Joint Forces

Right then, he knew. He couldn't put her through this anymore. She'd wanted him gone and maybe that was the best thing after all.

But not just yet. He hated himself for being a selfish bastard, but he couldn't walk today. The kids deserved this homecoming, Rena, too. And, damn it all, he couldn't make himself walk away from the chance to lose himself in her body one more time.

They would have their homecoming, before he left for good.

And what a homecoming it had been, so perfect, and somehow he'd felt like a freaking black cloud walking through the clean light of his house. Like now, standing in the hall, wanting to go back up those stairs and wondering if staying away was better for her in the long run.

He glanced upstairs, frowning. Had he started to understand, then, this deeper love he felt? God knows it confused the hell out of him now, and he'd been too much of a mess then to process much of anything.

Holy crap. He slumped against the wall, bracing his foot on the banister across from him for support. He hadn't walked away to protect her. He'd left because the dawning realization of how much he loved her scared the hell out of him.

He couldn't reconcile it all then. Still wasn't sure he could.

Except now, he wanted to.

At least he was home. Alive. He could—and damn well would—deal with the rest. Once he got his head on straight. He needed five minutes to pull it together again and then he'd go back upstairs for damage control.

He opened his office door.

To find a man dressed in black and a ski mask sitting at his desk, rifling through drawers. What the hell?

The man looked up, eyes narrowed in the ski-mask slits. Anger, rage, raw emotions still stark and ugly on the surface roared to life. J.T. launched forward.

The man's hand slid into sight—holding a Glock, the big nasty-looking 9mm stalling J.T. quicker than a brick wall in the face.

The dark eyes blinked from inside the mask. "Well, hello, Sergeant. I was hoping to finish up here before you came in, hut now we're out of luck."

Options raced through his head. If he called a warning, Rena would come downstairs. As much as he hated having made her cry, at least it might keep her safely upstairs.

One-on-one odds he could handle. Hell, right now he welcomed the chance to fight back, better than being stuck in a cell with his hands tied behind his back.

The man's attention shifted. J.T.'s muscles bunched for action.

The gun twitched. "Well, hello there, ma'am."

Ma'am? Rena? Adrenaline turned to icy heat. A trick? Maybe, but with that gun possibly pointed at Rena, J.T. couldn't afford to act until … he … looked…

At his wife standing red-eyed and horrified in the doorway.

Oh God, babe, I'm sorry.

Pain exploded in his head. J.T. managed a half turn toward his attacker before…

Everything went dark.

Chapter 15

Rena screamed. Ran forward. Tried to catch J.T. as he fell toward the ground. God, he was heavy. She crumpled to the floor with him, hard, but at least she'd kept him from cracking his head on the desk on the way down.

As if he hadn't already taken a hard enough hit to the skull when the guy looming in dark clothes and a ski mask had knocked J.T. out with the butt of his gun. Bile bubbled up, scalding her throat.

She cradled her husband's head in her lap, fear snaking through her, gripping, like poison ivy to fertile ground. "Take whatever you want. I'll tell you where everything is in the house, the keys to the car. Just take it all and go, but please don't hurt us."

Don't hurt J.T. again.

Gun level, the lean man skirted around the corner of the desk. "I need your husband's flight schedule, ma'am, for tonight and tomorrow, and then I'm out of here. Out of your hair. It's really simple, actually. I have everything under control."

What the hell did this guy want with a flight schedule? His flat accent gave her no hints of his background other than that he sounded educated, not some street thug in search of a quick pawn. Something niggled at her about his voice, but she couldn't place him as anyone she knew well.

Rena studied his clothes for clues, black pleated pants and T-shirt, nice cut and make on a tall, fit frame. Not someone she had any real hope of taking out.

Her world had gone crazy in a couple of weeks.

She didn't know why this man had a gun pointed at her, but she knew enough to realize this was bad. Really bad. "And if I find whatever schedule it is you're looking for, you'll let us live?"

"You don't have a choice but to believe me. Of course, I could start by killing your husband, and then wait for your son to come home. What do you think?"

She thought all the options sucked. Him knowing she had a son scared her even more. Was he someone they knew? Maybe his voice sounded familiar, after all, or maybe her frightened-as-hell mind was playing tricks on her.

That she didn't have any idea where J.T. might have a flight schedule made things worse. She feared he didn't have one at all, because hadn't he talked about taking leave? That his schedule was clear now?

What did this guy need a flight schedule for, anyway? If she was sure she would live, she could give it to him and then let the base know it was gone.

But if she gave it to him and then he killed them… She would have put crew members' lives at risk. Furthermore, giving it to him would constitute treason. A line neither she nor her husband could cross.

Think time. Start with the truth, about her only option since what more could she do? Bash him over the head with her begonias? "We don't have it. J.T. is starting leave now. There's nothing in this house for you."

"Like I believe that. Try again, ma'am."

Apparently this overpolite scum didn't recognize truth. She burned to take this guy on with a lamp or ashtray upside the head for a chance to protect J.T. and Chris. Too bad she hadn't pocketed the crystal dish she'd longed to lob at J.T.

