Behind Closed Doors (Rochester Trilogy 3.50)

Marjorie went left.

Deliberately.

That’s the direction we went to that cove down the beach. How long did we walk? Fifteen minutes? Couldn’t have been much more than a mile. I don’t need fifteen minutes to run it. She just has to keep herself alive until I get there.

With no weapons. With nothing. I know Marjorie doesn’t have a gun. I turned the inn upside down, and I never saw one.

I pat my holster. I have my gun. That’s the only break I’m going to get.

Waves reach for my ankles while I sprint down the beach. The boats are still out there. Their size gets harder to judge when I’m running. How far was that goddamn cove? I’d give anything for a boat right now, but I don’t pass a single one I could steal. Not even a rowboat. I haven’t run this fast in years. My jobs these days mostly involve infiltration. Dark basements in foreign countries. They don’t involve beachside sprints. But if I get there too late, I’ll never forgive myself.

The rocky crag of the cove rises up out of the beach ahead of me. I put on another burst of speed. Marjorie’s boat rocks out in the water.

Where the hell is she?

Not steering it. She could be inside. Shot. Dead.

Movement on the sand catches my eye. The sweet little innkeeper scrambles out of the water. I have her in sight, but the other boat—

He’s up ahead. Turning around. I still have time.

Marjorie lifts her head and startles when she sees me. I must look exactly like him. Even running full-tilt across the beach, I still catch the moment when she recognizes me. Her eyes fly open wide, and she holds one arm out.

She reaches for me.

I pull her close for a brief, tight hug. It’s not enough. Not even fucking close. She bought herself enough time to get to shore and be in my arms before that bastard comes back. He’s maneuvering the boat over submerged rocks. Any second now, he’ll jump out and come through the shallows.

Letting go of her is the last thing I want, but I do it. I take her chin in my hand and look into her eyes. “Run.”

She sucks in a breath at the word. It freezes her in place.

“Run,” I say again and give her a push. The beach isn’t safe. The sand isn’t fucking safe. Not even the cove. I don’t want her pinned against the rocks. I want her free, even if I never see her again.

She runs.

Finally.

A splash from the water draws my attention. I draw my weapon as I turn toward it. The first bullet skims by my head. He’s determined, then. He’s going to end both of us. Firing while he’s still in the fucking water. I hate the sight of him.

Because he’s me.

He’s the man I became over the years at the CIA. I’m the figure stalking through the water and firing bullets through people’s lives. I’m the one who dropped in out of nowhere, shredded things to pieces, and disappeared before morning. Who could ever love a sick bastard like that? Who would ever waste a life on him? The man who’s coming at me through the water isn’t worth a picnic, much less the heart of a woman like Marjorie Dunn.

He fires again, and I get my first shot off. It goes into the waves.

I need motion. The cove is convenient enough. The rock-studded sand makes my movements more unpredictable, and I can get above him, if I can avoid a bullet through the head. One strikes the rock next to me. I jump into that space and find enough cover to wedge my shoulder behind.

Another shot.

He lets out a furious growl. It’s a display of emotion I would never expect from an agent. What the fuck is going on here? Is my handler the one who turned? Did somebody get to him? Because CIA agents engaged in lethal missions don’t lose their shit about missing the first few shots. They keep firing until the goal is accomplished.

His gun comes back up, and now the bullets come fast. Wild. He’s not a very good shot. Who is this motherfucker? An actual agent? He should be better than this, unless he’s injured in some way that’s not obvious.

Or unless he’s not actually an agent.

It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve encountered an outside hire. Plenty of organizations outsource. They’ll pay cash to have the dirtiest jobs cleaned up. What matters is timeliness and efficiency.

One bullet comes too close for comfort, and I try to get more of my body behind the rock. I take a deep breath. Steady myself. My next bullet comes close but doesn’t hit him. It does put him off-balance. He takes a split second to reload, and more bullets fly into the rock around me.