Nightfire. Barbara McCauley

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      One

      He stood at the window, waiting, his gaze dispassionate as he quietly observed the traffic moving over the rain-slicked roads below. When her blue minivan pulled up in front of the twelve-story glass-and-chrome office building he recognized it immediately, just as he knew he would recognize her, though he had never actually seen her before. As if announcing her arrival, lightning split the Seattle sky in a burst of white-hot brilliance and the pursuant crack of thunder rattled the office window.

      Five hours ago he’d never heard of Allison Elizabeth Westcott, but now he could tell her what she ate for breakfast, where she shopped for clothes and even where she bought her gas. She was five foot six in her stocking feet, brown hair, green eyes. He knew she had a mole on her left breast 1.6 mm wide, a scar on her right knee from a horseback-riding accident two years ago that had ended her dancing career and a speeding ticket from the Seattle police department. A ticket she’d fought against and won, he noted with a flicker of admiration.

      Some people might consider his knowledge an invasion of privacy, but it mattered little to him whether they liked it or not. When he had a job to do, feelings meant nothing to him, his or anyone else’s. He simply did what he had to do and made sure no one got hurt.

      It was raining hard now and he watched as she darted from her car toward the shelter of the building. It would take her two minutes and forty-five seconds to walk into the room, three minutes, twenty-two seconds if the elevator stopped at every floor.

      He stared at his watch and waited.

      The storm was already in full force by the time Allison pulled in front of Westcott Pavilion. Raindrops the size of nickels drummed like angry tin soldiers on the hood of her car while a flash of lightning, followed by a distant crack of thunder, promised more to follow.

      Allison stared out her windshield at the fierce gray sky, thinking she might wait it out, but the somber note in her father’s voice when he’d called St. Martin’s Center and requested that she come to his office right away allowed no hesitation.

      Drawing a deep breath, she opened her car door and dashed furiously across the sidewalk and through the smoked-glass entry doors, catching enough of her reflection to see that her shoulder-length hair was already a mass of damp, disobedient curls. Some people complained it rained every time they washed their cars. With Allison, it rained every time she straightened her hair.

      Twelve stories up the elevator doors opened and she stepped out, hesitating at the sight of two men in dark suits standing at the outer door of her father’s office. Though it was certainly not unusual for employees or clients to be milling about, there was something about the men she couldn’t quite place that disturbed her, something that caused a knot to form in her stomach and the hair on the back of her neck to rise. Though she didn’t know them, she had the distinct feeling that they not only knew exactly who she was, but that they’d been waiting for her. They continued to watch her as she approached, then nodded stiffly when she moved past them.

      Mrs. Harwood, her father’s secretary, was on the СКАЧАТЬ