Sworn To Protect. Shirlee McCoy

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       TWO

      Fight. Free yourself. Run.

      Jordan’s words echoed through Katie’s head as she sprinted away. He had said them dozens of times when he had taught the self-defense class she had signed up for a few weeks after taking the job teaching in Queens. The neighborhood had been safe, but she had grown up in the suburbs, and the hustle and bustle of the city had been disconcerting.

      Plus, she had been a young woman, alone.

      She had wanted to know that she could defend herself.

      She had not been thinking about defending an unborn child.

      She hadn’t been thinking about being a wife or a mother. She had been thinking about living life on her terms. That was something she had not been able to do when she had been a teenager moving through the foster-care system.

      Rusty growled and snapped as he dashed by.

      She ran in the opposite direction, darting off the curb, her ankle twisting. She tried to right herself, but the pregnancy made her ungainly, her body front-heavy and cumbersome.

      She tripped and went down, hands and knees skidding across asphalt. Someone grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. It had to be Martin!

      She fought the way Jordan had taught her.

      Elbow to the stomach, pushing back into his weight.

      “Katie, stop. It’s me,” Tony said.

      She knew his voice.

      If she had not been so panicked, she’d have known his gentle touch—his fingers curving lightly around her upper arm.

      He had done the same at the funeral, standing beside her as Jordan’s coffin was lowered into the ground.

       Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

      She stopped struggling and whirled toward the park. “Where did he go?”

      There was no sign of Martin, but Rusty was nearing a copse of trees, still barking ferociously. He was trained in search and rescue and had no business going after a deranged and dangerous man.

      “Rusty is going to get hurt,” she said, her voice shaking. “You need to call him back.”

      “He’ll be okay,” Tony responded. He was tracking the dog’s movements as he relayed information into the radio.

      If he was worried, she couldn’t hear it in his voice.

      But, then, he was one of New York’s finest. Just like Jordan had been. He had great training, a good head on his shoulders and the ability to stay calm even in the most challenging circumstances.

      He and Jordan had been best friends.

       My fourth brother.

      How many times had Jordan said that?

      And how often had Katie set an extra plate at the dinner table? How often had she watched as the two men tossed balls for their K-9 partners in the yard behind the three-family house they’d shared with the Jameson clan? Countless times. She and Jordan had lived on the second level of the home. His parents just below them. His brothers and young niece above. They were the family she had longed for after her parents had died. They were the connection she had prayed she would have during the years she had spent drifting from one foster home to the next.

      She had thought life would keep going in the same positive direction. She had thought—wrongly so—that the tragedy of losing her parents in a car accident when she was ten was enough for a lifetime.

      She should have known better.

      There was nothing in the Bible about life being easy.

      There were no promises made to the faithful.

      Except that God would be there. Guiding. Helping. Creating good out of bad.

      The problem was Katie couldn’t see how anything good could come of losing Jordan. Or, of being stalked by a deranged man.

      She shuddered, then her eyes widened. “Ivy! My mother-in-law. He hit her with the gun. Is she all right? I need to know that Ivy is all right!”

      Word came over the radio just then that the building was secure, the suspect was on the loose and one victim, Ivy Jameson, had come to and was being treated for a minor head injury.