Midnight Ranger Read online

  Sam nodded, again, not quite sure how to respond. He hadn’t actually accepted the job—hadn’t really been offered it, if he were honest—though, it seemed as if this was far more than just an interview. “Um—”

  Hank cursed, giving Taz a shove. “Nice, Davila. You’re gonna scare off our new recruit before he even signs up. Let’s have some coffee. Chat.”

  Sam took his seat, eyeing both men from across the table. While Taz seemed like more of an open book where Sam was concerned, Hank definitely kept a tight fist on his emotions. Nothing registered beyond the firm press of the man’s lips or his steady gaze as he relaxed against the seat cushion.

  Hank waited until the waitress had brought them all coffee before leaning forward, his hands folded together on top of the table. “So, I gotta ask. Why do they call you Midnight?”

  Some of the tension eased from Sam’s muscles as he took a gulp of coffee, cradling the mug between his hands. “While I consider Montana home, I was born and raised in Barrow, Alaska. My father was a bush pilot, and he set up shop there for about fifteen years. Unfortunately, he died when I was ten. My mom tried to make a go of it on her own but decided to move back to her hometown of Livingston when I was twelve. But once the guys learned where I was originally from…”

  Hank laughed. “Land of the midnight sun.”

  “Shortened to Midnight.”

  “I’m sure all those night maneuvers you did only made it stick more.” He glanced at Taz. “If I may… Why the move to civilian life? From what Taz had heard, you’d planned on making the Rangers your life’s work. And my contacts at Walter Reed said you’d returned to your regiment—something about RRC training. It sounded as if things were okay.”

  Sam steeled himself against the rush of images that flashed in his mind—against the ghosted feel of rock beneath his palms, and the lingering sound of him and Gray hitting the ground, Gray’s body crushed beneath his.

  The air thickened, aggravating the side of his ribs that hadn’t quite healed. He forced in a few quick breaths, breaking eye contact when the other men frowned, looking as if they were going to reach for him.

  Hank sighed. “Look, Midnight. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  Sam made a conscious effort of raising his gaze to theirs. “I got hurt on my last mission. The jump went sideways, and I ended up with four broken ribs, and a punctured lung, amongst other issues. Despite making a full recovery, the doctors felt the residual damage from the pneumothorax made future HAHO and HALO jumps too risky. To be honest, they thought any jump was probably too risky. I argued—spent the past four months trying to get some kind of waiver, prove to them it hadn’t slowed me down—anything to change their minds, but…”

  He didn’t mention that he’d screwed his knee and shoulder, or the part where he was seeing his dead friend. He already thought he was crazy. He didn’t need strangers to confirm it.

  Taz muttered something under his breath. “But what you got was a one-way ticket stateside.”

  Sam snorted. “Hard to be a Ranger when you can’t jump out of a damn plane. And changing specialties now… It didn’t appeal to me—not when I was exactly where I’d wanted to be. That’s if they even would have allowed it. You’d heard right. I was supposed to head off to RRC after the mission, but…” He shook his head. “Of course, I hadn’t really considered how hard it would be to integrate back into civilian life. The Army Rangers was supposed to see me through to my golden years, if I lived that long. Who knew there weren’t many job prospects for guys like us?”

  Hank nodded. “Which is exactly why I created Brotherhood Protectors. There are far too many veterans who have the same issues. They want to continue to fight the good fight, but they don’t know how to go about it.”

  “So, what, exactly, do you and the other men do?”

  “In a nutshell? We provide protective services for clients who have problems beyond the scope of the police. Everything from stalkers to covert assignments where we’ve been hired by someone close to the client to see they aren’t put in harm’s way. Taz, here, started off posing as a patient for the Brighter Days rehab ranch.” Hank cleared his throat. “Not only did he stop the perpetrator, he and Hannah have been together ever since.”

  Taz laughed. “I was luckier than most. But, the point is, the work we do has a way of making us feel worthy. It definitely helped me with the transition.”

