Playing For Keeps (Montana Men) (13 page)

Chapter Ten

The first rule is to keep an untroubled
spirit. The second rule is to look things in the face and know them for what
they are.

~Marcus Aurelius

Annandale, Virginia

February 17, Tuesday

One hour and thirty-five minutes after the
assassination…

Flayme
parked the ’69 VW Bug half a block from her house on a quiet street in her
neighborhood in Annandale. She patted the smooth slope of the hood of the sleek
Bug and stepped around the front of it.

She
loved the car. When she bought the poor little rusted body, it’d seen better
days. Used and abused by a hippie couple, the car was in a sad state of
disrepair, but she’d fallen instantly in love with it. Black leather seats and
new upholstery had given the interior a much needed facelift. The paint and
body shop crew hammered out every dent, ping, and scratch, then applied the color
she’d insisted on.

With
the new motor dropped in, wheels and fancy hubs, along with all the little
finishing touches—
bingo
—
instant
bug juice. The four-speed purple terror ruled supreme on the highway in the
majestic royal color. She imagined the little car looked like a fat grape
rumbling down the highway, but she didn’t care. When she was behind the wheel,
she felt lik
e a mighty knight on a powerful steed. She and the little
car shared magical karma.

By gosh, the deep color had most likely saved her life
tonight. Mr. Purple had blended right into the night shadows while peeling away
from the CIA parking lot.

Parking
the little car a distance down the street from her house was a
spur-of-the-moment decision, but it felt right. She might not be an agent, but
she’d been around and worked among them long enough to learn a few things.
Using caution was just plain smart.

One,
someone had shot at her. He might or might not have originally been after her,
but for certain, he was
now
. She
wasn’t stupid. Being extra vigilant was wise. However, the smartest thing to do
was call for help, but her cell phone had died on her since she
’d
had it off charge all day. The charger she usually carried in the car was
nowhere to be found. As soon as she got to a land line in her house, oh yeah
—
nine-one-one
—top of the list of
things to do for the woman who’d suddenly become an open-season target.

Two,
the killer might have beaten her to her home, or, if this somehow involved the
government, and she was pretty sure it did, another assassin could have been
sent ahead to kill her. It only made sense not to charge blindly inside her
house. So instead, she decided to quietly enter in the back way. Stupid, maybe,
but this was her home. No one was keeping her out of it. Besides, she had one
good heel left on her shoe. It made a formidable weapon. If there was someone
in there, she’d poke his eye out with the pointy tip.

Flayme
hugged the back corner of the house, glanced furtively at the deep shadows
around her, but saw nothing suspicious. No, the suspicious thing was parked in
her driveway. Maybe the goose bumps pumping up her spine wouldn’t have been so
darned active if there were lights on inside her house, but it remained in
total darkness.

The
possibility someone waited for her inside in the dark, perhaps someone not very
bright to leave his car in plain sight, totally ticked her off. Smashed up
against the side of the house and remaining in the deeper shadows, Flayme
slipped into the back yard. It wasn’t easy wading through snow already a
half-foot deep and over the tops of her shoes, especially with one broken heel,
but at least it muffled her steps.

She
ignored the pain in her feet. Her toes already felt frozen as a Popsicle.

Quietly, she slipped the key in the lock to the back door
and pushed the door inward. The soft swoosh as it opened was barely audible.
The kitchen stretched before her, dark, except for the pale glow from the tiny
nightlight she left on near the sink. Not a sound stirred inside the house. It
was so quiet she swore she heard the walls breathing.

Flayme
stepped out of her shoes at the door and made a beeline for the phone on the
opposite wall. Damn. Dead line! The lack of a dial tone somehow felt obscene
and scary.

Had
the person inside her home cut the line?

Was
she allowing her imagination to run wild?

Maybe
there was nothing sinister about it at all, but related to the blizzard
sweeping across the area. Maybe someone’s car had stalled and the driver had
simply pulled it into her drive to get it off the street.

