Page 40 of Shadow Blind

“It’s like the runway sits outside all the weather systems.” Cosky cocked his head, a frown pulling at his forehead. “It can snow up a blizzard in Talkeetna, yet not a flake up here.”

All of which sounded like bullshit to Aiden. An invisible airstrip? Protected from wind, rain, and snow, and sitting outside the regular weather systems, like it occupied a different dimension?

Pure crazy talk.

There had to be some explanation for this mysterious airstrip, a lucid one, regardless of what his formerly rational buddies were claiming.

Chapter seventeen

Day 7

Coronado, California

By the time Demi reached the door, her heart was racing, and her skin felt like ice. The pep talk had sped up, rather than reduced her fear. She sucked down several deep breaths, but the effort to calm herself had no effect on her racing heart or clammy skin.

Another thunderous knock sounded, followed by a loud voice. “Ms. Barnes. We need to speak to you. This is better done face-to-face.”

Now, that sounded ominous.

She stirred, forcing herself to take another deep breath. Ignoring them wouldn’t work if they planned to pick her lock and let themselves into her home.

“Just a second,” she yelled at the door.

How was she supposed to distract them until Aiden’s friends arrived? Her frantic mind locked on the primary source of her frustration over the past few days. The furry demon. The seed of an idea unfurled. The little monster would make an excellent distraction. She’d just have to make sure he didn’t get hurt. Although the people caring for the feline demon were the ones who ended up bleeding, not that stinker of a cat.

Which felt like karmic justice. Let the animal slice and dice the men at her door. It would serve them right. Squaring her shoulders, she rubbed her sweaty hands against her jean-clad thighs and reached for the door handle.

You’ve got this, Demi. No problem. Just pretend you were distracted by the cat.

After one final deep breath, she unlocked the door. As she jerked it open, she assumed an annoyed expression. “Did you have to make so much noise? You scared Trident—” she tossed the name out. Huh. Looks like the cat has a name now. “—off before he swallowed his medication.”

The tall, gaunt man standing directly in front of her door stared at the blood trickling down her scratched-up arms. A startled look flickered across his long, lined face. After a moment, he shook himself. Basset hound eyes rose to meet her gaze and his face folded into a mournful expression.

“Ms. Barnes?” He didn’t wait for her confirmation, just plowed right into fake introductions. “I’m Lieutenant DeLeon with Coronado Naval Base, specifically SEAL Team 7, and this is Father Darien Grant, the base chaplain.” He tilted his head to his left, indicating the dark-haired, muscle packed guy with dead eyes standing to his left.

That second introduction convinced Demi Aiden hadn’t been exaggerating about the danger. Those empty eyes didn’t belong to a priest. They belonged to a serial killer.

“May we speak with you?” The stick of a man asked, putting enough sympathy in his voice to make her teeth ache. “It’s about Aiden Winchester.”

She drew in an exaggerated, sharp breath and strove for a worried expression. “Is he alright?”

This seemed like the appropriate question for someone who was in a relationship with a SEAL and had a base officer and chaplain unexpectedly show up at her door.

“I’m afraid not,” stick man said, his voice excreting copious amounts of saccharine sympathy.

“Oh, no! Oh, no!” she added the second exclamation for effect. “What happened? I just talked to him and—”

“When was that?” muscle man interrupted; his voice flat.

“I don’t know. A week ago, I guess.” Since signs of agitation were in order, she wrung her hands and rambled on, trying to sound as scattered as possible. “He Zoomed with me from some tent in God knows where. He never said where he was. He never tells me anything.” A hint of genuine anger touched her voice. She forced it back. Someone in fear for their boyfriend’s life wouldn’t be expressing resentment. “Is he okay?” She instantly shook her head and pressed her hands to her cheeks. “He’s not, is he? You already said he wasn’t okay. What happened to him? How bad is he hurt?”

She didn’t hide the shake in her voice or her trembling hands. They’d attribute the reaction to the bad news they’d just delivered.

“It’s bad.” Mr. Muscles’s voice was as dead as his eyes. “He’s not expected to survive. He’s asking for you.”

Stick man pasted on a fraudulently sympathetic smile. The sugary tinge to his fake compassion was discomforting, like fingernails raking down a chalkboard. She hoped he attributed her slight recoil to the news he’d delivered.

“Of course…of course…” She stumbled back and turned, leaving the door wide open. “Let me get my purse and phone—”

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