  Sam crossed his arms over his chest, focusing on Hank. “And you think I’ll be a good fit?”

  Hank shrugged. “Wouldn’t have asked you to come here if I didn’t. But the real question is…do you?”

  Sam stared at his coffee for a few moments, ignoring the memories that hovered at the edge of his consciousness, before giving Hank a nod. “I’d like to accept your offer.”

  “Perfect.” Hank reached into his pocket and removed a folded up manila envelope. “Then, let’s get you started. I have a client right up your alley.” He smiled. “Welcome to the Brotherhood Protectors, Midnight.”

  CHAPTER ONE

  Seattle. Ten months later…

  “Don’t you ever keep regular hours?”

  Bridgette Hayward looked up from her desk, smiling at the man standing in her doorway. Tall, dark, handsome, dressed in Armani with his hair perfectly styled—Jeremy Brenner was the classic image of an assistant US attorney. In the two years she’d been working for the United States Attorney’s Office, she’d never once seen the guy sweat or lose the calm demeanor he wore like a shield, regardless of the circumstances. And the man had gone up against some intimidating clients.

  Bridgette leaned back, twirling her pen around her fingers. “Says the man standing in my doorway at…oh, nine o’clock on a Friday night.”

  “I just came back because I forgot a brief I needed. You, on the other hand, haven’t left, yet.”

  “Big case means extra time, and I can’t afford to screw this one up.”

  Jeremy’s eyes narrowed, and he glanced around as if looking for others, despite the fact the office had been closed for hours, before stepping through the doorway. “You know I think you’re one of the best lawyers we’ve had come through here, right?”

  She frowned. “Why do I sense a ‘but’ at the end of that statement?”

  “Not a ‘but’. I’m just…worried about you.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “Seriously, Bridgette. Alexander Stevens has been heading his family’s drug business for longer than you’ve been alive. It’s taken that many years to make a case against him, and it was essentially a fluke. Which means he’s got more connections than anyone knows. The kind that’s kept him out of jail and gotten other people killed.” He nodded at her. “You still getting threats? Calls? Letters?”

  A chill beaded her skin, the ghostly echo of a gravelly voice on her cell sounding inside her head before she shoved it aside. “Nothing I haven’t gotten before. And, as usual, I’m being cautious.”

  “If you were being cautious, you’d either have a bodyguard or you’d be working remotely until the trial starts, and we can petition for police protection.”

  “I’m fine, Jeremy. Promise.”

  He shook his head. “I realize this is a huge leap forward in your career, and you deserve every bit of it. Your record here is more than impressive. I’d just hate to see you get hurt over it.”

  “I promise I’ll be more vigilant. And if things escalate—”

  “If things escalate, it’ll be too damn late.” He huffed, running his fingers through his hair. “You are stubborn. Anyway, I’m heading out. You ready to go? I’ll walk you to your car like a perfect gentleman.” He winked. “Or not, if you’d prefer.”

  She smiled—the guy had been trying to get into her pants for months. “Thanks, but I have a few things left. I’ll be out of here soon, though.”

  “All right. Be careful.”

  “Always.”

  He shook his head then left, his footsteps fading down the hallway. Bridgette focused on the written testi
monies, again, noting any concerns or questions she wanted to discuss, until the words started blurring together. She sat back and glanced at the clock—nine forty-five. She closed her eyes for a moment, rubbing the bridge of her nose in the hopes of lessening the ache building between her eyes. Jeremy was right about one thing. She needed a break. She could look at the files, again, in the morning, but reading the same paragraph over and over wasn’t helping.

  She stood and stretched, hoping to ease the tight press between her shoulder blades. A few more weeks like this, and her colleagues would start calling her Quasimodo. Maybe she’d take a hot bath. Spend the night curled up on the couch, watching a movie. Anything not related to Alexander Stevens or this case.

