The Girl Who Cried Murder. Paula Graves
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training hadn’t gone out the window when he’d left the Marines for life as a security consultant.
Especially at a company like Campbell Cove Security Services, where preparation for any threat was the company’s mission statement.
The new 6:00 a.m. class was amateur hour—otherwise unschooled civilians coming in for an hour of self-defense and situational awareness training before heading off to their jobs at the factory or the grocery store or the local burger joint. In all likelihood, none of them would ever have to draw on their training in any meaningful way.
But all it took was once.
His later classes were more advanced, designed to give law enforcement officers and others with previous defense training new tactics to deal with the ever more complicated task of defending the US homeland. He’d come into this job thinking those classes would be more challenging.
But if the newest arrival was any indication, he might have been wrong about that.
She was tall, red-haired, pretty in a girl-next-door sort of way. Pert nose, a scattering of freckles in her pale complexion, big hazel-green eyes darting around the room with the same “looking for trouble” alertness he’d displayed a moment earlier. Beneath her loose-fitting T-shirt and snug-fitting yoga pants, she appeared lean and toned. A hint of coltish energy vibrated through her as she began a series of muscle stretches while her eyes continued their scan of the room.
What was she afraid of? And why did she expect to find it here?
Trying to ignore his sudden surge of adrenaline, he started with roll call, putting names to faces. There were only twelve students in the early-morning class, eight men and four women. The redhead, Charlie Winters, was the youngest of the group. The fittest, too.
Most of the others appeared to be fairly average citizens—slightly overweight, on the soft side both mentally and physically. Nice, good-hearted, but spoiled by living in a prosperous, free country where, until recent years, the idea of being the target of ruthless, fanatical predators had seemed as likely as winning the lottery.
“Welcome to Campbell Cove Academy’s Basics of Self-Defense class,” he said aloud, quieting down the murmurs of conversation in the group. “Let’s get started.”
He followed Charlie Winters’s earlier example and took the group through a series of stretching exercises. “I want you to get in the habit of doing these exercises every day when you get up,” he told them. “Because you won’t have time to do it when danger arises.”
“How will stretching help us if some guy blows himself up in front of us?” one of the men grumbled as he winced his way through a set of triceps stretches. Mike searched his memory and came up with the name to go with the face. Clyde Morris.
“It won’t, Clyde,” he answered bluntly. “But it might help give you the strength and mobility to get the hell out of Dodge before your terrorist can trigger the detonator.”
He didn’t miss the quirk of Charlie Winters’s eyebrows.
Did she disagree? Or did she have an agenda here that had nothing to do with preparing for terrorist threats?
Nothing wrong with that. There were plenty of reasons in a free society for a person to be ready for action.
But he found himself watching Charlie closely as they finished their stretches and he settled them on the mats scattered around the gymnasium floor. “Here’s the thing you need to know about defending yourselves. Nothing I teach you here is a guarantee that you’ll come out of a confrontation alive. So the first rule of self-defense is to avoid confrontations.”
“That’s heroic,” Clyde Morris muttered.
“This class isn’t about making heroes out of you. It’s about keeping you alive so you can report trouble to people who have the training and weapons to deal with the situation. And then return home alive and well to the people who love you.”
He let his gaze wander back to Charlie Winters’s face as he spoke. Her gaze held his until the last sentence, when her brow furrowed and her lips took a slight downward quirk as she lowered her gaze to her lap, where her restless fingers twined and released, then twined again.
Hmm, he thought, but he didn’t let his curiosity distract him further.
“I guess I should take a step backward here,” he said. “Because there’s actually something that comes before avoiding confrontation, and that’s staying alert. Show of hands—how many of you have cell phones?”
Every person raised a hand.
“How many of you check your cell phone while walking down the street or entering a building? What about when you’re riding in an elevator?”
All the hands went up again.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” he said. “How can you be alert to your surroundings if your face is buried in your phone?”
The hands crept down, the students exchanging sheepish looks.
“Look, we’re fortunate to live in the time we do. Technology can be a priceless tool in a crisis. Photographs and videos of incidents can be invaluable to investigators. Cell phones can bring help even when you’re trapped and isolated. You can download apps that turn your phone into a flashlight. Your phone’s signal can be used to find you when you’re lost.”
“Thank goodness. I was afraid you were going to tell us we had to lose our iPhones,” one of the students joked.
“No, but I am suggesting you start thinking of it as a tool in your arsenal rather than a toy to distract and entertain you.”
Again, he couldn’t seem to stop his gaze from sliding toward Charlie’s face. She met his gaze with solemn eyes, but her expression gave nothing else away. Still, he had a feeling that most of what he was telling the class were things she already knew.
So what was she doing here, taking this class?
Swallowing his frustration, he pushed to his feet and retrieved the rolling chalkboard he’d borrowed from one of the other instructors. “So, revised rule one—stay alert.” He jotted the words on the board. “And now, let’s talk about avoiding confrontations.”
* * *
MIKE DISMISSED CLASS at seven. One or two students lingered, asking questions about some of the points he’d covered in class or what points he’d be covering in their class two days later. He answered succinctly, hiding his impatience. But it was with relief that the last student left and he hurried to his small office off the gymnasium. It was little more than a ten-by-ten box, but it had a desk, a phone and a window looking out on the parking lot.
He caught sight of Charlie Winters walking across the wet parking lot. She’d donned a well-worn leather jacket over her T-shirt and baggy sweatpants over her yoga pants, but there was no way to miss her dark red hair dancing in the cold wind blowing down the mountain or the coltish energy propelling her rapidly across the parking lot.
She stopped behind a small blue Toyota that had seen better days. But she didn’t get into the car immediately. First, she walked all the way around the vehicle, examining the tires, peering through the windows, even dropping to the ground on her back and looking beneath the chassis.
Finally, she seemed to be satisfied by whatever she saw—or didn’t see—and pushed back to her feet, dusting herself off before she got in the Toyota and started the engine.
As she drove away, Mike turned from the window, picked up the phone on the desk and punched in Maddox Heller’s number. Heller answered on the second ring.
“It’s Strong,” Mike said. “You said to let you know if I had any concerns about the new class.”
“And you do?”
He thought about it for a moment. “Concern may be too strong a word. At this point, I’d call it...curiosity.”
“Close