Flayme
decided she’d rather err on the side of caution. She crossed the room, pushing
through the saloon-style doors that led to the dining room, then stepped into
the living area.

Creak!

At
the muffled squeak, Flayme froze near the step-down entrance and held her
breath. There was only one thin
g that made that faint noise in her
house
—
the
third step from the bottom of the winding staircase when someone stepped on it.
She’d been meaning to have the squeaky step repaired. Thank God, she hadn’t.

Crap!
Someone was definitely in her home. In
her
home—
not
a dozen steps away to her right. Her heart jerked. Her head spun. Oh, God! She
was afraid she might faint dead away. Slowly, she released the pent-up breath,
then her lungs ballooned and stilled. She couldn’t have drawn another breath if
her life depended on it
—
and
it did.

“Who’s
there?”

Flayme
jumped at the sound of the masculine voice shattering the utter quiet in the
house. The way the wall curved, she couldn’t see him, but that meant he
couldn’t see her either and that was fine with her. But he’d felt her presence,
and that was just plain spooky. His instincts must be honed to a fine degree.
Yikes!

She flattened her body against the wall and quietly inched
backward. Flayme forced herself to go slow, until she could turn and run
silently into the kitchen. Once she was some distance from the staircase, she
took a moment to exhale. The air rushed from her lungs in an explosive hiss,
and poured right back in, in a burst of fresh air.

God,
oh God, the killer was in her home.
Right
here. Now. Right now.
A few feet
away!
Her body shook. Her mind raced.
What was she going to do?
Get out,
she
silently ordered herself, but her internal voice argued
—
fight or flight?

Although her first instinct was to run, something inside
her rebelled at the fact her home had been invaded by an unwelcome intruder.
Deep inside, her temper sparked. The thought of running ticked her off even
more.

Flayme
pressed a shaky hand to her heart. It felt like it was going to leap right out
of her chest. Well, if her heart had a vote, it voted for running like hell.
Calm. Stay calm. Think!

What
should she do, besides the obvious and run like a mad woman?

That
was just it. She could accept the fact that it was her home and someone had
invaded it, but if she didn’t defend it, who would? On a snowy night like this
when the cops were already run ragged with traffic accidents, yeah, she was on
her own. Maybe not the smartest thing to do, but she knew she wasn’t the
typical female. She wasn’t faint of heart, except when someone actually shot at
her, and she figured being faint of heart then was reasonable. Where most women
ran to escape an intruder in their home and get help, she tended to brace
herself for one hell of a fight to defend what belonged to her. For years,
she’d had no one to depend upon or stick up for her, but herself. Old habits
die hard.

Besides
her car, the house was the most important thing she owned. No one was coming in
and making her too scared to be inside the place she lived. Like a slow-moving
shadow, she crept across the room, past the refrigerator to her left, the
double, stainless steel sinks, past the five-burner stainless steel, glass top
range to the long row of maple cabinets.

Taking
several deep breaths, Flayme forced herself to remain calm and slid open a
drawer. Patting the contents, she felt for her kitchen knives. Careful not to
make a sound, she grasped the thick handle of the big butcher’s knife she’d
nicknamed
Chopper,
and fished it out
of the drawer.

She’d
do some chopping all right. Someone had broken into her home, and by God, he’d
live to rue the day. This was the only home she’d ever known. Her parents had
lived moderately, but when they were killed on her eighteenth birthday by a
typhoon while excavating in India, there was no one left of her family except
her brother.

He
was fourteen years older, already married, and had just been elected to the
Senate. Her brother had been busy with politics. Busy with his life and career.
For sure, he didn’t have time for her or want her moving into his new
townhouse.

It had almost been embarrassing how quickly he signed the
deed to their parents’ home over to her and brushed his hands of her. For sure,
his wife hadn’t wanted her moving in with them. She’d made it plain on the day
of the funeral.

Heartbroken,
and standing alone at the gravesides of her parents, Flayme tried desperately
to hide her surprise when her sister-in-law edged toward her to stand at her
side. She knew in her heart whatever her brother’s wife wanted to say wasn’t
good.

