Fan the Flames (4 page)

She half-expected the crack of a firearm, but there was nothing. She moved quickly across the exposed section until she reached the fence. Feeling almost as vulnerable next to the fence as she had walking across the snowdrifts, Rory hurried toward the gate, her eyes constantly scanning her surroundings.

When she got close enough to see the padlock, her breath stalled. She jogged the final few steps to the gate for a closer look. Although it and the chain were intact, the lock had been flipped over to the other side, so it hung in the small crack between the gates. Frowning, Rory eyed the ground in front of the gate, but plowing, tire tracks, and a warming sun had reduced the snow on her drive to a patchy assortment of icy clumps. There was no way to leave boot prints in what remained.

Someone had tried to break into her home. Bile rose in her throat as she retraced her steps along the west fence. This time, she concentrated on the snowdrifts just beyond the boundary line, but there were no breaks in the even crust. Although she knew she should open the gate and explore the area beyond her fence for evidence that someone had been there, her caution overruled her curiosity. She circled around the pole barn to her line of pine trees, instead.

Her feet kept wanting to run, but she kept her pace even and deliberate, thanks to relentless childhood drills. Her gaze moved constantly, her head turning so she could catch any threat before it jumped out at her. But when the shop door grew closer, she let out a silent exhale of relief. As she took another step toward home, she heard it—the muffled sound of snow falling…or being knocked…from an evergreen bough.

She whirled, pulling her Python from her pocket as she crouched behind the closest concealment—a squatty pine tree. Peering through the branches frantically, she tried to get a glimpse of whoever was approaching. Between her pounding heart and her rapid, shallow breaths, she couldn't hear anything else, and frustration at her inability to stay calm vied with fear.

Movement at the edge of her peripheral vision brought her head and her gun around to focus on the oncoming threat. A low-lying shadow shifted, morphing into the shape of her dog.

Her breath came out in an audible whoosh. She didn't return her revolver to her pocket, though. Instead, she kept it out and ready until she and Jack were inside the shop, and the back door was closed and locked.

Only after she was inside her underground bunker-home, all locks secured and alarms set, did she reluctantly place the Python in its drawer. Rory would've liked to hang on to the gun, since her nerves steadied when her fingers clutched the familiar grip. She kept reminding herself that she was safe in her home. No one could get through the steel door at the top of the stairs.

Still, with the gun tucked in its drawer, she felt a little naked, her fingers twitchy without something to hold. She turned the burner on under the now-cool soup, making a face. Her fruitless walk around the property had not reassured her. Something had set off the alarm, and the lock hadn't moved on its own. Not knowing what—or who—had triggered the motion sensor made her stomach jumpy and destroyed any trace of hunger.

Once the soup was hot, she forced herself to eat it, despite her clamped-down belly. Ingrained childhood lessons stuck with her, even though her parents had been dead for three years now. Part of being prepared was keeping her body rested, fed, and strong, so she'd be ready for whatever came next. A nervous stomach was no excuse not to nourish her body.

Once she was halfway through a bowl, though, even those hammered-in lessons couldn't keep her eating, and she gave the rest of her soup to Jack. After measuring out his nightly ration of dog food and dumping it in his bowl, she tried to get lost in the thriller she was currently reading.

Within twenty minutes of reading and rereading the same two sentences, she gave up and tossed the book onto the end table. She lasted another five minutes before she hurried over to the desk and pulled out the Python.

Returning to the couch, she held the revolver and let her mind bounce from scenario to scenario. It wasn't helpful, she knew that, but she still couldn't stop. When her eyelids started to droop, she carried the handgun into her bedroom.

The Python stayed on her bedside table that night. Before she drifted to sleep, she gave a humorless smile. Some little girls had teddy bears. Growing up, she'd learned to find her comfort in weapons.

A psychologist would have a field day with her.

