Boone put his arm around her shoulders as they walked to his truck, which was a comfort, but the news was simply too unsettling, for both of them.
“He was a good friend,” she said.
“Yeah, he was.”
“I’m so sorry, Boone.”
He nodded as he opened the rear door for Milo. “Me, too.”
They drove back in that zigzag way of his, taking side streets and odd turns. Christie watched him as he checked the mirrors. He had to turn more with one eye swollen shut, and she was sorry she’d ever gotten him involved in this mess. “Did they find anything at Dan’s house?”
Boone looked at her, then back at the road. “Not much. No equipment. The only thing that could be something is that he owned a number of properties. One of them isn’t far from where you live.”
“So you think he set up there?”
“Maybe. It makes sense. He had to have listened from somewhere, and he couldn’t have been living in the crawl space.”
She thought about that, about how Dan had been in her house. It was worse than the cameras. And now, to find out he’d killed Boone’s friend…It was insane. How could he have found out what Larry was doing? Where he lived? Probably the same way he’d gotten to the IRS.
“I’ve, uh, got some money put aside,” Boone said. “It’s not a lot, but it should get you through until you can get back on your feet.”
Unexpected tears welled and for a moment she couldn’t speak. She wished she’d brought some tissues, but used her thumbs instead, wiping her cheeks as she tried to get it together. After a couple of false starts, she touched his arm. “Thank you, but I’ll figure it out. I can always be a waitress. I got through college that way, right?”
“Well, it’s there if you want it.”
“I appreciate that more than you can know.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek.
He grabbed her hand and held on to it until they pulled up in front of her house.
Milo raced to the door and waited impatiently for Christie and Boone. She didn’t care. She lingered by the truck until Boone came around. He kissed her, and she wished his mouth wasn’t so sore. When his arm came around her shoulders, she leaned into his body, taking comfort while she still could. They walked slowly, in no hurry to get to the trouble ahead. At least they’d had this amazing day. Something she could look back on when Boone was gone.
They walked in together, Milo squeezing between them, making Christie smile. But as the door closed, Milo stopped, ears up, a low growl setting off her internal alarm. She turned to Boone but she stopped dead still. A man, tall, in an expensive looking suit, walked out of her kitchen. He had a gun and it was pointed at her head.
“Stop right there, Garret,” the man said, “or she dies.”
Christie turned to find another man taking Boone’s gun out of his hand, and a third standing in the living room. “Who are you?” she asked, every bit of the terror she’d known coming back, with interest.
“I think your friend Garret knows the answer to that. Why don’t you two come in and sit down. And Christie, if you don’t control your dog, we will.” He gestured meaningfully with his gun.
Christie, shaking and bewildered, got hold of Milo’s collar and followed Boone to the couch. They’d left the living room light on before dinner, and the men hadn’t turned on any others. She sat as close to Boone as she could and tried to see a way out, but one man, a big guy who looked like a defensive lineman, had them covered from the kitchen door. Another, this one slimmer, but ugly, stood on the other side of the well-dressed man. Both of them had silencers on their weapons, and she could see Boone’s gun sticking out of the waistband of the ugly guy’s pants.
She turned her attention to the talker. “Who’s Garret?”
The man smiled at her, chilling her to her toes. “You mean he hasn’t told you? Your boyfriend here isn’t Boone Ferguson. He’s Garret Edwards, currently wanted by the U.S. government for high treason. Isn’t that right, Garret?”
“I know that’s a lie,” Christie said.
“Of course you do. And I imagine you’re going to tell me that you don’t know where your brother is.” He walked across to the drapes and peeked out between them. When he turned again, his expression had hardened. “So we’ll make this easy.” He nodded at the man by the kitchen. “Gordon.”
Gordon lifted his weapon and before Christie could even gasp, he shot Boone in the thigh. She screamed as Boone slumped forward, his strangled cry tearing into her like a knife.
“What are you doing?” She let go of Milo’s collar to reach for Boone, but the ugly man raised his gun to shoot, and she grabbed Milo before he could get loose. Her dog was insane, barking, lunging at the man who’d shot Boone, but Christie held on.
Boone sat up, his hands pressing tightly on his thigh, which was covered in thick, red blood. He stared at the talking man. “Nate Pratchett is dead.”
The man sighed. “My associate has no qualms about shooting your other thigh. Then your kneecaps. Followed by your shoulders. Are we clear?”
“He is dead,” Christie said, desperate to make him believe her and leave them alone. “I was there. I saw him die in the explosion with my own eyes.”
“Christie, please. Don’t be obtuse. We exhumed the bones. We know your brother wasn’t killed in that explosion. We also know that he has something that doesn’t belong to him, and we want it back.”
“That’s not true,” she said, again.
“Dan,” Boone said, his voice tight with pain. “Dan Prescott was your man.”
“Very good, Garret. Although some of my colleagues thought his approach was too esoteric, I thought it had merit. And in the end, look what it’s brought us. Half your team. I’d say it was quite a success, despite his personal obsession.”
“She doesn’t know anything,” Boone said, his face contorted by old wounds and fresh pain. “She has no idea who any of us are, and she doesn’t know a thing about Nate being alive. Let her go. You have me. You got to Larry. And I’m sure you’ll find Bill and Jamie, if you haven’t already. So let her go.”
“Once more, Christie,” the talker said, moving toward the other end of the living room. He touched a photograph of her family on the mantel. “Where’s your brother?”
“He’s buried at the veteran’s cemetery in Westwood.”
“All right,” the man said. “Have it your way.” He turned to the man closest to Boone. “Alex, if you would.”
Alex took a bead on Boone’s other leg, but before he could shoot, Milo ripped his way free and jumped over the coffee table, slamming into the gunman. The weapon dropped as Milo sunk his teeth into the man’s wrist.
Christie didn’t stop to think—she leapt after Milo, landing painfully on her side. She saw the gun and grabbed it, pointing at Alex, who was hitting Milo with both hands.
“Christie!” Boone shouted and she turned in time to see Gordon aim his gun at her dog. She lifted the weapon and squeezed the trigger twice. With surprisingly little noise, Gordon slid down the wall, leaving a wide smear of blood.
Behind her she heard a shout, and when she turned, Boone was on top of the talking man, his blood staining the expensive suit, and they were struggling, turning, so that even when she pointed the gun again, she didn’t dare shoot because she would hit Boone.
Milo’s ferocious growls made her turn. The ugly man’s face was wet with blood, and he was screaming. Behind her, the man by the kitchen was on the ground, and there was blood there, too.