“We
need to talk,” she whispered.

Flayme
nodded and rubbed the tears from her face. “So talk. God knows I can’t stop
you.”

“Your
brother won’t say this, so I’m going to. You’re old enough to be on your own.
We’re too busy to make room in our lives for you. I know you’ll understand when
I tell you to stay out of our life. You’ve always been a huge embarrassment for
him, coming so late in his parents’ life. Your brother has big ambitions, a
budding political career that doesn’t include a sister. The last thing we need
is for a troublesome teenager to mess things up for us. Have I made myself
clear?”

Flayme
clenched her jaw. Bitch! Did her sister-in-law honestly think she wanted to be
a part of their ambitious life? “In D.C., we all know it’s the bud fully bloomed
that matters. I’m afraid my brother will never be much of anything but the
smallest, unfurled blossom on the bush no matter how high he rises.”

She
hadn’t waited for her sister-in-law to reply. Instead, she left the gravesides
alone. She’d never looked back or asked her brother for anything. Flayme
refused to be the nuisance he’d feared she’d become. He’d been disgustingly
thankful she didn’t want to move in with him and his new bride.

Flayme
knew she was lucky her parents had left a tidy nest egg. It made her
independent, or she’d have starved. Now, she balanced
Chopper
in her hands. Being independent meant she’d had to learn to
take care of herself. As far as she was concerned, the uninvited guest in her
home intended her harm.

Not if I get him first!

If
she attacked, she’d catch him by surprise. A tiny smile twisted her lips. Oh,
she felt evil. She took a second to listen. Flayme grinned. She knew exactly
where the intruder was. But he didn’t know for sure she was in the house, or
that she possessed a weapon. The sonofabitch wasn’t just dead meat, he was
carved
dead meat!

Flayme
started through the swinging doors, but somehow, she must’ve betrayed where she
was, or the invader was smarter than she gave him credit. The man charged
through the doors like a battering ram, full speed. He butted into her
headfirst, sending her flying.

She
landed on the stone-tiled floor with a grunt and a solid
thump
to the back of her head. Damn, this was getting to be a
habit. It was the second time tonight she’d seen stars.

For
a moment, she lay there beneath his rock-hard weight, too stunned to move,
unable to breathe or make a sound. Then her fight or flight instinct kicked in.
Since she was pinned to the floor, it was fight or die.

Maybe
she’d die this night, but she wasn’t going down without a fight. And she wasn’t
dying in
her
house. The adrenaline
pumping through her system lent her super human strength. Flayme rolled,
flipping him to her side. Taking advantage of his momentary confusion, she
plunged the knife with all her strength.

“Oooh!
Ooh,
yuck,”
she cried.

No
way had she expected the blade to penetrate the skin so easily or so deep.
Wasn’t there supposed to be bone or something to halt the knife? Was it
supposed to sink in all tha–that—muscle? It wasn’t her intention to kill
him—maim him maybe, but no, not kill.

But…
ooh
. Skin?
Awk!
Flesh was a lot softer and easier to pierce than she’d
anticipated. Heavens, it wasn’t as if she’d had lots of practice ramming a
knife in someone. Even though she readily admitted she was more than ready to
slice off that office jerk’s balls, she hadn’t harmed Neil, except in her mind.

Gracious! The knife was buried deep, to the hilt. She had
a bad feeling it went all the way through, because, wasn’t—that the tile she
heard the knife tip strike?

What if she’d stabbed him through the heart?

N
o
—
no
—
he still mov
ed—
moaning.
Cussing, actually, and making strange little garbled noises like he might be
choking. Goodness, she hadn’t stabbed him in the throat
—had she? No. No,
of course not, and if he was able to
cuss, at least he wasn’t dead. That
was great, because she’d only meant to stab him a little, just enough to make
him regret breaking into her house and scaring her half to death. Yeah, she’d
only meant to nick him
―
not plunge the entire blade in him. She
wasn’t a blood-thirsty savage—not much anyway.