Blush(85)

“I promise.”

“Let me see your fingers.”

Her smile was faint. “I’m not crossing them. Ten minutes or the police. Got it. But not a second more. I’m not going to hesitate if I don’t see you in ten minutes or less.” She chewed her lip, not in fear, but concern.

Their gazes locked. Both of them knew the chances were high this was no burglar. There was practically no furniture or anything of value in the house and the place was too isolated to be just a random act. Whoever was inside was looking not for something but someone.

“Whoever is trying to get you out of the way wants to make sure you don’t sign the papers.”

With the FBI and the press closing in like rabid dogs, and everything about to be finalized with the buyout of her business, tonight was the night if anyone was going to off her. This would be the golden hour. Or in the time it took her to sign the papers and for them to be overnighted to San Francisco.

If he was going to do the job, it would be tonight.

“Don’t go in. Look, if they’re a trained killer, it’s stupid to take the risk.”

“I served in the military, remember? Trust me, I can take care of myself.”

She placed a hand on his forearm. “Still, you don’t have to do this. We should call the police.” She shook her head at his closed expression.

“That’s where you’re wrong. Whoever is in there doesn’t know who or what I am, or that I’m coming in alone. I’ve got the advantage. Just stay here. Stay safe and don’t distract me.”

He exited the vehicle, then waited for the door lock to engage. Followed by buzzing mosquitoes, he slipped through the dappled shadows to the accompaniment of the deep-throated croak of frogs, the occasional growl-roar of the alligator, and the splash of some night creature in the water.

He detoured to his truck for his gun. He’d removed the interior light long ago. He found the hidden compartment and the box under the floor by feel.

The SIG Sauer fit comfortably in his hand. He didn’t use a gun often, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know how, and the custom 250 felt like an old friend in his hand.

He set his watch for nine minutes twenty-six seconds.

When he stepped up onto the back porch, he knew which floorboards creaked and where to step. Moving quietly to blend with the shadows, Cruz pushed open the front door with the muzzle of the semiauto.

Not latched. Sloppy.

A sense of the air being displaced, and a faint trace of stale sweat, told him his gut was right. Someone was in the house.

While there were no lights on, there was enough ambient light from the moon so that he could see fairly well as he moved from room to room. He had excellent night vision, and his eyes quickly adjusted.

Silently he searched the first floor. No sign of an intruder, and nowhere to hide. Upstairs, then.

He’d never be caught on the second floor of someone’s home. Too hard to escape. Too easy to become trapped. Moving cautiously up the stairs, Cruz grabbed a screwdriver lying on top of a paint can and tucked it under his shirt against the small of his back. His hands were his best defense. But a stabbing tool came in handy on occasion. And if all else failed, the SIG would do the job.

By the time he was halfway up the stairs, he knew who lay in wait for him. The stink of booze and sweat was unmistakable. Latour.

Cruz tucked the SIG away beside the screwdriver as he strolled into Mia’s bedroom. “Why aren’t you in jail, you sack of shit?”

Latour, who’d been riffling through drawers in the bedside table, straightened and spun around, shocked as hell to see him. His nose was swollen, both eyes were purple and swollen almost shut, and his puffy lower lip sported crusted blood around a gash. He was drunk enough to be dangerous, but not unsteady as he glared at Cruz from puffy, slitted eyes.

Latour’s fists curled at his sides. “I want my wife.”

“And you think she’s in a six-inch-deep drawer?”

“You can’t keep her from me, asshole! I’ll find her, and when I do, she’s going to learn some respect!” Fist raised, he rushed forward, and Cruz sidestepped. The man crashed into the doorjamb nose first with a wild shriek of pain.

Cruz grabbed the short sleeve of Latour’s orange T-shirt to spin him around and raised his arm. “You hurt my woman, you fucked-up son of a bitch.” His fist glanced off the man’s cheek, but he heard the satisfactory crunch of bone as Latour staggered backward, then righted himself and charged him like an enraged bull. “Mia didn’t know you had that fucking knife with you, but I did.”

He stabbed Latour’s forearm with the screwdriver as the other man jumped on him from the side. Latour threw a punch, Cruz sidestepped, and Latour’s fist punched Mia’s stripper pole instead. He let out a howl of pain, then spun around and attacked with his fists and feet. He was strong and determined, but with the limited floor space between the bed and the window wall, he didn’t have much room to maneuver. While Latour was enraged and out of control, Cruz wasn’t even breaking a sweat.