Rory narrowed her eyes at Billy. Despite his MC president's patch and the scar that spread like a sunburst over his left eyebrow, the guy looked a lot like Santa. His hair and full beard were white, and his middle had settled into a definite gut. He should've appeared harmless…but he didn't. There was nothing harmless about Billy.

“Any idea who was lurking around my place last night?” Rory asked, watching carefully for his reaction. Her hands were sweating, but she was happy that none of her nerves about confronting Billy were evident in her voice.

Billy's face showed nothing except for irritation. “No.”

“How about you?” Her gaze turned to Zup, who was standing just behind and to the side of his father.

“No.” He sounded sulky, but Rory didn't see any signs of guilt or evasion.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” the third man, Rave, demanded. “
You're
the princess bitch, jerking Zup around, telling him you'll sell him the rifle, and then deciding you won't. Now you're accusing us of stalking you or some shit—” He broke off when Billy lifted his hand without looking at Rave.

“She asked, and we answered. It's done.” Billy raised his bushy white eyebrows, but the stiff scar tissue on the left side didn't allow his skin to wrinkle. It looked as if he'd had Botox injections in only half his forehead. The flatness this lent to his expressions added to the feeling of menace radiating from him. “What's not done is the situation with the rifle.”

Rory crossed her arms and propped a hip on her stool, feigning confidence. She'd dealt with the MC long enough to know it was best not to let them know they could get to her. “I gave Zup a considerable amount of time to make up his mind on whether he wanted the Kel-Tec or not. When he couldn't decide on his own, I made an executive decision.”

Turning his frown on his son, Billy demanded, “What was the problem? I told you to come here, take a look at the SUB 2000, and then buy it if it was in decent shape. Kel-Tec guns are a pain in the ass to find—plus this one is a ghost. Was it defective? Did Rory ask too much for it? What kind of fucking decisions did you have to make?”

Zup flushed and lowered his gaze, appearing to drop a decade in age as he muttered at the floor. “It's just…fuckin' ugly.”

The irreverent part of Rory's brain, the part that wasn't occupied with the almost unbearable tension that came from being trapped in a room with three pissed-off Liverton Riders, waited for him to mention how the pipe wasn't comfortable on his cheek. He must've had a tiny bit of sense, though, since he stayed quiet after that.

“What the hell?” Billy reached up and smacked Zup across the back of the head, ignoring the fact that his son had four inches and fifty pounds on him. “Ugly? Since when do we give a shit if something is pretty? If we did, your ass wouldn't be in the club, would it?”

Casting his son a final glower, Billy turned to Rory. “Well, show me this ‘ugly' rifle, then.”

With a tip of her head, indicating that they should follow her, she led the way into the back room. The back of her neck prickled as her instincts screamed for her to
never
turn her back on those men, but she had to do it to show them they didn't intimidate her.

Since she'd been expecting Billy and company to show that morning, she'd already taken the Kel-Tec rifle, still snug in its case, out of the hidden compartment in the top of the cabinet where she kept the less-legal merchandise. It was sitting on top of the table where she cleaned firearms. Walking over to the rifle, she unlatched the case and opened it, turning it toward Billy as if she were showing off precious jewelry.

Giving a satisfied nod, Billy picked up the rifle and unfolded it, running experienced hands over the gun. “How much?”

“If it were a normal SUB 2000, I'd say five,” she said. Her stomach twisted again as she spoke. Rory always hated bargaining, especially with Billy. She just wanted the sale to be done and these three hard-eyed men out of her store. She should've just sold the gun to Zup in the first place, but she'd let irritation win. “Since it's untraceable, let's go with twelve.”

“Eight.”

“One thousand.”

“Done, if you throw in two boxes of ammo.”

“One box.”

“Fine.” He twisted his head so he could glare at Zup, who was leaning against the wall next to the door. His expression hadn't changed. “See how simple that was? Now Rory has the cash, and we have the rifle. Easy-fucking-peasy.”

Zup didn't answer. He just glared at the gun.

“I don't know why we keep dealing with this temperamental bitch,” Rave grumbled, as if Rory wasn't even in the room.

