3:00 a.m.
Her feet tangled in the afghan, Amanda rolled away from the sofa back and brought the covering to her chin. Something pressed down over her mouth, and she opened her eyes. The room was dark, but she saw a large figure looming over her. Kicking her feet, she fought back, but her hands were caught in the blanket.
“It’s me, Mandy. It’s Jacob. Stop struggling.”
Even though she was unable to make out his facial features, she recognized her defender’s voice, and let her body go limp.
Jacob put a finger to his lips. “Sh. There’s someone on the premises. I’m going to have a look.” Fumbling with the afghan, he put the butt of a Ruger LCR into her hand. Seeing the whites of her eyes, he knew she recognized the object. “That’s a 357 revolver. All you have to do is ease back the trigger. It has lighter loads than mine, but it’ll still kick like a son-of-a-gun, so hold on tight okay?”
“I—I don’t like this. Stay here…with me.”
“You say you’ve handled guns before, right?”
She nodded.
“Here’s a refresher course anyway. Keep your finger off the trigger, until you’re ready to shoot. Don’t point it at yourself, and please don’t point it at me when I come back. Got it?”
“Jacob?”
“I need to hear that you understand me, sweetheart. Finger off trigger, don’t point it at you or me. Tell me you understand.”
“I understand, but—”
“Trust me. You won’t need that. It’s just in case.” He stood, yanked out his Coonan 357 Magnum and took a step. A hand latched on to his wrist, and he turned toward the owner.
“Be careful, Jacob.”
He gave her a warm smile, “That’s the plan,” and was gone.
Amanda brought the Ruger out of hiding and held up the gun—all black in color, textured grip, short barrel. Finding the release button, she pinched the frame and pushed out the cylinder, until the heads of five shiny cartridges stared back at her. She closed the cylinder and huddled under the blanket, squinting in the direction she had last seen Jacob.
… … … … …
Having seen a light beam in the front yard, Jacob went out the back door. Crouching, he ran along the back of the house. Coming to the corner, he leaned out just enough so his left eye could take in the empty space between the house and the garage. He saw a flash of light near the front of the garage.
Exposing his head, he gave the area a better look and ducked back. No incoming rounds; that’s a good sign. He squatted, darted toward the side of the garage, put his back to the structure and sidestepped left, down the length, foot crossing over foot. Stealing glances at the front yard and behind him, he made it to the garage’s corner.
Cocking an ear, he heard a scuff on the asphalt driveway. Gripping his three-fifty-seven with both hands, Jacob popped his head out and back, getting a fix on the man’s location. He whirled around, rested his left hand against the garage and leveled the gun at the back of the man’s head. “You move—you die…hands out where I can see them. If anything’s in them, you best drop it now.”
The man turned.
“I said don’t move!”
“St. Christopher, it’s me. Don’t shoot.”
Expecting a deeper voice, he looked over the sights of his 1911 and saw a purple shirt. He lowered the gun a hair and stood erect. “Stockwell? What the hell are you doing here? And how the hell did you find me?”
The FBI agent met him at the garage’s corner. “It wasn’t easy. But some help from a computer person and a couple hits on a BOLO,” she pointed, “got me to the area. From there, I’ve been going house to house to find your Mustang.”
“Why are you here? I would think you’d want nothing to do with me after how we left things at the apartment.”
“Yeah…well,” she bobbed her head, “I’ve learned a few things since then.”
“Like what?”
“How about you invite me in and we can talk about it?”
Jacob looked over his shoulder, toward the house, and came back to her.
“Or are you entertaining guests,” she paused, “of the teenage girl variety?”
He squinted at her.
“I was at the diner. I spoke with the owner, who told me a story involving a tall man with jet black hair and a fire-breathing handgun. I’ve only come across one man matching that description today. I also know a sixteen-year-old girl bought a bus ticket around the corner.” She glimpsed his gun. “You can put that away now.”
He eyed the weapon before slipping the Coonan into the shoulder holster.
“So how about it? What does a girl have to do to get a cup of coffee around here?”
Part of Jacob was glad to see she was still talking to him. Another part was not happy, because of what she was here to do. He cocked his head toward the house. “Stay behind me. I need to go in first.” He pivoted and led her to the front door. Reaching the porch, he rotated his upper body, glanced at her eyes and dipped his head. “Where are your glasses?”
“I don’t wear them all the time. My vision’s fine. I mostly just throw them on to spice up an outfit.”
He knocked and, “Mandy,” opened the door a crack. “Don’t shoot, Mandy. It’s Jacob.”
Stockwell furled her eyebrows. Don’t shoot?
He slipped into the room and went straight for the couch, taking the Ruger from the girl.
“You gave the kid a gun? She could have shot herself.”
“And she just as easily could have defended herself from you, if you were a bad guy and had bested me.”
“Still that’s dangerous.”
“We live in a dangerous world, Stockwell.”
Amanda threw off the covers and stood. “I’ve shot guns before. I know what I’m doing.” She looked up at Jacob. “Who is she? What’s she doing here?”
He put a hand on the teen’s shoulder and extended his free arm. “Mandy, this is Special Agent Deanna Stockwell of the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” He glanced at the woman, thinking of how she had found him. “A very resourceful Special Agent at that.” He came back to the one in his care. “Stockwell, meet Amanda Applegate.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Amanda.”
The girl tipped her head back and frowned at the man, who towered above her by more than a foot. “What’s she doing here, Jacob?”
He looked at the older female and shrugged. “That’s a good question. What are you doing here?”
Stockwell spied the kitchen. “How about that cup of coffee I was promised?”
He shook his head. “I didn’t promise you anything.”
She tilted her head and shot daggers at him.
He half grinned. “But I’m nothing if not a gracious host.” Facing Amanda, he bent over and put hands on her shoulders. “Can you do me a favor and,” he motioned toward the sofa, “try to get some more rest?”
The girl crossed her arms and shifted weight to one foot. “I’m not tired.”
“You don’t have to sleep. Just close your eyes and get some rest, while Agent Stockwell and I talk. Okay?”
“Where are you going to be?”
He bobbed his head backward. “Right in the kitchen. You just open your eyes and you’ll see me.”
After a few moments of silence, the teenager plopped onto the couch, stuck feet under the afghan and reclined.
“Thank you, Mandy.” Jacob put a hand on Stockwell’s lower back and escorted her into the kitchen.
∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞ ∞
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