He and Trace made her feel less alone in the world.
She grabbed her bag and then headed onto the sidewalk in front of her building. The air was warm, but not hot. Summer would be there soon enough.
Skye stared up at the sky. Blue, bright blue, like Trace’s eyes.
A car horn honked in the distance. It was lunch time, so, of course, the street was busy.
Tomorrow, she’d open her dance studio. Her students would come.
Her gaze drifted around the street.
Tomorrow…
A man with a hood covering his head stood across the street. Half-hidden by the shadows as he stood under the awning of another office.
He lifted an object.
Snapped a picture.
Her breath sawed out. A reporter. Again.
She couldn’t have the reporters bothering her students.
And I can’t hide forever. Straightening her shoulders, Skye headed for the cross-walk.
***
Trace clicked the file and watched the image load onto his screen.
“The city needs to invest in some better quality equipment,” Noah muttered as he leaned over Trace’s shoulder. “Because that image is crap.”
Yes, it was. Trace leaned forward. He hit the button to advance the footage.
The limo was there, waiting at the light.
And, just down the road, the BMW waited, too.
Waited.
When the limo accelerated, the BMW raced toward it.
“Shit, he’s aiming for you,” Noah said.
Yes, yes, he damn well was.
The phone on Trace’s desk rang. He picked it up, still staring at the footage. “Weston.”
“Mr. Weston, it’s Joseph Hadden. I’m at the police station…”
There was a buzz of activity in the background. Joseph Hadden was one of Trace’s agents. A guy on the rise who always got the job done. Trace had sent him down to the PD because he wanted to know exactly what was happening with the investigation.
Trace paused the video. The screen froze on the image of the BMW slamming into the side of the limo.
“They brought in the owner of the BMW,” Joseph told him. “But that guy swears he hasn’t driven the ride in months. He’s claiming that someone must have stolen it. Says he didn’t even notice it was gone until the cops started asking questions.”
Eyes narrowing, Trace hit the button to advance the video.
Glass shattered. Metal bent.
And the driver of the BMW jumped out. He didn’t immediately run. He stopped. Stared at the wreckage.
It was too dark to see his face clearly, but Trace could see his body. Tall. Narrow.
“What does the owner look like?” Trace asked, fighting to keep all emotion from his voice.
“Alan Brenthouse is sixty-four, he uses a cane and—”
“And he’s not the ass**le who ran us down.” Trace rewound the video. “Stay down there. Keep digging.” He slammed down the phone.
Hit play once more.
The BMW waited.
The limo advanced when the light turned green.
The BMW raced forward.
The crash was brutal. Hard. Deliberate.
The driver got out. Stared at the limo.
“He tried to kill you,” Noah said.
Yes, he had. “He should’ve tried harder.” Because now, bastard, I’m coming after you.
***
The reporter spun on his heel. He yanked down his camera and hurried away from her.
Oh, no, he was not just going to run.
“Stop!” Skye called out as she hurried behind him.
He still had his hood up. Maybe it was the one who’d been there to catch her picture last time. Clyde. That had been his name. “Clyde!”
The reporter kept going. He turned, darting down an alley.
She pumped her legs, going faster—
Another man suddenly appeared before her. Tall, with wide shoulders, and dark blond hair. His green eyes glinted down at her. “I don’t think you want to do that.”
She stumbled to a stop. And, instantly, her hand dove into her bag. Skye had brought the bag along for a reason. She wrapped her fingers around her pepper spray that she kept in her bag. “You need to step away from me!” Who was he? Why would—
“It’s been a while since I was on guard duty for you, Skye, but I doubt the rules have changed much.” His lips hitched up into a faint smile as he gazed down at her. “Trace would never want you following some stranger into a dark alley.”
It’s been a while since I was on guard duty for you…
She backed up a step. The street was busy. Plenty of people were around. I’m safe. I’m safe. The mantra repeated through her mind.
The blond shrugged his broad shoulders. “Especially not if Sharpe was right…well, Trace sure as hell wouldn’t want you following strange men.”
“Look, buddy, I don’t know who you are—”
“Drake Archer.”
“—but I was following a reporter,” she finished angrily.
“That wasn’t a reporter. That was a man who seemed far, far too interested in you.” His head tilted as his gaze swept over her. “He was so interested in you that I was able to get a good, up-close look at him.”
In that instant, the sunlight that poured down on her seemed hotter.
Skye still had her grip on the pepper spray.
“Caucasian male, late twenties, a nose that looked like someone broke the hell out of it, blond hair—hair in need of a serious cut, and brown eyes. He was about six foot two, and as thin as he was long.”
Her breath came a little faster. “Seems you did get plenty of time to study him.”
“Plenty of time,” he agreed. “Seeing as how he was outside of your place for the last hour.”
Her gaze darted back across the street. “Just how long were you outside of my place?” Her stare returned to him.
He shrugged. “Long enough. Trace is slacking. He needs to be more careful.”
She could only shake her head and back away. Her stomach had clenched with fear. “Look, Mister—”
“I told you, my name’s Drake Archer.”
“And that name means nothing to me, okay?”
Now he blinked. “Trace didn’t mention me? And to think, the guy was once my friend. But I guess the friends you make in battle and blood don’t always want to claim you later.”
Skye stopped her retreat. “You served with Trace?”
“Trace. Noah. Ben.” He gave a little salute. “Once we were unstoppable.” He took a slow, gliding step toward her. “We were really damn good at killing. Too good. But from that little group of ours, I have to confess, your lover was the best. No one could be quite so efficient when it came to killing.”