One Tough Marine

“Mama!” Stevie met her before she’d made it two feet inside, wrapping his little arms around her knees. She swung him up into her arms, squeezing him tightly, her pulse pounding in her head. He smelled like peanut butter and chocolate milk. She fought the urge to cry again.

“Traffic was crazy,” she murmured against his silky hair, smiling apologetically at Mrs. Tamburello. “Was he a handful?”

“Not at all.” Mrs. Tamburello flashed Stevie an affectionate smile. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Stephen?”

Stevie nodded, his gray eyes solemn. “I maded kitty.”

Mrs. Tamburello chuckled and retrieved a piece of paper from the coffee table. It was a scribble of bright colors, vaguely in the shape of…something. The oranges and yellows suggested her two-year-old son had tried his hand at capturing Mrs. Tamburello’s scruffy yellow tabby in crayon.

Abby took the drawing from Mrs. Tamburello and shifted Stevie to her left hip. “Thank you, Mrs. Tamburello. I’m taking the next couple of days off, so you’ll have an extra-long weekend.” Remembering the words of her captors, she added, “Maybe you should drive up to see your sister in Temecula.”

Mrs. Tamburello smiled, obviously pleased that Abby had remembered that detail about her family. “Perhaps I will. She has a brand-new grandbaby, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” Abby said, hoping she’d take the suggestion. The two men in her apartment meant business. Abby didn’t doubt they’d hurt Mrs. Tamburello to make their point.

She dug in her pocket for Mrs. Tamburello’s salary for the week, adding an extra ten. Guilt money for putting the woman in danger, she supposed grimly as she made her way back down the stairs with Stevie clinging to her back like a little monkey.

He eyed the mess in the living room for half a second before tugging at her hair from behind. “I hungwy.”

She swung him over her shoulders into her arms, looking into his big gray eyes. The quizzical look on his sweet face brought back a rush of poignant memories.

Large, gentle hands, cradling her face. A deep, warm voice, still lightly graced with the liquid drawl of his native South, whispering words of comfort and passion.

Realization washed over her, producing relief and dread in equal parts. Luke. Of course. If anyone had known Matt Chandler’s secrets, it had been his best friend, Luke Cooper. But was Luke even in San Diego anymore? The last she’d heard, almost a year ago, he’d resigned his commission from the Marine Corps shortly after he returned from overseas. Maybe one of her old friends from her Marine wife days would know where to find him.

“Tell you what, scooter,” she said to Stevie, her voice settling into the familiar Texas twang of her youth, “how about we go to McDonald’s for dinner?” While Mama makes an important phone call, she added silently.

Stevie patted her face with delight. “McDonald’s! McDonald’s!”

Promising herself to buy him yogurt instead of fries, she lowered him to the floor and led him outside to her car.

MALKIN SECURITY International was one of San Diego’s most prestigious security firms, with a reputation for complete discretion and a track record of successful security operations in over fifty global hot spots. Their proximity to four Southern California military bases was no coincidence; they recruited heavily from the Marine and Naval bases and air stations in the area when they were looking for new employees.

Luke Cooper had worked at MSI for almost a year now, ever since he hung up his combat boots for life as a civilian. It wasn’t nearly as exciting as the recruiting brochure had made it out to be, but if he’d wanted a nonstop adrenaline rush, he’d have stuck with the Marine Corps.

And working at Malkin also afforded him a certain level of personal security he couldn’t afford to do without these days.

His current assignment had come to an end late that afternoon, when he had turned over all of his investigative materials to the police department in Rancho Santa Fe. They’d taken into custody a relentless stalker who’d been terrorizing a banker’s nineteen-year-old daughter, and Luke had earned MSI—and himself—a hefty bonus for providing actionable evidence for the legal proceedings.

The girl had been nice enough, if pampered within an inch of her life, and the stalker had been escalating well past annoying into dangerous territory. Plus, Luke had been able to spend a lot of time at the banker’s ranch, escorting the daughter on rambling horseback rides. As far as security jobs went, he’d seen worse.

At least nobody was shooting at him this time.

He filed the last of his paperwork around 7:00 p.m. and took a moment to scan the newspaper he’d bought that afternoon on the way into the office. For the past week and a half, there’d been rumblings that federal investigators were close to an indictment against a U.S.-based nongovernmental organization for illegal arms trading.

The articles had yet to identify the NGO by name, but Luke had a pretty good idea. The investigation of Voices for Villages had been the last thing he’d been working on before his retirement from the Marine Corps.

Still nothing official, he noted, folding the paper and tossing it in the trash. As he took the employee exit stairs down to the parking deck, he wondered what the snag was in making the case against Voices for Villages. People had died getting the evidence that implicated the NGO in a deadly drugs-for-arms racket.

