Dangerous Tidings. Dana Mentink
enjoyed solving cases only for people with military connections. It filled that part of his soul that had never stopped being a marine. Semper Fidelis was not just a motto to her father. He had been faithful to his family and the corps until the last moment of his life. He’d always done the right thing, the difficult thing, even when she’d openly despised him for it.
She opened the file again. She’d removed the folders from the cabinet methodically and this was the only one from the drawer labeled Current that she had not gone through thoroughly. Pauline Mitchell’s file. Inside, there was only a list of names.
Curious.
The others were crammed full of statements, detailed bank information and even photographs, but this one had nothing except a list of names.
3. Darius Fields
2. Jeff Kinsey
1. Brent Mitchell
The shadow caught her eye. Her head jerked toward the door. Again, nothing. Only the pounding of her heart, the rasping of her own breath. Then she thought she caught the sound of someone moving along the front walkway. Clutching the file in her hand, she shot to her feet. She’d lock the door to put her mind at ease.
As she pushed the chair out, a man’s hand reached from under the table and wrapped around her ankle, the fingers slick with sweat.
Brent trailed a step behind Marco as they sprinted up the steps. He finally caught the name on the front window as he passed.
Pacific Coast Investigations.
Why hadn’t Pauline mentioned it? His heart sped up a notch, but there was no time to indulge the feeling. They arrived in a well-appointed office cluttered with files. A Christmas tree occupied the corner, and he caught a whiff of pine.
Marco scanned the room.
“What are you looking for?”
“Thought I told you to beat it.”
“I don’t take orders from swabbies.”
Marco’s eyes swiveled to the conference room just as the door slammed shut. He raced to it and tried the handle.
“Donna?” he yelled, pounding on the door. “Are you in there?”
Brent opened his mouth to ask a question, when Marco picked up a chair and crashed it into the door. Bits of wood splintered everywhere, but the door didn’t budge.
He didn’t waste time questioning. If there was a woman in there not responding... “Is there another way in?”
“One exit door to the outside.”
“On it.” Brent sprinted back down the hall and out the front door, then rounded the corner of the building.
He reached what he supposed was the correct door. Locked, but there was a large window to catch the bay view. He pressed a hand to the glass and peered in. A guy with a ski mask knelt, his knee on the back of a prostrate woman. He saw only her cascade of wavy blond hair, her hands splayed away from her body, fingers balled into terrified fists. Across the room the door vibrated as Marco attempted to force it, probably with his booted foot this time. Despite Marco’s muscles, it was going to take a while and the woman on the floor had no time to spare.
Brent tore his eyes away from the horrifying scene and hunted for something solid and heavy. No rocks or handy blocks of wood. He’d do what coasties did best: improvise.
Time to do some damage.
* * *
Donna lay on the floor stomach-down, as the man in the ski mask had directed after he’d locked the door. Her heart thundered in her throat. He must have seen something in the window, because he eased off her for a moment to look. Instantly, she was on her feet, scanning the room for a weapon with which to protect herself. There was nothing in the perfectly ordered space except for the pitcher, which she snatched up.
The intruder’s mouth twisted into a smile.
Notice the details, she heard her father say. Most witnesses can’t offer anything helpful to catch the offender.
Dark eyes, Caucasian, tall. But was she going to live to be a witness?
He stepped close and she swung the pitcher with all her might at his head. With one hand he batted it away. It spiraled through the air, hit the corner of the table and broke. He grabbed her by the arms, forcing her down into a chair.
Tears of pain trickled down her face. Terror left her limbs thick and lifeless.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
He loomed closer, dark eyes glittering, lips inches from hers. “You.”
Fear turned to adrenaline. She twisted and writhed in the chair, but his grip did not loosen.
“Your pops was a big-shot marine-turned-investigator,” the man said. “Are you a private eye, too?”
She shook her head, teeth clenched together.
He tangled his fingers through her hair. “That’s right. You’re not a detective.” Leaning close, he spoke into her ear. “You’re just a scared little girl.”
Each word shot through her, his hot breath searing her temple.
He pulled a knife from his belt. He was going to kill her.
Again she struggled, striking out at his chest, clawing at his face, pulling at the ski mask until he jerked out of reach.
He smiled, teeth harsh white against a tangle of facial hair, the hint of beard. “I guess you think you’re tough, don’t you?” He wrapped a strong hand around her throat, the other grasping the knife. “Little girls who think they’re tough like men. You know what happens to them?”
She tried to loosen the fingers around her throat, but he was cutting off her air.
“I said,” he hissed, “do you know what happens to those little girls?”
She kicked out, missing him.
Now his mouth was pressed against her forehead and he kissed her.
Revulsion nearly made her gag. Tears stung her eyes, but she would not let him see her completely lose it.
“Those little girls...” he whispered in a tender singsong voice, “die.”
* * *
Brent saw the guy pull a knife just before he found what he was looking for, a small stone bench. Not more than a stool, really, but heavy.
He pulled it from the shrubbery, heaved it above his head and hurled it into the window. It shattered with a crash. He dragged it in a circular motion to swipe away the glass. Then he was up and over, clearing the threshold just as Marco smashed through the opposite door.
The man looked from Brent to Marco and made his decision. He went for the door.
Brent pursued. He managed to grab some of the guy’s black sweat jacket, just enough to knock him off-balance. He stumbled, but he did not go down.
Brent lunged for him again, but the guy surged forward, tackling Marco, who went over on his back. The assailant rushed by and clattered down the hall. In seconds, Marco was on his feet and chasing after him.
Should he follow or stay? It wasn’t even a contest. Brent’s heart was always with the victim. He turned back to the woman. Her thick lashes framed wide eyes, so blue, so vibrant. He flashed on Carrie, long dead, his fault. Knock it off, Brent.
“Are you—?” he began.
He didn’t finish the thought before she picked up a glass shard from the pitcher, wielding it like a knife.
“Get away,” she said breathlessly,