Except she also had to protect the baby she was carrying. She needed to buy time for J.T. to regain consciousness.

If he regained consciousness.

Oh God, she couldn't even think about that.

Time to pile on the lies. Because no way would she let J.T. die before they'd worked things out between them and until he'd apologized for walking away from her again, bless his stubborn soul. They deserved forever.

"Okay, fine. What I said was true, but there's more. The schedule isn't here—yet. J.T. had to leave work early to bring me home. I'm on half days because of a car accident—and I'm pregnant," she rushed to add in hopes that even if this slime didn't respect her condition, he might fear the harsher legal ramifications if he killed a pregnant woman.

She watched her assailant for hints of his personality, weaknesses, anything to provide an edge, if only she could see his facial expressions. Instead, she had only body language and flickers of emotion in those narrow eyes peering back at her through the slits in the knit mask. Gun steady, he smoothed his other hand along the wrinkles in his black T-shirt.

Fastidious? Obsessive-compulsive? Or just plain freaking amoral that he would think he could break into her home, hurt her husband.

She frowned, watched. "J.T. left early, and someone from work is supposed to bring his schedule by later."

Geez, that was lame and so not how things worked, but hopefully this person would buy it anyway, the best she could come up with while under so much crushing pressure.

"Why don't they e-mail the schedule to him?"

Why hadn't she thought of that? "Because the computers were down today. One of those out-of-control virus things. You'll probably hear about it on the news in the morning."

She'd never tested her aptitude for her family's shady penchant for lying, but obviously she'd picked up some of the skill by osmosis from years of exposure while growing up. One thing to be grateful for from her childhood.

His eyes squinted in the mask. "Okay, I'm not saying I trust you, but what you say sounds possible. You're going to help me tie up the big guy here and then you're both going to hang out secured in a closet while I look. If you're actually telling the truth, I'll let one of you get the schedule at the door. But I'll be holding a gun to the other one's head. Understand?"

Rena nodded. God, had he actually stolen a glance of himself in the windowpane as he walked? She was worried about dying here and he was checking himself out?

Rage threatened to blind her. Come hell or high water, she was taking down Mr. Narcissist.

He looked around the room, knelt, unplugged a short extension cord. "Now tie his hands behind his back with this. And do it tight, because I'll be watching."

Rena hefted her husband's limp body to his stomach, stalling as best she could, an easy enough prospect since he was heavy. Gently, she pulled his limp arms behind his back. How long had he been out? Was he awake now, faking to listen, plan, establish an edge?

If so, he was doing a helluva good job with the act.

Once she finished, she glanced up, exhausted, scared. And determined not to fail.

Mr. Narcissist waggled the gun toward the hall. "Drag him into the closet."

"You have got to be kidding. There's no way I can manage that. No way." If she could get him to put down his gun…

"I see your point. But I want you to sit there."

He pointed to J.T.'s recliner in the office, a butt-ugly green chair she'd made fun of just before she'd jumped her husband's bones on the eyesore.

"And don't move, ma'am," Mr. Stuck-on-Himself added. "I'll be able to see you. One twitch from you and I'll crack your husband's head open this time."

She shivered. Nodded. Started to move for the chair, but suddenly found herself reluctant to leave J.T. She pressed a kiss to his head and whispered, "I love you."

"Touching," Mr. Narcissist mocked. "Now get in the chair while I lock this guy up. Then you're next."

She inched away, careful to keep her moves smooth, predictable. Her captor tucked the gun in the small of his back, in his belt, his gold buckle and design catching the light…

A red circle with a black triangle inside.

What did Chris's mess have to do with someone wanting J.T.'s flight schedule? And damn, damn, damn, why couldn't she figure out why that symbol looked so familiar?

The man rolled J.T. onto his back again. He gripped under J.T.'s shoulders, dragging him into the hall, straining and scooching backward.

What a dumb ass. He should have put her in a closet first so she wouldn't be free while he maneuvered J.T. Not that she intended to mention the oversight. Instead, she processed the new insight. The man wasn't as smart as he thought.

Rena studied him closer, saw sweat seeping through his mask. Stress or heat? His hand fidgeted with his belt—again. Stress. Definitely.

While that edginess could be dangerous, it could also be her weapon since it impaired his logic. Playing him, outsmarting him would be a tightrope walk, but he had her on size and firepower.

When he turned his back to open the door, she snatched a paperweight off the edge of J.T.'s desk and tucked it in her pocket.

Mr. Narcissist shifted back, huffing. He tugged his gun out again. "Okay. You next. Closet."

At least she would be with J.T. again. She crossed into the hall.

"Are you nuts, lady? You get your own closet."

No damn way could she let that happen. She needed to talk to J.T. when he woke, update him, reassure him. She extended her wrists. "Tie me up before you put me in there, but I'm not leaving him. You're the one with the gun, all the power."

"You're damn right." He pressed the gun to her temple, a cold, lethal kiss. "And you'll do whatever the hell I say."

Childhood memories shivered over her, visions of the soulless eyes of her father's friends who carried weapons like these. Panic thrashed against reason, threatening any hope of calm. She had maybe three seconds to figure something out. Her gut churned. The baby somersaulted. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">