  The thought made her smile as she packed some folders into her briefcase then placed it on her desk. She filed any remaining papers then grabbed her case and her purse. A quick trip to the ladies’ room, and she could head out.

  The building was eerily quiet as she walked down the hallway then into the bathroom. Usually, she enjoyed the silence after everyone else had left, but tonight felt different. Whether it was the storm raging outside or Jeremy’s words, she wasn’t sure. But she’d be happy to get home—lock herself inside.

  Her boots clicked across the floor as she made her way back to grab her jacket. If she’d been thinking clearly, she would have taken it with her and locked up, already, saving her the return trip. But the long days were definitely taking a toll, and it seemed as if she forgot simple things more often, lately.

  She sighed, stepping inside, before coming to a halt. A large yellow envelope sat kitty-corner on her desk, her name scribbled across the front. She glanced around, staring at the shadows lining the hallway. She’d been gone less than ten minutes.

  Her heart rate kicked up as she walked over to her desk, staring down at the offering. No return address. No mail stamp. She thumbed the corner, debating on whether to open it or call the cops. Though, if it turned out to be nothing, she’d never live it down. And she hadn’t been there long enough to bring that kind of attention to herself.

  Bridgette took a breath then gently lifted the tab. It hadn’t even been sealed, which hopefully meant it didn’t contain any kind of deadly virus. Her pulse thundered in her head as she slipped her hand inside and removed a collection of photographs. A small note was stuck to the front, familiar handwriting scrawled across it.

  I’m coming for you.

  The words glared up at her, the simple statement making her stomach roil. She bit her bottom lip then flipped through the images. Whoever had taken them had followed her from her apartment to her office. There were even a few of her at the boxing club—her hands in gloves as she moved around the ring. They’d obviously been taken over a few days, which meant someone was stalking her. Had been stalking her for some time, and she hadn’t even noticed.

  Memories surfaced in the background. Distant, like a clock ticking in another room. But there, just the same. She pursed her lips then stuffed the photos back into the envelope. If Alex Stevens thought some creepy phone calls and a few pictures would be enough to intimidate her, the man had a hard lesson ahead of him.

  First, she’d go home. Lock up. Double check her alarm system. Then, she’d make copies of everything. She knew firsthand that evidence had a way of “disappearing” with the right amount of motivation. And Stevens had more than enough motivation at his disposal.

  In the morning, she’d head to the police station. She’d give them the envelope and half of the photos. Have them add the images to her growing file of harassment since she’d first been handed the case months ago. But she’d send the note and the other pictures to her friend, Special Agent Jack Taylor. See if the Bureau could match the handwriting or get some kind of DNA off the paper. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the local precinct, she just trusted Jack more.

  Her briefcase felt heavy as she slipped the envelope inside then headed for the bank of elevators at the opposite end of the hallway. Different scenarios bounced around in her head, trying to take shape, when a distant noise stopped her. She paused, trying to pinpoint it when the dull echo sounded, again.

  Footsteps. Behind her.

  Bridgette swallowed against the punch of fear cooling her skin and began walking. Faster, this time. The footsteps followed her—two for every one of hers. She reached the elevator and hit the button. The arrow lit up, accompanied by the hum of machinery as the unit began moving.

  She glanced down the hallway. Had she only imagined the footsteps? Wouldn’t the person have rounded the corner by now? Was it another coworker returning to their office?

  No. There hadn’t been any other lights on. All the doors had been closed. She looked at the number pad clicking off the floors then made for the stairwell. At least she’d have some control by taking the stairs. No surprises when the silver doors opened, and she could easily detour to another floor if she heard someone approaching from below.

  The heavy metal fire door clicked shut behind her as she bustled through, descending as fast as she could without making too much noise. She’d gotten two floors down when another click resonated through the air above her, followed by hurried steps.