“Feel free to shop at Walmart instead,” she shot back. Her nerves were stretched almost to the breaking point, which made her snappy.

“Better just to take you out,” Rave said so flatly, so matter-of-factly, that Rory knew he could kill her with little remorse.

“I said that's enough!” Billy barked. “Rory's not the problem. If my son had pulled his head out of his ass when he was here yesterday, this wouldn't have been a fucking issue.”

Zup slammed out of the back room, followed closely by Rave. As they left, Billy tucked the rifle back in its case, apparently unbothered by the other men's anger.

“Like two hormonal teenage girls,” he grumbled, but then grinned at her. Somehow, that friendly smile just made him all the more unsettling. “Have anything else worth checking out back here?”

“I just got a SwissMiniGun,” she told him, the thought of her new acquisition making her relax slightly. “It's up front.”

His smile faded into a grumpy pout. The resemblance between father and son was suddenly striking. “One of those tiny things? Why would I want to see that?”

“Because it's an engineering marvel.” When he continued to frown at her, Rory snorted. “Why do guys only like the big stuff?”

“Overcompensation,” he said, straight-faced.

She forgot how dangerous Billy was for just a few seconds as she laughed.

* * *

“I want the little one,” the woman whined, pointing at the Phoenix HP22A while tugging on Phil's arm with her other hand. “It's cute.”

Phil winced slightly. “You need something with more stopping power than a .22. A .38 at the minimum. Better to go with a nine millimeter.”

His latest fling was obviously not listening. “Do you have anything with some bling? Something flashy, with crystals, maybe?” she asked Rory, who suppressed a grimace with enormous effort. It wasn't as if she wasn't used to this. Phil, one of the rescue dive-team members, dragged his latest infatuation into her shop every couple of months, and he definitely had a type—blond, stacked, and high-maintenance.

“No.” Rory couldn't hold still anymore. She gave up her position perched on her stool and paced behind the counter. Phil was a great customer, but after spending the past half hour dealing with his newest girlfriend, Rory's patience was fraying.

Phil gave her an apologetic look and tried to tug the blond woman away from the “cute” gun that had caught her fancy. “Maybe a Glock 17,” he suggested, not for the first time.

She pulled the same face she'd made when he'd first pointed it out to her. “It's so plain and…masculine looking. I want something with a little more flair.”

“There's nothing with flair here,” Rory said flatly, ignoring Phil's pleading look. After a sleepless night and dealing with Billy, Zup, and Rave that morning, Rory was quickly reaching the end of her rope.

“Do you have a restroom?” the woman asked, and Rory wordlessly pointed to the door clearly marked “restroom” in the corner.

Phil's girlfriend giggled. “Oh! There it is!” She headed toward it, taking small steps in her four-inch heels. Rory wasn't sure how she'd made it across the gravel parking lot in those shoes. Maybe Phil carried her.

As soon as the door to the bathroom closed behind her, Rory turned her glare on Phil.

“I know! I know!” he said in a hushed voice, his hands raised defensively. “She's really sweet, though.”

“Phil,” Rory said between gritted teeth, “I don't care who you date. I don't care that she's the fiftieth blond clone you've dragged in here. If that's who you want to be with, more power to you. But you need to quit
arming
these women!”

“She needs to know how to protect herself,” he protested, his voice still quiet as he kept one eye on the closed restroom door.

Rory took a calming breath. “Phil. I'm all for everyone understanding how to handle and shoot guns. If I thought for one second she would take that cute, blinged-out pistol to the range, treat it responsibly, and become a competent shot, that's one thing. But it's a whole 'nother ball of wax if she walks around with a loaded gun in her purse and has no clue how to use it. She thinks it's a fashion accessory!”

“I'll teach her.” Phil was so earnest it was almost painful to look at him. “She can use that shooting range down the road from the station, and I'll give her tips and…” He trailed off, hope fading from his expression. “She'll never do that, will she?”

