The Camel Club (Camel Club 1)

Kate sat down in front of the piano and started playing a piece that he recognized as Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini. It was clear that the woman was a highly skilled pianist. After a couple of minutes he joined her on the bench and started tapping out a side melody.

She said, “That’s Ray Charles. I thought you were a guitar player.”

“My old man said if you start with piano you can play pretty much anything.”

“Wasn’t Clint Eastwood a piano-playing Secret Service agent in the movie In the Line of Fire?”

“Yep, with Rene Russo sitting next to him.”

“Sorry, I’m no Rene Russo.”

“I’m no Clint Eastwood. And FYI, Rene Russo has nothing on you.”

“Liar.”

“I’m not the kind of guy to take my clothes off on a first date like Eastwood. Sorry,” he added with a grin.

She smirked at him. “Pity.”

“But that rule doesn’t necessarily hold for the second date.”

“Oh, you’re that confident there’ll be a second one?”

“Come on, I’m packing heat. I’m a lock, according to Lucky.”

He ran his fingers across the keys until they touched hers.

The kiss that followed made the electrical spark Alex had felt before seem like a faint tickle.

She kissed him one more time and then stood. “I know this is probably unfair, but I think your first-date rule is a good one.” She said this only halfheartedly, but then glanced away. “You don’t give it away the first night, because they might not be back the second.”

He put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be back any night you want me, Kate.”

“How about tomorrow?” She added, “If I can wait that long.”

Alex fired up his old Cherokee and drove off, his spirits soaring. He pulled off down the street, turned back onto 31st and started the long, winding descent into the main drag of Georgetown. His first hint of trouble was when he tapped the brakes and they didn’t respond. His second hint of coming disaster was when he punched them again and they sank to the floor. And he was rapidly gathering speed as the descent angle steepened. On top of that, there were parked cars on both sides of the street and the asphalt here curved like a damn serpent.

He fought the wheel and also tried to downshift to slow his momentum, neither of which did much. And then the headlights of another car cut through the darkness coming toward him.

“Oh, shit!” He cut the wheel hard to the right, and the Cherokee slid between two parked cars, where a sturdy tree did what the brakes couldn’t. The impact deployed the air bag, briefly stunning him. Alex pushed the bag away, undid his seat belt and staggered out of the car. He could taste blood on his lips, and his face was burning, probably from the air bag’s hot gas.

He sat on the curb, trying to catch his breath and also trying not to be sick as the mocha mint ice cream and Corona ratcheted up his throat.

The next thing he knew, someone was kneeling beside him. Alex started to say that he was okay when he froze. The hard, cold object was flush against his neck. His arm instinctively shot out and smashed into the person’s knee, buckling it.

The man yelled out in pain, but as Alex tried to get up, a searing blow caught him across the head. Then he heard footsteps running away and a car squeal off. Moments later he understood the hasty retreat as other car lights appeared and people were surrounding him.

“Are you all right?” they were asking him over and over.

Alex could still feel the icy touch of the gun barrel against his neck. Then a thought hit him. His brakes!

Alex pushed the people away and, ignoring the pain in his head, grabbed a flashlight out of the Cherokee and shone the light under his left front wheel well. It was all covered with brake fluid. Someone had tampered with his truck. Yet the only place they could’ve done that was at Kate’s. Kate!

He reached in his pocket for his cell phone. It wasn’t there. He threw open the door to the wrecked Cherokee. His cell phone was on the floorboard, broken in half from the force of the collision. He screamed in fury. By now the people who’d come to his aid were backing away, their expressions fearful in the face of his bizarre behavior.

Then one of them spotted it as he wheeled around and his jacket flew open. This person yelled, “He’s got a gun!” On this they all scattered like frightened pigeons.

He started running after them. “I need your phone! Your phone!” he yelled. But they were already gone.

Alex turned and started sprinting back up 31st Street. The blood was dripping down his shirt from his scalp wound, and his arms and legs felt disconnected from his body, but on he raced, up the steep incline until he felt his lungs would burst. He hit R Street and turned left, redoubling his speed, finding a reserve of energy and another gear he never knew he had. As the house came into view, he pulled out his gun.

He slowed and crouched low as he slipped into the yard. The main house was dark. He made his way quietly to the garden gate leading to the backyard and the carriage house. The gate was locked, so he clambered over the fence. His feet touched the grass on the other side, and Alex squatted down to reconnoiter the area and catch his breath. His head was pounding, and his ears were ringing so badly he didn’t know if he could even hear. He moved, crouching, through the cover of the bushes toward the carriage house. There was a light on upstairs. He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to stay calm as he gripped his SIG.

He inched forward, his eyes scanning the grounds through the bushes. If someone is out there drawing a bead . . . Then a light came on in the first floor of the carriage house. Alex watched through a window as Kate came into his line of sight. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She was still barefoot but now wore only a long T-shirt. He inched forward some more as his gaze veered from Kate to the outside of the carriage house to the line of bulky Leland cypresses that surrounded the rear grounds. If Alex were sniping, that’s the spot he would have chosen.

He took one more calming breath and went into pure protection mode. This meant his gaze was steady and moved in and out in grids, with Kate representing the center of his protection “bubble.” It was rumored that when Secret Service agents went into this groove, they could actually count the beats of a hummingbird’s wings. That was ridiculous, of course, but all Alex wanted to do was prevent the lady from being hurt. All he wanted to do was see the gun before it fired. He’d had all those years of training to do this very thing. Please, God, let it be enough.

And that’s when he spotted it: across the yard and to the right, behind a giant rhododendron, the almost invisible glint of a rifle’s optics. He didn’t hesitate. He brought his gun up and fired. It was a long shot for a handgun, but he didn’t care if he hit the shooter. He just wanted to drive him away.

He placed the shot directly behind the optics. As soon as he fired, the rifle barrel fully appeared, jerking upward and discharging. A split second later Alex put six more bullets into the same area. Next he heard Kate scream. Then the rifle disappeared, and he heard feet running hard away. Damn, he’d missed, but accomplished his goal just the same. Still, the bastard had gotten off a shot!

Alex sprinted for the carriage house. Bursting through the door, he heard Kate scream again. She stopped when she saw him. He rushed to her, grabbed her around the waist and pushed her to the floor, his body shielding hers.

“Stay down, there’s a shooter out there,” he said into her ear. He wriggled forward on his belly and punched the light switch, plunging the carriage house into darkness. Then he crawled back to her.

“Are you all right?” he asked frantically. “You’re not shot?”

“No,” she whispered back. Then she felt his face. “My God, are you bleeding?”

“I’m not shot. Someone used my head as an anvil.”

“Who did it?”

“Don’t know.” He caught his breath and leaned his back against the stove, his gaze on the door, his hand clenched around his pistol. Kate cr

awled forward, reached up and pulled a roll of paper towels off the counter.

“Kate,” he said harshly, “stay the hell down. The guy could still be out there.”

“You’re bleeding,” she said firmly. She reached up again and ran some water over a wad of the towels. She cleaned his face off and examined the lump on his head. “I can’t believe it didn’t knock you out.”

“Fear is a great antidote to unconsciousness.”

“I didn’t even hear your truck drive up.”

“My Cherokee was put out of commission. Brake line cut. I had quite the roller-coaster ride down 31st.”

“Then how’d you get back here?”