  Bridgette raced down the stairs, sticking to the outer wall, in case anyone tried to see her over the railing. She didn’t stop, winding her way down to the bottom level. Why had she decided to park in the damn garage today? It was like asking to become a victim. But the rain had been falling in steady sheets, and she’d been too rushed to try and find a spot on the road or in a neighboring lot. So, she’d opted for the staff parking. A key-activated sensor and garage door were supposed to make the area secure. But no such thing existed. There were always ways in, and if someone wanted her bad enough, they would have found one.

  The exit door squeaked as she shoved on it, darting to her right once she’d cleared the small glass enclosure. Only a scattering of cars dotted the large space, a patchwork of shadows masking the glare of the overhead lights. She headed for the wall, keeping herself between it and the front of a few vehicles in case she needed to disappear. She’d made it halfway to her Jeep when the inner door bounced open.

  Bridgette hit the concrete, crouching behind the grill of a large Suburban. The plate caught on her pants, ripping a line across her hip. She cursed under her breath, yanking the fabric free then slowing peering around the left side of the SUV. A dark figure moved down the outer edge of the parking stalls, head swiveling from side to side.

  A man. No question. Wide, thick shoulders with a broad chest and narrow waist, the guy looked athletic beneath the snug black clothing and matching ski mask. As if he could chase her for hours and never get tired. Judging by the size of his biceps, she had no doubts that he packed one hell of a punch. The kind that would knock her out with only a single blow. Something glinted off one of the lights, the silver gleam winking at her.

  He had a gun, though the barrel looked strangely thick—shit. A suppressor. This guy meant business. He wasn’t there to threaten her. To beat a warning into her. He was there to kill her. Period.

  Bridgette weighed her options. She could call for help, but with the garage so empty, her voice was sure to echo. And the police wouldn’t be able to reach her before her stalker would.

  She could make a run for her Jeep. She was quick.

  Not faster than a bullet, girl. Think!

  It wouldn’t take the man long to figure out she’d hidden behind one of the available cars. All he’d have to do was systematically check. Her best bet was to double back. Wait until she had enough distance to dash inside the building. She could head upstairs and find another way out. Or hide in a bathroom while she called for help. Anything but sit there and wait for the asshole to shoot her.

  Footsteps.

  He was moving. Each step carefully orchestrated as if he’d done this a hundred times before. He stopped at every vehicle, checked underneath then moved on.

  Shit. He’d see her feet unless she could somehow balance on th
e bumper with her boots pressed to the wall. Sweat slicked her palms as she tried to judge how to bridge her weight, when a noise sounded from across the lot.

  The guy turned, staring into the deep shadows, his body rigid. Alert. She didn’t know how long he’d stay focused on other side of the garage. A second. Five. All night. She chanced it and quickly scrambled over to the bank of cars he’d already checked, doing her best to hide her feet behind the wheel on the left side.

  Silence stretched out, the utter nothingness making her heart pound. Could he hear it? She could. Frantically beating inside her chest—making it hard to breathe.

  A step.

  Continuing in the same direction. She matched his movements, shuffling toward the doorway every time he took a step—hoping to mask her sounds in his. He kept going, kept allowing her to get closer to the door, until she’d reached the last car. Bridgette crept to the tail end, stealing a look beneath the vehicle. Black boots faced away from here, the guy’s shadow stretching out like a snake behind him.

  She glanced at the doorway. Nothing but an oversized pillar stood between her and the glass. If he caught her movement, she’d be wide open. Bile crested her throat, burning at her resolve. One chance.

  She moved as soon as he took another step, surging to her feet then dashing behind the column. Her boots scuffed the cement, the dull sound echoing off the walls.

  He stopped.

  Damn. He’d heard her. She knew he had. Were those his footsteps toward her, now? Getting closer? Louder. She couldn’t check. Couldn’t risk he’d see her. She was pretty sure her body fit behind the pillar, but it wouldn’t keep her safe. And, soon, he’d be there. Beside her. Nothing but a couple feet of concrete between her and a bullet.