He knew she needed
to sleep, and a combat nap wouldn’t hurt him, either.

Without a word, Trace continued as the
computerized voice
instructed until he was
pulling into the deserted parking lot of a backwoods motel. There was one car
with several inches of snow encasing it, carelessly pulled into a space near
the front doors. He figured that belonged to the night clerk. If there was
a night
clerk.

“I can stay here while you go in,” Marissa
told him when he pulled alongside the 80s-model Firebird that had seen better
days.

Trace played out several scenarios in his
head, something he always did when he was facing a decision that could go
terribly wrong. Since he knew someone was actively looking for Marissa, and
likely they knew he was heading back to Texas with her, he had to plan
accordingly.

“I know how to use a gun,” Marissa told
him with a huff. “Just give me your backup piece, and I’ll sit right here while
you go get us rooms.”

Trace knew Marissa wasn’t lying when she
said she knew how to use a gun. Ever since she was little, she’d been
good
with
firearms, something both her family and his were very actively involved with.
Although Marissa hadn’t followed in everyone else’s footsteps and pursued a
position within Sniper 1, she was one of the best shots in both of their
families.

Reaching over, Trace pulled the lever on
the glove box, allowing it to fall open in front of Marissa. She smiled as she
leaned forward, reaching for the S&W .45 ACP.

“This is your backup piece?”

Glancing down at the gun, Trace smiled.
“One of them. Trust me, I’ve got more.”

“Of course you do,” Marissa said,
chuckling softly, although it sounded forced.

“Make sure you’re prepared to use it,
Marissa,” Trace told her
gravely
. “And if
you pull that trigger, make damn sure you don’t miss.”

“Trust me, I won’t. Miss, that is,” she
assured him.

“I’ll be back in five. Maybe less.”

Marissa nodded and Trace took a deep
breath before heading inside to get a room for the night.

One room. Only because he wasn’t going to
let Marissa out of his sight for a second.

As it was, Trace wasn’t sure what he was
more worried about. Spending the night alone with Marissa or keeping her safe
from the bad guys.

Either way, he wasn’t sure she’d be safe.