Bobbie
“Great meal. Thanks.”
I turn my head and throw a smile at Mike before refocusing on the dishes.
The guys have offered to take on cleanup duty after meals, but I waved them off. The kitchen is my domain, the only place where I can feel at least a tiny bit useful. Besides, I like having my hands in the warm, sudsy water, it’s almost like meditation to me, and Lord knows I need all the help I can get to preserve my sanity. I just wish I could look out the window while doing it, but they insist the blinds stay closed at all times.
That doesn’t mean I haven’t snuck a peek every now and then, mainly from my bedroom window. All I know is there aren’t any other houses visible from the front of the house. I’m not even sure where we are, since I was driven here in the back of a van, although it can’t be too far from Denver, judging by the half hour or so it took us to get here.
I’ve been cooped up in this house for over two months now, cut off from the outside world. No phone, no computer, just a large screen TV with only Netflix as an option, plus a large collection of old movies on DVD to kill the time. They haven’t allowed me any calls so I haven’t talked to Jillian, my best friend, in as long as I’ve been here. I was assured she was notified I’d be out of touch for an extended period of time, and I understand it’s as much for her protection as it is my own, but I miss her. I miss having someone in my corner. I’m not sure what she was told, but if I discovered her house had been burned to the ground and she suddenly went missing, I know I’d be worried sick.
The only thing keeping me from going out of my mind has been cooking. It’s what I do, both for work and for pleasure. I’m the sous-chef at a popular Italian restaurant in downtown Denver, The Olive Press. At least I was before I landed myself in this mess. Now I’m not so sure I’ll still have a job if ever I get out of here. All I can do is keep my skills fresh and the guys are appreciative of my efforts. All except one.
The guys I’m talking about are US marshals. Four of them in total, although not at the same time. They work on some kind of rotation I haven’t been able to figure out yet, but today Marshal Mike Cooke is in the house with me. He’s one of the appreciative ones and usually sits at the large kitchen island, chatting while watching me cook. Probably in his early thirties, he’s also been the most forthcoming and I know he has a serious girlfriend, he loves backcountry camping, and his dog’s name is Mutt.
The others aren’t quite so chatty, so I tend to do the talking, except with Marshal Toland. He’s the large, broody, and intimidating one. Older than the rest, with predominantly gray hair, ice-blue eyes, and a stern mouth. I’ve never seen him crack a smile and I swear he hasn’t said more than two words to me in all these months. I can also count the times he’s eaten my cooking. He’s certainly never indicated he enjoys it, which is not something I’m used to. Everyone loves my cooking, it’s what I thrive on, but Marshal Toland has never as much as expressed a “Thank you.” All I get from him is an unidentifiable grunt before he disappears into another room.
Luckily, he’s only been here a handful of times compared to the other guys. He rattles me.
I drain the sink and grab a towel to dry the dishes.
“Movie?”
Mike sticks his head into the kitchen.
“Not for me tonight,” I tell him. “I want to finish my book.”
The US Marshal’s Office kindly supplied me with a Kindle reader loaded with enough books to last me a lifetime. I’ve always been too busy to read as much as I’d like, but I’ve been devouring the romance section these past months. Stories that take me out of my rather dismal situation and offer me a little light and hope.
“Want me to make some coffee before I head upstairs?”
“If you don’t mind, that’d be great, Bobbie. You’re a treasure.”
I grin at him. Too young and very taken, but I enjoy his harmless flirts and compliments. How sad is that?
From the living room I hear the opening credits for Star Wars and am grateful I opted to sit this one out. Mike is a sci-fi fan and I’ve already sat through all of the movies at least once, which was torture enough. I make a fresh pot—these guys seem to drink coffee all day long—and quickly dry the dishes and put them away. I like leaving a clean kitchen.
I’m about to let Mike know his coffee is done when suddenly the music stops and the house is plunged into darkness. I freeze on the spot and instant fear clutches its cold fist around my heart.
Not again.
Mike’s heavy footfalls rush toward me even as I hear him start talking, I presume into his phone. Something is very wrong but I can’t seem to get my legs to go.
“Bobbie! In the laundry room. Now,” Mike barks urgently, but it takes a firm shove with his hand to propel me to move. “And stay there until one of us gets you.”
The laundry room has no windows and is right off the kitchen. The only other exit is a door to the garage. I squeeze in the gap between the dryer and the wall as I was instructed to do in case of an emergency. That was back when we first arrived here. They made me go through a safety drill. Unfortunately, two months of nothing to focus on but food, my already ample hips appear to have expanded and I’m having a hard time getting into the narrow space.