He reached his car, a gunmetal-gray Ford Mustang, unlocked it and slid behind the wheel. It ran like a dream and turned more than a few female—and male—heads when he drove down the streets of San Diego, but recently he’d been thinking about buying a truck. Most of his brothers drove trucks back home in Chickasaw County, Alabama, he remembered, smiling. He guessed his kid sister, Hannah, did, too, now that she’d married a cowboy.

Guilt tugged at him, erasing his smile. He’d missed Hannah’s wedding last year, although his mother had made sure to send him a couple of flash drives full of pictures from the event. He’d told his sister he was too involved in a case to leave San Diego even for a few days, but it had been a lie. There wasn’t a case in the world that could’ve kept him from watching his baby sister get married.

Only Eladio Cordero could do that.

He shoved away the thought of Cordero with brutal determination. There wasn’t anything he could do about Cordero’s threat until the South American drug lord finally decided to make his move. If U.S. law enforcement or the Sanselmo authorities could have located the elusive thug, he’d be dead already. Worrying about it only kept him from focusing on the things he had to deal with day to day.

Like finding a better way to fill his long, lonely hours away from the job. Because it wasn’t Eladio Cordero who haunted him in the still of the night, when sleep wouldn’t come fast enough.

That honor belonged to Abby.

She would visit him tonight. She always did. He’d never been able to get drunk enough to escape her, and she always followed him into his dreams. Lately, he’d given up trying not to think about her and started looking forward to the nights he spent wrapped up in his memories of her. It was as close as he could ever let himself get, these days.

But it hadn’t always been that way.

He exited the interstate on Genesee Avenue, heading south into University City, where he rented a one-story stucco with a two-car garage that was almost as large as the house itself. It wasn’t much of a home, but the rent was reasonable, the neighbors quiet and the commute to work manageable.

These days, if he could live life with a minimum of fuss, he counted it as a win.

A beeping noise broke the silence inside the Mustang. Luke’s breath hitched as he pulled his cell phone from his pocket. Red letters flashed on the black display. INTRUDER.

In the span of a heartbeat, Luke’s body went on high alert. He pulled the Glock from his hip holster and checked the clip. He was only a couple of minutes from home—should he call in backup? He wasn’t sure he could trust anyone anymore. Not here in San Diego, anyway.

He was better off on his own.

Daylight lingered outside as he reached his house and parked by the curb in front. Scanning the street, he noticed a strange car parked a few houses away. Possibly a friend of the teenagers who lived down the street. But maybe not.

His garage provided cover from the street to the house. He stayed close to the building, moving as quietly as possible across the rocky ground to the side entrance of the house. The curtains in the kitchen window were closed, he noted. He always left them open.

Someone was definitely in the house.

He hunkered down at the side door and examined the lock. No sign of any tool marks on the dead bolt, but he knew there were other ways in. He hadn’t tried to turn his house into a fortress once he became aware of Eladio Cordero’s threats. He didn’t want to live his life in a prison of his own making, for one thing. Hell, he was at a point now where he welcomed an attempt on his life, just to get it over with. He couldn’t even risk a quick trip home to his family, thanks to the danger.

Cordero’s vow of vengeance had been hanging over him long enough. He’d had all he could stand.

Quietly, he let himself inside the kitchen and stood still a moment, listening. He saw nothing out of place in the kitchen, nor did he hear anything beyond the normal hum of electrical appliances inside and faint traffic noise outside. But he caught a whiff of a strange scent—sweet, a little powdery. There was also a heaviness in the air, as if whoever lurked inside the dark recesses of the tiny bungalow was waiting just as he was, still and breathless, for another sound.

He tightened his grip on the Glock, slid off his shoes as quietly as possible and padded in sock-clad silence into the hallway, where he paused to listen.

To his left, where an open doorway led into the living room, he heard a faint snuffling sound. But before he could turn to enter, a ball of pure energy slammed into him from the bedroom, knocking him into the wall.

He caught a glimpse of wavy brown hair disappearing around the corner into the living room. Scrambling up, he took chase, catching up halfway to the narrow sofa against the wall. He took in a slim waist and nicely rounded backside before he whirled the intruder around to face him.

Cornflower-blue eyes met his, wide and scared. A smattering of coppery freckles dotted her peaches-and-cream complexion. Soft coral lips, as tempting as they’d ever been, parted to release a soft, shaky breath.

“Abby?” he breathed, his whole body tingling with surprise and a darker, richer sensation he’d thought he’d buried three years ago, never to be exhumed.

Had he lost his mind? Had he conjured her up from the fabric of his memories and his longing?