close to this darkness?
A car engine roared and died in the driveway. Hearing the clomp of boots and a key in the lock, her head snapped around. Harry rose from the desk, unholstered his gun. Maggie bolted toward the door at a dead run, collar jingling and claws scraping on the hardwood.
Maybe she was a better guard dog than they thought. Tara followed Maggie and Harry to the entry.
A young woman pulled her keys out of the lock. Her jaw-length hair was dyed jet black, with blue highlights. She wore a long black coat two sizes too big for her that smelled like patchouli. Her waffle-soled black combat boots flopped unlaced, snapping against the floor as she walked into the foyer. Kohl-rimmed eyes were fixed on Maggie, who bounded up to her and pressed her paws to the girl’s shoulders. The girl giggled, wrapping her arms around the dog.
“Cassie?” Tara asked. Though she looked nothing like the file picture of the clean-cut girl beaming beside her father, the resemblance was unmistakable: the same startling blue eyes, the thin frame.
“Who’re you?” The girl stepped back, eying Tara and Li with suspicion.
“I’m Tara. This is Harry. We’ve come to find your father.”
“Do you work with him?”
“No. We’re not with the military. We’re with the Department of Justice.”
Cassie took a deep breath, and her lower lip shook. “He—”
She took a step back and tripped over the dog as a gunshot rang out. The leaded glass of the kitchen window shattered, and Tara lunged forward. The girl, the dog, and Tara fell together in a tangled pile as the plaster foyer wall blistered open above them.
H ARRY DUCKED AND SPRINTED TO THE FRONT DOOR, SWINGING out onto the porch. Maggie surged ahead of him, barking and snarling. He followed, trying to keep his footing in the gravel as the dog launched through a stand of pine trees to the fence at the property line. His breath burned in his throat, scalding his hammering heart. Maggie flung herself at the fence with such force the posts rattled.
He reached up for the dog-eared edges of the fence and swung up as another shot splintered into the cedar fence, close enough to shake dew from the pine trees. He swung his leg over and dropped to the ground in the neighbor’s cactus garden. Swearing under his breath, he crouched behind a decorative boulder, scanning the scene over his gun for movement, some sign of the shooter. Trapped behind the fence, Maggie howled as ferociously as chained Cerberus.
There. Movement flickered around the corner of the house: a man stuffing something under his coat. Gravel crunched as he fled. Harry ran after him, ordering him to stop. As they tore through yards, lights came on, dogs barked, and suburbia woke with a start and a snort.
The shooter sped down a driveway, toward the street. Harry got a good look at him for the first time: he was utterly nondescript, with brown hair, tan skin, muscular build, dark coat and shoes. He’d blend in anywhere, except for the barrel of the rifle peeking out the edge of his coat. As soon as his feet hit the street, Harry heard the rev of an engine.
He’s going to get away, he thought desperately as a tan SUV rounded the corner and picked up speed. The shooter leaned out into the street as the SUV slammed on the brakes.
Harry ran so hard he thought his lungs would burst, his legs jackhammering against the pavement. The shooter popped open the door and scrambled in. Before the door shut, the getaway car squealed away, leaving Harry in the empty street, panting, with neighbors peering out their windows. Harry recited the license plate number to himself, burning it into his memory, “DCD-1397. . . DCD-1397. . .”
“Hey, buddy. You miss your car pool?” a man in the next yard asked him, newspaper tucked under his arm, as he locked his front door.
Breathless, Harry gestured at the sound of the garbage truck two streets over. “Missed putting the trash out.”
“They change it every holiday. . . It’s
A car engine roared and died in the driveway. Hearing the clomp of boots and a key in the lock, her head snapped around. Harry rose from the desk, unholstered his gun. Maggie bolted toward the door at a dead run, collar jingling and claws scraping on the hardwood.
Maybe she was a better guard dog than they thought. Tara followed Maggie and Harry to the entry.
A young woman pulled her keys out of the lock. Her jaw-length hair was dyed jet black, with blue highlights. She wore a long black coat two sizes too big for her that smelled like patchouli. Her waffle-soled black combat boots flopped unlaced, snapping against the floor as she walked into the foyer. Kohl-rimmed eyes were fixed on Maggie, who bounded up to her and pressed her paws to the girl’s shoulders. The girl giggled, wrapping her arms around the dog.
“Cassie?” Tara asked. Though she looked nothing like the file picture of the clean-cut girl beaming beside her father, the resemblance was unmistakable: the same startling blue eyes, the thin frame.
“Who’re you?” The girl stepped back, eying Tara and Li with suspicion.
“I’m Tara. This is Harry. We’ve come to find your father.”
“Do you work with him?”
“No. We’re not with the military. We’re with the Department of Justice.”
Cassie took a deep breath, and her lower lip shook. “He—”
She took a step back and tripped over the dog as a gunshot rang out. The leaded glass of the kitchen window shattered, and Tara lunged forward. The girl, the dog, and Tara fell together in a tangled pile as the plaster foyer wall blistered open above them.
H ARRY DUCKED AND SPRINTED TO THE FRONT DOOR, SWINGING out onto the porch. Maggie surged ahead of him, barking and snarling. He followed, trying to keep his footing in the gravel as the dog launched through a stand of pine trees to the fence at the property line. His breath burned in his throat, scalding his hammering heart. Maggie flung herself at the fence with such force the posts rattled.
He reached up for the dog-eared edges of the fence and swung up as another shot splintered into the cedar fence, close enough to shake dew from the pine trees. He swung his leg over and dropped to the ground in the neighbor’s cactus garden. Swearing under his breath, he crouched behind a decorative boulder, scanning the scene over his gun for movement, some sign of the shooter. Trapped behind the fence, Maggie howled as ferociously as chained Cerberus.
There. Movement flickered around the corner of the house: a man stuffing something under his coat. Gravel crunched as he fled. Harry ran after him, ordering him to stop. As they tore through yards, lights came on, dogs barked, and suburbia woke with a start and a snort.
The shooter sped down a driveway, toward the street. Harry got a good look at him for the first time: he was utterly nondescript, with brown hair, tan skin, muscular build, dark coat and shoes. He’d blend in anywhere, except for the barrel of the rifle peeking out the edge of his coat. As soon as his feet hit the street, Harry heard the rev of an engine.
He’s going to get away, he thought desperately as a tan SUV rounded the corner and picked up speed. The shooter leaned out into the street as the SUV slammed on the brakes.
Harry ran so hard he thought his lungs would burst, his legs jackhammering against the pavement. The shooter popped open the door and scrambled in. Before the door shut, the getaway car squealed away, leaving Harry in the empty street, panting, with neighbors peering out their windows. Harry recited the license plate number to himself, burning it into his memory, “DCD-1397. . . DCD-1397. . .”
“Hey, buddy. You miss your car pool?” a man in the next yard asked him, newspaper tucked under his arm, as he locked his front door.
Breathless, Harry gestured at the sound of the garbage truck two streets over. “Missed putting the trash out.”
“They change it every holiday. . . It’s
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