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“I came by here first before catching you at the tour.” Mitch planted his feet, his gaze steady on the front of her house. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.
Cath dashed across the street with her key.
Mitch vaulted the steps and blocked access.
She tapped his arm. “If you don’t mind.”
“You’re not going inside until I check things first.” He held her off and splayed his fingers on the wood. The door drifted open.
They could have been at the mouth of a cave. Total blackness gaped at them from within. A pair of night-vision goggles would sure come in handy because the chill rippling over him had nothing to do with the frigid night.
Cath caught his gaze and shrugged. “Maybe he’s already gone.”
“Assumptions are dangerous.” He tucked her tighter behind him. “Let’s not take that chance.”
Snick. Crack.
“What was that?” She lifted a hand to her cheek.
Whatever it was, was too damned close. Mitch’s throat closed. If he hadn’t pulled her away, he’d be making another 911 call this minute. A slice of exposed wood shone against the weather-darkened door. “Someone shot a splinter off the jamb.”
“Les doesn’t have a gun.”
“He could have found one and come back.” Mitch visualized the interior of her house. Couch on the right. Coffee table in front narrowing the path to the kitchen with the beaded curtain. He’d noticed another doorway on the left behind a stuffed chair. A bedroom?
Cath tugged on his sleeve. “But he’s not violent.”
“I’ve got a bloody T-shirt, remember?” Mitch whispered.
Her gaze dropped to his chest.
“That wasn’t an ordinary firearm.” Hired guns or soldiers on secret missions used a noise suppressor. Either Hurley had armed himself with one or they were dealing with a stranger—and a damned good shot.
Mitch would clear the house the same as he had mud huts in the Sandbox, but he needed to act fast to catch the shooter off guard. He sent Cath his sternest glare, one she should instantly understand. There was no time to argue. “Find someplace to hide. Quick.”
She took off. Gun in hand, he crashed the door back against the wall and entered her house. “Surrender. I’ve got you covered.”
A solid kick closed the door behind him. Mitch swept the room with his weapon before crouching behind the armchair. “You’re corner—” He shut his mouth. Hurley wouldn’t understand.
Yeah, but this could be someone else.
Mitch waited for his vision to adjust. The room gradually took on a gray dimness. He crept around the furniture, ready for an attacker to jump out in front of him. No one did.
The doorways to the kitchen and the bedroom made blacker squares against the gloom of the front room. The intruder could have fled or could be lying in wait. Clear the house first.
The scuff of a shoe broke the silence. In the bedroom.
Mitch flattened against the wall next to the doorway. With his SIG in both hands, he waited another second, then entered in a crouch.
A blow smashed his gun hand. His weapon clattered to the floor. His lungs filled with the stench of musk a nanosecond before a beefy arm clutched his throat in a headlock.
He had only two minutes. Then he’d run out of air. Training propelled him onto autopilot. He gouged at his attacker’s eyes with one hand. Groped for the guy’s balls with the other and squeezed. A scream nearly deafened him, but the arm around his neck loosened, allowing Mitch to tuck. Mitch slammed an elbow into the guy’s gut, swung a leg back between his attacker’s, and dropped him to the floor.
His attacker rolled and lashed out with a boot. Gut-punched, Mitch banged into the wall. A bullet punched a hole above his head. The air swished, and the gunman fled.
Mitch struggled to his feet, his breaths coming in gasps.
The colored beads in the curtain glimmered. Four steps took him into the kitchen and the cold night air blasting through the open back door. He raced outside and around to the alley like he had only hours ago. This time the iron bars of the gate at the other end slowly swung closed.