Page 14 of Logan

A sedan was parked in the neighbor’s driveway, and another small, energy-efficient black car was parked on the cul-de-sac.Looks like the terrorists already have visitors.Donald had reported that surveillance determined the terrorists spent several days a week at the university and traveled to the mosque in Fairbanks on Fridays.

Pulling into the driveway of the house he would be occupying, he parked with deliberate nonchalance, opting against concealing his presence.Might as well have them get used to seeing who’s here.Stalking to the side door with several grocery bags in his hands, he used the key Mary had received from the landlord and stepped inside.

Halting immediately in the small kitchen, he narrowed his eyes, momentarily uncertain he was in the right house. A used coffee cup sat on the counter next to a coffee maker that wasturned off but still contained the dark liquid. A few dishes were in the sink, rinsed but not put away. He cursed under his breath, pissed that no one had cleaned after the previous occupants.

Grimacing, he stepped farther into the kitchen, looking around at the scrub-worn countertops, wooden cabinets, and, glancing at his feet, the faded and yellowed linoleum floors. The appliances appeared to be clean but older models. Placing the bags onto the floor, he rounded the counter dividing the kitchen from the dining area, where a scarred wooden table with four mismatched chairs sat. His scrutiny moved sharply to the living room, pleased to see a clean, albeit worn sofa and two wooden chairs with thin, but also clean, cushions tied to the seats.

A faint floral scent lingered in the air, offering a feeble attempt at air freshener by the landlord who hadn’t bothered to clean the kitchen.

A wood-burning stove sat in the corner on a brick platform, surrounded by wooden plank flooring. An entertainment center held a not new but not ancient TV. To his right was a hall leading to what he knew were two bedrooms and one bathroom.

The front door was to his left, straight from the living room to the worn front porch. Sighing, he turned to go back to the truck to get the rest of his supplies when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

Cocking his head to the side, he listened carefully, hearing the faint noise of someone in one of the back rooms—not footsteps, but the sound of someone opening a drawer. Withdrawing his weapon from his holster, he moved stealthily down the hall. Quickly determining the sound came from the bedroom on the left, he glanced through the partially opened door. The person was behind the door, out of sight, but he heard a drawer being closed. Sliding slightly to the side, he peered through the crack in the door on the side of the hinges,seeing the intruder bent away from him, looking down at what appeared to be the chest of drawers.

With practiced ease, he flung open the door, causing them to stumble backward and lose their balance. With one arm, he flipped them onto their stomach across the bed and planted his hand on their back, growling, “Don’t move, asshole.”

The intruder was not only short but slight in stature, easily held in place by his hand. The fleeting idea of a teenager ran through his mind. He stared dumbly at the long, silky black hair tumbling across the bedspread, and the floral scent filled the room. The body underneath his hand grunted as they tried to breathe.

Jerking his head, with his hand still pressing down in the center of their back, he raked his gaze down his prisoner, seeing a dark green T-shirt that had ridden up over white panties with long, naked legs hanging over the bed.Fuckin’ hell…a woman!

Grabbing her right shoulder, he flipped her again so she was facing up. Her dark, wide eyes stared back at him, flicking to the side where the gun rested easily in his grip. Her chest rose and fell with each shaky gasp. She opened her mouth slightly, as though to speak, but closed it quickly as she glanced at the gun once more.

“Who the hell are you?” he growled, his rough voice filling the small bedroom.

“I…I’m Vivian.” Swallowing audibly, she cast a nervous glance toward the weapon again. “Vivian Sanders.”

9

Logan stared in silence, not bothering to hide his surprise at the realization that the woman on the bed was his biologist contact. From the rumpled bed linens, it appeared she had slept in the rental house.

Vivian’s eyes stayed on him, and she didn’t seem to breathe until his stance relaxed slightly. She swallowed deeply, and her voice shook as she said, “You now know who I am. I’d like the same consideration, please.”

With another glance, Logan stepped back from her legs, watching as her hand moved to the bottom of her T-shirt, pulling it down to cover her underwear. Glancing up, he saw the fear in her eyes. An uncomfortable guilt slid over him, an emotion he was unaccustomed to and immediately decided he hated. He stepped back quickly, keeping his gaze on her face. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. I’m Bishop. Logan Bishop.”

Her large eyes popped open even wider as she exclaimed, “You’re the man I’m supposed to be working with?” Pushing up on her elbows, she stared at him unabashedly before narrowing her eyes on the weapon. “Do you mind putting that thing away before you accidentally blow my head off?”

Irritation now moved into the already crowded emotions sweeping through him as he re-holstered the gun. “I assure you, when my gun goes off, it’s not by accident.”

Scooting to the edge of the bed and standing, Vivian skirted by him, returning to the chest of drawers to pull out a pair of jeans. She looked at him expectantly for a moment, but he wasn’t willing to turn his back until he verified her identity. Stepping just outside the room, he heard material shuffling around before a zipper sounded out.

Another drawer opened, and he hastily stepped back into the room to see what she was searching for, only to find she had simply retrieved a pair of thick green woolen socks. She sat on the edge of the bed and slipped them on each foot, wiggling her toes when finished. Fully dressed, she turned to him, but with the height difference, her eyes were at the level of his chest. She tilted her head back and held his gaze, offering no explanation as to why she was in his house.

She was a natural beauty, and in another time and place, he might have been tempted to flirt with her… if his flirting skills weren’t rusted over from unuse. Blinking at the random path his thoughts had taken just from being in her presence, he shoved them down, reminding himself this was a job and nothing more. Frustrated, he demanded, “Where were you?”

His voice sounded harsh, even to him, but her brow simply crinkled as she tilted her head to the side. “What do you mean, where was I?”

“You were supposed to meet me at the airport today so we could discuss arranging our work schedules.”

“Tomorrow. I was given your arrival date as tomorrow.”

“Today.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was told tomorrow. Sorry if your people can’t get things right.”

At that, he bristled. “My people? Listen, missy, you’ve?—”

“Missy? Oh, no, Mr. Bishop. You can call me Vivian or Ms. Sanders. Your choice. But if youMissyme again, we’re going to have problems.”

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