Page 16 of Nick
Standing outside Gracie’s apartment, he glanced at her large front window, covered with sheer curtains. While they obscured a direct view inside, he was still able to make out the silhouettes of her and Rafe standing inside her living room.
“Grant Calvin is checking out a couple persons of interest who might hold a grudge against my part in putting them away. I’m waiting to hear back, but one name has my gut telling me it’s him.”
“What’s his name?” Antonio’s calm tone gave nothing away, but Nick knew if he was in the other man’s shoes, he’d be chomping at the bit to find out who’d put his name at the top of the hit list.
“Simon Norville. Man has reason to hold a grudge against me. He ended up in a wheelchair, paralyzed during his arrest. He’s a bona fide computer expert, though he’s supposed to be locked down from using any electronics. Still, we both know with enough money, even in prison, you can get pretty much anything you want.”
“You feel this is the guy?”
“Intellectually, my brain says yes. He’s not the one who followed me from Melbourne, but he could have hired somebody to take me out.”
“What are the odds he hired someone from Australia to come to the States to carry out his orders? If he’s as good with a computer as you say, he’d have access to the Dark Web and could hire a seasoned professional to take you out.”
Nick rubbed a hand over his face and leaned against the wall by Gracie’s front door. He was getting bloody tired of watching his back every minute of every day, waiting for a sniper to take him out. Except he felt like Norville was playing a long game. Baiting him like a cat with a mouse, toying with him and watching him squirm. If it was only him, he’d set a trap using himself as bait to draw the killer out and take care of the problem. But Ms. Patti and Douglas were involved. Norville had seen to that when the hitman followed him onto Boudreau property. His wasn’t the only back he had to protect, and it was making him twitchy.
“Checked the scene where the shooter took the shot and hit you; it was clean as a whistle. Nothing to show anybody had been there. Not even a shoeprint in the dirt. We know the bullet was meant for me. I’m just sorry you got hit instead.”
“Stop beating yourself up over it. I’m fine. Clean bill of health from the surgeon. I’ll get to go back to work. Officially, I can’t investigate this, because I’m directly involved, but I’ve got my boss, Derrick Williamson, unofficially looking into a couple of mercenaries who came onto the radar, flying into Texas.”
Nick straightened as the front door to Gracie’s apartment opened. “Send me those names, I’ll see if I recognize anybody. I’ve got to go. Talk to you later.”
Rafe stepped outside. “You call me immediately if you hear from Brewster again, Gracie. And I’ll let you know what I find out about the phone. Sure you won’t let me have somebody posted outside, keeping an eye on the place?”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Rafe. I’ll be fine. Like you said, Jeremy is still in Huntsville. The warden is going to order extra surveillance on him. His parole hearing isn’t for a couple more weeks. I’ll call you, I promise, if he tries to get in touch again.”
Nick watched Rafe pull Gracie into a quick hug. “Lock up behind us.”
“Yes, sir, Sheriff Boudreau.” Her cheeky grin had the corners of Nick’s mouth ticking upward. At least she wasn’t trembling and scared, like she’d been when they got there.
And he’d make sure that nobody bothered her tonight. Rafe might not be able to put somebody outside her apartment, but there was nothing stopping him from keeping a friendly eye out, now was there?
CHAPTER EIGHT
Dusky twilight surroundedthe building, accentuating the golden glow shining through the window Nick currently had his camera pointed toward. Seated in a nondescript, dark-colored sedan parked across the street from the apartment he was staking out, he watched the unit, waiting for its owner to arrive home. As much as he hated stakeouts, they were a necessary evil in his business. Undercover work usually meant lots of long nights, stale coffee, and microwave-heated burritos loomed in his future, unless his intended target showed up soon.
The clock on the dash flipped minute after minute, and he squirmed on the uncomfortable seat, wishing he could’ve used his own vehicle instead of this hunk of junk. But discretion and invisibility were key to hiding in plain sight, and his brand-new, high-priced pickup would’ve stood out like the proverbial sore thumb in this neighborhood. His borrowed nondescript sedan tended to blend into the background and wouldn’t warrant a second glance. Anybody living in this apartment complex wouldn’t think twice about a ten-year-old, low-end sedan with rust spots and a ding in the driver’s door.
His diligence and patience finally paid off. The brunette he’d been waiting for climbed the staircase to the second floor. Her apartment was in an older building, built decades before the idea of apartments being enclosed and contained inside high rises, where the sunlight and moonlight remained hidden beyond the concrete walls. It reminded him of an older motel, converted for apartment use, with a large bay window next to the front door.
He couldn’t help noticing Gracie’s shoulders were slumped and there was an air of weariness enveloping her. Within minutes, light blossomed through the sheer off-white curtains framing the living-room window. The long-range telephoto lens angled toward his intended target, and he hoped he’d catch his unwary prey spotlighted within its frame. A tingle of excitement whispered at the corners of his mind, and his lips curved up. Anticipation jolted through his body, adrenaline like a shot of whiskey coursing through his blood.
Movement drew his eye to the apartment’s window. Holding his breath, he silently urged his quarry to come out and play. Ambient golden light silhouetted her shape like an apparition from a medieval fairy tale—or a nightmare—depending on how much you knew about the lady currently in his crosshairs.
Grasping a glass in one hand, she eased open her front door and left it ajar, moving to stand against the railing in front of her apartment. He almost wished she had a balcony. That might have afforded her a little privacy, maybe a bit of quiet away from the harsh realities that somebody like Jeremy Brewster was after her.
Resting her forearms along the top rail, her gaze appeared focused on the distant skyline. Darkness rapidly approached, the sky a swirl of muted colors, but he could still make out her face and form clearly through the unblinking lens of the camera. With her eyes closed and her face raised toward the dwindling sunlight, he studied every nuance, every subtle movement, looking for something, anything to make his job easier.
She looks tired.
Zooming in, he focused on her face, noted the way the light breeze played with the few loose tendrils that had worked free from her messy bun. The mahogany brown strands trailed across her cheek, and she brushed it back. He knew when her hair fell loose, it curled over her shoulders, lush and enticing.
Wonder if it feels as silky as it looks?
Without thought, his finger depressed the shutter-release button, snapping several quick photos in succession, the normally inaudible click, click, click from the camera annoyingly loud inside the confines of the vehicle. Lowering the camera, Nick took a deep breath, reaching for the Zen-like calm he practiced each morning during his meditation sessions. He wouldn’t allow himself to be fooled by a pretty face again. As beautiful as Gracie appeared, the stacks of evidence forwarded to Rafe from the San Antonio district attorney’s office pointed to her being up to her pretty little neck in the whole mess with Brewster. She’d turned state’s evidence to avoid jail time herself. Not that he blamed her. He knew firsthand the hellacious weight being inside a cage brought to a person’s psyche.
There was also the small fact she’d been Brewster’s mistress. Or did they even call it that these days? For appearance’s sake, she carried the title of girlfriend. According to the transcripts, Gracie had claimed not to be aware Brewster had been married when he’d seduced the barely legal eighteen year old. Part of him understood Brewster’s fascination with the beautiful Hispanic woman. Everything about the lovely brunette beauty screamed sensuality.
You’re just pissed because she’s exactly your type, his inner voice taunted.
