Page 2 of My Special Ops Neighbor
Heavy footsteps stopped just outside her door.
She dropped to a crouch beside her bed, just as her bedroom door exploded inward. Wood splintered around the frame as two men in tactical gear stormed through with body armor, assault rifles, faces hidden behind black balaclavas.
Now she understood. These weren't junkies or burglars or even security contractors hired to scare her. The weapons, the coordination, the professional equipment—these were killers.
They spotted her immediately, crouched behind her bed with nowhere to run.
"Found her," the first one announced, rifle swinging toward her position.
That's when she realized the weapons weren't just for intimidation. The way he aimed—center mass, professional stance—suggested these men weren't here to steal files or scare her into silence.
They were here to kill her.
Vincent moved.
His left hand shot out and twisted the first rifle barrel upward just as the weapon fired into her ceiling. Simultaneously, his right elbow drove back into the second attacker's face with brutal precision. The wet crunch of breaking cartilage filled the room as the man staggered backward, blood streaming from his shattered nose.
With the second attacker temporarily blinded, Vincent focused on the first. His grip shifted to the gunman's wrist and snapped it with a sound like breaking kindling. The rifle clattered across her floor as Vincent's hand moved to the man's throat, finding pressure points. The gunman's eyes rolled back and he collapsed.
The second attacker was shaking his head, trying to clear his vision and raise his weapon. Vincent spun toward him, grabbed the rifle barrel, and wrenched it from the man's grip before driving his fist into the gunman's solar plexus. The attacker doubled over, gasping, then crumpled as Vincent's knee connected with his temple. With a few more punches and kicks, both of the attackers were laid out flat on her bedroom floor.
Silence.
Vincent straightened, breathing hard but controlled. A thin line of blood traced down his jaw where the first attacker's fingernails had caught him during the struggle, but otherwise he looked like he'd just finished routine exercise instead of dismantling two professional killers..
Yvette stared at the motionless figures. Her hands shook so badly she could barely hold her laptop. Two men had come here to murder her, and Vincent had stopped them.
"Are you hurt?"
"I thought..." Words stuck in her throat. "I thought you were with them."
"That figures. You've been spying on me for weeks.”
She felt herself blush. Of course he'd noticed her surveillance. A man with his obvious skills would have spotted her amateur efforts immediately. She opened her mouth to protest, but yeah that was exactly what she had been doing.
"How did you know I was in trouble?" she asked.
"I heard the glass break from my garage. Then I saw them enter through your back door while you were upstairs. Two men, tactical gear, moving like a coordinated team. That's not a burglary."
“So you climbed up to my roof and vaulted through my window? Who are you, Spiderman?” she asked.
"Vincent Benoit.” He held out his hand to her. “Marine Raider. I design tactical gear for government contracts."
She shook it bemusedly.
“Of course, had you just come over and asked me what I was doing, I would have told you all that sooner.” He crouched beside the unconscious gunman, checking for more weapons. "Those sounds from my garage aren't fireworks or illegal firearms. I was doing ballistics tests."
Every assumption she'd made crumbled. The midnight deliveries, the equipment, the explosive sounds had all been legitimate defense contractor work. Her data had been accurate, but her interpretation had been completely wrong.
"I feel like an idiot."
"Don’t. I’m not exactly your friendly neighborhood watch.”
"But why aren't you with your unit?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. "Marine Raiders don't usually work alone."
His jaw tightened. "I'm out. Medical discharge after my last deployment. Nowadays, I build equipment that keeps soldiers alive." His expression hardened as he looked at the blood spreading across her floor. "These weren't burglars. Burglars don't carry assault rifles or coordinate entry points. They came here to kill you, Yvette."
Her stomach dropped. Kill. The word echoed in her mind, impossible to process. People didn't get murdered for auditing defense contracts. They got angry letters from lawyers, maybe reassigned to less sensitive cases.