Shaking her head, Rory reached over the counter to give his slumped shoulder a quick pat. “You need to either appreciate these women for who they are, or date someone who enjoys the same things you do. Quit trying to change them into NRA Barbies, for God's sake.”

Although he nodded, she fully expected he'd return in a couple of months with a new trophy woman looking for a bedazzled handgun.

The front door flew open just as Phil's girlfriend emerged from the bathroom. As soon as Rory saw the blond's predatory expression, she knew who'd arrived, even before Ian started bellowing.

“What the fuck, Ror?” He charged behind the counter and caught her shoulders, eyeing her up and down as if checking for damage. “Billy said someone broke in here last night?”

“Ian. Customers.”

When Ian glanced at the couple watching their interplay with keen interest, Phil's girlfriend gave him a flirty wave. Without responding or reacting in any way, he turned back to Rory. “It's not customers. It's just Phil. Tell me what happened.”

“And I thought
I
was supposed to be the rude one,” Rory muttered, glancing at Phil. He, thankfully, looked more amused than anything, although his girlfriend appeared miffed at Ian's blow-off.

“Rory.” He gave her a small shake. “Details. Now.”

“Ian.” Grabbing his wrists, she pried them off her shoulders and brought them back to his sides. “Stop trying to bruise my brain. It's none of your business.”

He actually growled.

“We'll just be going, then,” Phil said, ushering his girlfriend toward the door. “See you at the station, Ian.”

“I thought you were going to buy me a gun,” the blond protested.

“You heard the owner,” Phil said, glancing over his shoulder as he opened the door and shooting Rory a wink. “There's nothing with flair here.”

His girlfriend's response was lost as the door closed behind them.

Ignoring Phil's farewell and the pair's departure, Ian leveled an impassive stare at Rory. “At least tell me if you were hurt.”

“No. I'm fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest. The events of the previous night had pushed her sexy Ian dream to the back of her mind where it belonged. It was a relief to be able to talk normally to him again. “Whoever it was didn't get past the front gate.”

That seemed to calm him down a little, although a muscle in his cheek was still twitching with tension. “Good. Any idea who it was?”

“My main people of interest, Billy and Zup, denied it, so no.”

Ian began pacing. “I don't like it. First someone dumped that body in Mission Reservoir, and then Lou's stalker burned her cabin and tried to kill Callum. And now someone's lurking around your compound? Seriously bad sh—uh, stuff keeps happening around here.”

“The stalker is dead, though,” Rory said, attempting to make her tone soothing, but probably failing miserably. She'd never been very good at soothing. “Wasn't he an ex-boyfriend of hers from back East? That has nothing to do with someone testing the lock on my gate.”

He came to a stop and folded his arms across his chest, mirroring her stance. “I still don't like you being out here by yourself.”

She couldn't hold back a laugh as she swung an arm, indicating the shop and all its contents. “Right. Me, by myself, with hundreds of guns, knives, and other weapons. I think I'll be all right.”

His gaze swept over the store, but he didn't look any happier. “I wish you'd tell me where your apartment is. We're friends. I should know where you live.”

“You do know where I live.”

“I have a general idea. Friends should know
specifically
where their friends live. There are only two doors in the back room—that one,” he pointed to the opening between the front and back rooms, “and one that leads outside. Do you stay in the pole barn? In some pit you dug under the chicken coop?”

“No.” Her stomach jumped at the idea of anyone but her or her parents knowing about the underground bunker. That had been the first rule drilled into her head as a child: trust no one, not even friends. Not that she'd been allowed to have friends until her parents were gone.

Not that she had any friends besides Ian.

Trying to hide her panic, she turned the conversation toward him. “What's with you, anyway? Why'd you come blasting in here, all crazed just because I had a wannabe trespasser?”

He eyed her for a long moment, and she was worried that her distraction hadn't worked. After a long silence, he finally spoke—although about a completely random topic. “I remember seeing you for the first time at the grocery store when we were kids.”