The Bodyguard: Protecting Plain Jane. Debra Cowan

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СКАЧАТЬ owe me for this one, shrimp. Trip towered over Alex by more than a foot, and while he might not be quite the tallest man on the force, he was damn well the biggest wall of don’t-mess-with-this muscle and specialized training KCPD’s premiere SWAT team had to offer. But even he didn’t like the looks of what he was walking into. A woman alone at night, in these conditions—something about a murder … Trip frowned. This was all kinds of wrong.

      The place was desolate, deserted—solid walls on three sides with bricked-up windows. Rain poured down hard enough to muffle all but the loudest cry for help. A skilled hunter wouldn’t have to work hard to isolate and corner his prey here.

      And apparently one had.

      Trip approached the car at the museum’s rear entrance.

      Don’t be her. Don’t be Charlotte. He didn’t want to have to explain showing up a couple of minutes too late to Alex and his fiancée. Or his own conscience.

      Gripping his gun between both hands, Trip crept alongside the black BMW. He breathed a sigh of relief and cursed all in the same breath. The driver’s side doors stood open, the interior lights were on, but no one was home. He put two fingers to the side of the slumping chauffeur’s neck. Hard to tell for sure with the cooling temps, but he’d been gone for a couple of hours.

      At least the pool of blood was localized. No one else had been hurt at this location. No signs of a struggle in the backseat. But Trip said a quick prayer as he reached in beside the dead man to pop the trunk of the car. After closing the door to preserve what he could of the crime scene, he edged around the back to peek inside. His breath steamed out through his nose.

      No body. No Charlotte.

      That left the museum’s steel door, caught by the wind and thumping against the bricks beneath the awning. After pulling a flashlight from the pocket of his jeans, Trip caught the door and quickly inspected the lock. Scratch marks around the keyhole for the dead bolt indicated forced entry.

      He hadn’t completed his task yet.

      Gritting his teeth and his nerve against whatever he might find on the other side of those bricks, Trip swung the beam of light inside. The museum’s warehouse section was dark, with tall, blocklike shapes forming patterns of opaque blackness amongst the shadows. A second sweep led him to the switch box just inside the door.

      The electricity had been switched to the off position. The need to move, to act, to fix something, danced across his skin. Dead man aside, someone had broken in and cut the power.

      Alex’s friend was in serious trouble.

      To hell with stealth. “Charlotte Mayweather!”

      A rustle of sound answered his echoing voice.

      That itch kicked into hyperdrive, pricking up the hairs on his arms and at the back of his neck. “Charlotte!”

      Thump.

      Perp? Or victim?

      He wasn’t waiting to find out. “KCPD. Come out with your hands on your head.”

      He squinted his eyes and flipped on the power switch, creating a shorter recovery time for his vision to adjust as the cavernous interior flooded with light. The shadows became shelves stacked with crates from floor to ceiling, and tables in aisles where more boxes were stored. He swung the light around toward a shuffle of sound and discovered a row of three closed doors marked …

      “Not now.” He focused the light at the sign on the first door—Z3CVP3 ZTOPVÇ3—and let the letters swirl inside his head until they read SECURE STORAGE.

      He didn’t have to read the sign on the door to detect the movement behind it. He lowered the beam of light. Another lock. But no signs of entry.

      No key, either.

      “Charlotte?” He slipped the flashlight into his pocket, tucked his gun into his belt. He jiggled the knob. Sealed tight. He slapped the door with the flat of his hand. “Charlotte!”

      Either she couldn’t answer or someone was keeping her from answering him.

      Trip looked to the right and left, spotted what he wanted and went for it. “Charlotte?” he called out in a booming voice that was sure to carry through the brick walls themselves. He lifted a crate and set it on the floor. “My name’s Trip Jones. I’m with KCPD. I’m a friend of Alex Taylor and his fiancée, Audrey. Are you able to answer me?”

      His answer was a soft gasp, the crash of a whole lot of little somethings tumbling down inside that room, a woof and an unladylike curse.

      “Charlotte?” The work space around him held a treasure trove of useful gadgets—box cutters, twine, screwdrivers, a drill. He could pop the lock or cut his way in in a matter of minutes.

      But the woman might not have that long.

      His arm muscles tensed as he set the second crate on top of the first. “I’m comin’ in, Charlotte.”

      Trip tilted the table onto one end, jammed it up beneath the door’s hinges and shoved. With one mighty heave, he separated the door from its frame.

      The table fell to one side as he pried the busted door open. It shielded him until he could angle around and see into the deep recesses of the closet behind it. “Charl—”

      He caught a glimpse of short curly hair and glasses before the woman inside hollered a piercing rebel yell and charged him.

      The first blow knocked the door back into him, slamming into his nose and making his head throb.

      “Ow!” He tossed the door after the table, held up his hand and reached for his badge so she could see he meant her no harm. “Relax. I’m here to help.”

      Seriously? Was that a sword? She screamed a deep, guttural sound that was all instinct and fear. The long metal blade arced through the air.

      The blow caught him on the forearm and Trip swore. He felt the sting of the blunt blade splitting the skin beneath his sleeve and knew he had only one option when she raised the archaic weapon again.

      Forget reassurances. With a move that was as swift and sure as breathing to him, Trip ducked, catching her wrists and twisting her around. He hugged her back against his chest, lifted her off her feet and shook the sword from her grip. “Damn it, woman, I’m one of the good g—”

      He tripped over something small and furry that darted between his legs, and down they went.

       Chapter Two

      Trip clipped a crate with his elbow on the way down, landing on the unforgiving concrete floor with the panicked woman sprawled on top of him. Thank God he’d broken her fall instead of crashing down on top of her. “Are you okay—?”

      “You can’t take me!” A swat of thunder echoed her protest and a heel clocked him in the shin, jarring the few bones that hadn’t already taken a beating. A dog barked in his ear, lunged at him. Trip swatted it away, but it barked again. The woman he’d come to rescue twisted on top of him, fighting as if she was the one who’d just been attacked.

      “Sheesh, СКАЧАТЬ