He sat up straight, reached for the key in the ignition. Jaimie Wilde did not have an obsessive lover following her, and he was losing his mind…
What in the hell was that?
Zach froze as a shadow floated through the shrubs across the street.
Adrenaline flooded his body.
There it was again, moving through the narrow side yard of the townhouse.
He flung open the car door. Flew across the road. Dressed all in black, he became a shadow that merged with the night, a shadow following the first shadow…
A shadow that was a man.
A man whose pace had quickened now that he knew he had been seen.
Zach skidded to a stop at the rear corner. He was quick, but his quarry had had a head start. The darkness of the overgrown garden had swallowed him up.
Zach stood silent, listening.
He heard the rustling stir of a small creature in the grass, the whisper of the wind. Nothing else.
He peered into the night.
To the left, a low fence and a yard that was a simple slab of empty concrete.
To the right, a spiked fence at least ten feet high. Not even Houdini could have vaulted it. It enclosed a neat garden, dead now in the cold, as empty of life as the yard to his left.
Directly ahead, the overgrown garden of the townhouse ended in a line of low hedges. Beyond it, Zach knew, were other yards, a street. Zach ran for the hedges, jumped them…
The low roar of an engine broke the silence. Tail-lights winked slyly against the darkness as a vehicle sped away.
“Son of a bitch.”
What a hell of an agent he was! The man could have been a burglar. A kid, up to no good. He could have been Santa Claus, out scouting his Christmas Eve run.
A better bet was that it had been Steven Young.
And, Zach had lost him through his own stupidity. His inability to concentrate on the job at hand. Why? Because his brain, goddammit, was too busy remembering that night, that one unforgettable, infuriating night.
Grim-faced, he plodded back to the Prius. Opened the door. Climbed inside. Tapped his fingers against the steering wheel.
So much for calling this off.
He sat in the car for another twenty minutes. It was late. Very late. Almost one in the morning. Her light was still on. His adrenaline was still pounding, a river of it flooding his muscles and his brain.
He was trained for this. For making rational decisions in difficult situations.
Think, he told himself, think.
Jaimie needed protection. Logic said as much.
Logic crashed and burned.
What she needed, he told himself, as he flung the car door open, crossed the street, picked the pathetic lock to the outside door, went down the hall and banged his fist against her door, what she need was him.
“Jaimie,” he growled, “dammit to hell, Jaimie…”
He heard the snick of the peephole as she opened it. Then the turn of one lock. Two locks. The door opened as far as the guard chain would permit. A wide, dark-lashed blue eye stared at him.