It’s pitch-dark in here and I can’t hear anything. Panic has me hyperventilating as I force my body as far back as I can. Then I wait for what feels like hours, but in all reality is probably no more than a couple of minutes, both my breathing and my heart rate too fast.
Thud-thud-thud-thud.
My blood turns to ice at the sound so very familiar, despite having heard it only once before. That had been a single shot, this was a salvo. I’m sure it was from outside.
Then I hear the kitchen door slide open.
I hold my breath when I hear footsteps that sound different from Mike’s heavy footfalls. These are much lighter. I peer in the direction of the door, but instead of coming this way, they appear to head in the opposite direction.
Someone is in the house and I’m pretty sure it’s not Mike.
Ohmigod…they’ve found me.
My heart pounds painfully in my chest and I’m afraid whoever is in the house can hear the loud thumping. What do I do? Stay put, like Mike ordered? I’ll be like a sitting duck, but I’m afraid to move.
A familiar creak—the third tread going up the stairs—launches me into action. As quietly as I can, I wiggle out of my hiding spot and aim for the door to the garage.
For a moment I fumble to unlock it before I pull it open and dart through, only to plow straight into a solid body.
Before I have a chance to scream, a large hand clamps firmly over my mouth and a raspy voice whispers right by my ear.
“Not a sound.”
* * *
Dag
“Two minutes out.”
I end the call and floor the gas, turning my headlights off.
Adrenaline is pumping when I spot the safe house in the distance and pull the SUV off to the side of the road. No need to alert anyone I’m coming.
I’d already been on my way to take over for Mike. I just dropped my youngest daughter off at the airport, she’s on her way to Costa Rica with her boyfriend, leaving me alone for Christmas. My eldest girl is traveling around Australia. I figured I’d do my colleagues—who are younger and have families at home—a favor and volunteer for the next week. Not like I have anything better to do.
I unholster my Glock and slip from the vehicle, darting into the tree line across the road. My instinct is to run toward the house, however, decades of experience and thorough training has me approach the house cautiously. Not easy, since the woman we’re supposed to be protecting is in there.
Roberta Strada. She asked to be called Bobbie, but I’ve persisted with Ms. Strada. Anything to stay at a professional distance from her, because the woman has been seriously messing with my head. I’m not sure what it is about her—could be her tenacity, her ample curves, or her mastery in the kitchen, or a combination of all—but she holds my attention like no other woman has in years.
Most of what I know about Bobbie is from her file, but I learned more from the woman herself in the past few months I’ve been able to observe her. Not so much from her words but from her actions, and she ticks every box. My interest in her is far from professional, however, professional is what she needs from me right now.
I approach the house on the side of the garage when I hear four suppressed shots in quick succession. We’re all armed, but not with suppressors, and I know for a fact Mike carries a Glock like mine. I wait to hear his responding fire but there’s none. The shots sounded like they came from the rear of the house but instead of turning in that direction, I rush to the house.
I’m worried about my teammate but my first objective has to be Bobbie. It’s engrained in us. It’s what we’re trained to do.
Keep the witness safe at all cost.
Hell, it’s what each of us is willing to risk our life for. I just fucking hope Mike didn’t pay the highest price.
I shake my head to clear it and focus on getting to my charge. I punch in the numeric code on the smaller access door to the garage and gingerly push it open, trying to minimize the noise. Straight across from this door is the one leading into the laundry room, where I know Mike would’ve told Bobbie to hide at the first sign of trouble.
I’m not even halfway there when I hear someone messing with the lock on the door. I cross the distance right before the door swings open and someone plows right into me. I don’t need my eyes to know it’s Bobbie. Quickly covering her mouth before she has a chance to scream, I turn her so her back is to my front and with my hand still over her lush lips, I start frog-marching her out the side of the garage. Her nails are digging grooves in my forearm, fighting the entire time, so I press my lips to her ear and softly tell her not to make a sound.
We’re halfway to the standard-issue SUV when she finally manages to twist from my hold. Her eyes grow large when she recognizes me.
“You!” she hisses loudly and I immediately reach out my hand to silence her again, but she ducks out of the way.
“We have to get out of here.”
I grab her arm instead and start moving her toward the vehicle.
“Wait,” she whispers this time. “Mike is still back there.”
“Need to get you to safety first.”
Stubborn woman tries to twist free again, but this time I’m prepared and manage to hold on. I’d rather leave bruises than have her end up with holes in her body.
When I glance at her, I catch disbelief and simmering anger in her eyes.
So be it.
Better pissed off than dead.