In the Enemy's Sights. Marta Perry

      “This vandalism has everyone jittery,” Julianna said, pulling back into her parking spot at the office that night. Angel, sitting beside her, gave a soft woof, as if to express interest.

      “And it’s a good thing I have you to talk to, or I might start talking to myself.” She rubbed behind Angel’s ears, earning a rough, wet kiss from the dog’s tongue. “Come on, girl. I just need to pick up Gram’s basket, and then we’ll go home and have a run before bed.”

      Maybe a good long run would tire her out enough to sleep tonight without dreams. One thing about having Angel along—she could run any time of the day or night without fearing for her safety. Nobody messed with a woman accompanied by a German shepherd.

      The office was dark and quiet. She picked up the basket she’d left on the counter next to the coffeemaker. No one would appreciate coming in to leftover gnocchi congealing in the casserole dish. Good as it had been, she hadn’t been able to finish it. She’d intended to have the rest for supper, but she’d gotten busy and forgotten to take it home.

      Well, everything seemed quiet enough tonight. She went out, Angel at her heels, and locked the door behind her. As she set the basket on the backseat of the car, Angel woofed softly. She glanced at her.

      The dog stared into the shadowy yard, her ears pricked up, tail waving.

      “What is it, girl?” She closed the car door, looking across the yard, her eyes adjusting to the dimness. “Do you see someone?”

      No. Angel had heard something, and now she heard it, too—a soft footfall, somewhere beyond the circle of light cast by the fixture over the office door.

      A frisson of apprehension slid across her skin. It was probably nothing—just the night watchman on his rounds. But with everything that had happened lately, she couldn’t ignore it.

      Making a swift decision, she took the flashlight from the glove compartment and locked the door. She dropped the key into the pocket of her jean jacket and turned toward the yard.

      Angel was with her. She didn’t have to fear any intruder—one snarl from the dog would probably be enough to send anyone running.

      She started toward what she thought was the source of the sound, moving quietly, Angel close against her side. She strained her ears for any noise, even knowing that Angel would hear anything first.

      Pallets of lumber, arranged in rows, innocent enough in the daylight, loomed over her like pallid giants, waiting to pounce. There were too many hiding places in the dark. She sent the beam of her flashlight probing along the row, lighting up the dark corners.

      Nothing. Maybe she’d imagined the sound. Or it was the night watchman moving along on his lawful rounds.

      But that rational explanation didn’t erase the apprehension that skittered along her skin, making the hair stand up on her arms.

      Angel’s hair stood up, too, making a ruff around her neck. Because the dog picked up on her nervousness, or because Angel sensed something wrong, too? Impossible to tell, but dog or human, the response was the same.

      They reached the end of the row of pallets, where an open space ran like an alley between the rows for access. She stopped, hand on Angel’s head, and aimed the light down the alleyway between the pallets. Lumber gleamed palely in the light, and down toward the far end, something moved.

      For an instant her breath caught in her throat. Then she recognized that erect, military posture, the set of strong shoulders. It was Ken. He’d said he and Quinn were taking turns to patrol.

      She could slip quietly away. He need never know that she’d been here.

      But even as she started to turn, Angel began to bark. Not a soft woof—a full-throated alarm. She felt the dog’s muscles bunch under her hand.

      Ken whirled toward them at the sound. She had a glimpse of the pale shirt front under his dark jacket. Angel strained against her hand, barking furiously.

      “Angel—”

      But the rebuke died on her lips. The stack of lumber that loomed over Ken—ten or twelve feet high at least—seemed to shudder. For an instant she thought it was an optical illusion. Then she saw that the whole stack was moving, gaining momentum as it went.

      Her cry was lost in Angel’s fierce barking. The stack of heavy lumber toppled toward Ken. She saw his startled face, saw his arm flung up to protect his head.

      And then the lumber fell, crashing to the ground with a roar that reverberated, shattering the night air with a million echoes.

      She couldn’t see Ken any longer, just a cloud of dust that billowed into the air like a dense, malignant fog.