Tactical Force. Elle James
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behind her, less than half a block away. He also wore a dark baseball cap, shading his face and eyes from the streetlights he passed beneath.
Alarm bells rang in Anne’s head. She increased her pace.
The man behind her sped up, as well.
Still a couple of blocks away from the train station, Anne realized the streets had become deserted. The people she’d passed earlier must have hopped into taxis or found their cars in the paid parking lots.
Alone and on the street with a man following too closely behind her, Anne couldn’t move fast enough. Then she remembered there was a restaurant at the corner of the next street, which now became her new, short-range goal. Clutching her purse to her side, she sprinted for the door, her feet moving as fast as they could in heels. She didn’t slow to see if the man following her was running, too. She only knew she had to get to that restaurant.
When she reached the restaurant door, she almost sobbed. It was closed—the lights were turned out and no one moved inside.
A quick glance behind her assured her the man had kept up. Whether he’d had to run or not wasn’t important. He was still there. Striding toward her, his feet eating the distance between them.
Anne’s gaze darted around her, searching for a pub, a convenience store or pharmacy. Anything that stayed open late and had people inside. The block consisted of still more office buildings, closed for the night. She had no choice but to continue on toward the train station and pray she reached it before him.
Starting out with a purposeful stride, she walked fast toward the Metro stop, watching the reflections in the glass windows of the office buildings beside her for the image of the man tailing her. When he appeared in the reflection, Anne shot forward, running all out.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, and her pulse pounded so hard against her eardrums she could barely hear. Rounding a corner, she spied a pub, its sign lit up over the door. With the Metro station still too far to make, she set her sights on the pub and raced toward the door.
Just as she was reaching out, a hand descended on her shoulder and jerked her back. Oh, sweet heaven, he’d caught her. She braced herself for the fight of her life.
At that moment, the pub door opened, and a group of men exited, laughing and talking to each other.
The hand on Anne’s shoulder fell away.
With renewed hope, Anne dove through the men and into the pub. Once inside, she went straight to the bar.
“What can I get you?”
“Someone tried to grab me outside the bar,” she gushed, her breathing catching in her throat.
The bartender leaned toward her. “You okay?” He glanced past her to a large man standing near the exit.
The man, probably a bouncer, came forward.
“This lady said a man tried to grab her,” the bartender told him.
“What was he wearing?” the bouncer asked.
She shook her head. “Dark clothes and a baseball cap, I think. I don’t know. I was running too fast to notice.”
The bouncer nodded and left the pub. He was back a minute later, shaking his head. “No one out there fitting your description. In fact, there was no one out there at all. I walked a block in both directions.”
Anne let go of the breath she’d been holding. Even if the man wasn’t within a block either direction, he might be lying in wait for her to continue her progress to the Metro stop. Anne couldn’t bring herself to step outside the pub.
“We’re closing early tonight for kitchen renovations, lady. You got about thirty minutes until we lock up. Is there anyone I could call for you?” the bartender asked, his expression worried.
Anne shook her head. She didn’t have any close friends. She had acquaintances from work. That was it. They had their own lives and she had her solitary existence. Then she remembered John Halverson giving her his phone number and telling her if ever she needed anything, she should call that number.
But he was dead.
Would anyone answer at the number? Did he still have a staff of people working for the same things he had?
Anne pulled her phone out of her purse and stared down at the icon for her text messages. She didn’t want to look at them. Everything had been fine until she’d started receiving the texts.
She pulled up her contacts list and dialed the number Halverson had given her, not knowing if anyone would actually answer.
The line rang several times.
Anne was about to give up when the ringing stopped and a woman answered, “Hello?”
Not knowing what to say, Anne blurted, “I know John Halverson is dead, but I need help. He gave me this number and said to call if I ever needed anything. Please tell me you can help.” She stopped and waited for a response, her heart thudding, her gut clenched.
“This is John’s wife. Are you in a safe place?”
Anne nodded and then said, “For the moment, but this place closes in thirty minutes. I was being followed and I’m afraid to leave.”
“Stay there. I’ll have someone come to collect you.”
“But you don’t even know me.”
“You’re a human being in need of assistance. I don’t care who you are. I’ll have someone see you to your home or the police station. Wherever you need to go.”
“Thank you,” Anne said, sagging with relief. “I’m sorry for what happened to your husband. He was a good man.”
“Me, too. If he gave you his number, he would have wanted me to help you. Rest assured, I’m sending someone. Give me the address.”
Anne had to ask the bartender for the address. Once she’d relayed it to Mrs. Halverson, the widow insisted she stay on the phone until the person she sent arrived.
“That won’t be necessary. As long as I can remain in the pub, I’ll be all right,” Anne said.
“Then I’ll get right on it,” Mrs. Halverson said. “I’ll text with an expected time of arrival as soon as I have one.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Halverson.”
“Don’t call me Mrs. Halverson. I go by Charlie,” the woman said.
“Thank you, Charlie,” Anne said, correcting herself, and rang off.
A moment later, a text came across.
Jack will be there in twenty minutes.
That was a text Anne could live with, though she wondered who Jack was, what he looked like and what he’d be driving.
JACK SNOW HAD left his apartment in Arlington an hour earlier, too wound up to sit in front of a television and watch mindless shows or even more mindless news reports.
Much too jittery to find a bar and drink away the anxious feeling he got all too often since returning from deployment and exiting his Marine Force Recon unit, he climbed onto his Harley and went for a ride around the cities. He ended up in the Capitol Hill area near the war memorials. After the sun set, the crowds thinned and the lights illuminating the Lincoln Memorial made the white marble stand out against the backdrop of the black, starless night.
He’d ridden to the Korean War Memorial, parked his bike and stood near the nineteen steel statues of soldiers in full combat gear and waterproof ponchos. They appeared as ghosts, emerging from the shadows. Haunting.
They reminded him of so many operations he and his team had conducted at night, moving silently across rough terrain, like the ghosts of the men the statues had been modeled after.