Seven Days to Forever Read online

  "Got it."

  She turned her head. He was crouched beside her, his face level with hers, so she had a close-up view of the smile that flickered over his face. It wasn't charming or friendly like the other ones she'd seen. It was…hard.

  He caught her gaze, and his smile instantly eased.

  It had been a trick of the lighting, she decided. Anyone's face could look hard when it was lit by a flashlight from below, as all kids who had ever told a ghost story around a campfire knew.

  "Okay, I'm almost done." He pushed aside her purse and the stray backpack that she'd dropped beside the plant, then slid his screwdriver back into a slot in his tool belt. "I'll need to open up the electric box here, so for your own safety, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the apartment now."

  She sat back on her heels. A fig leaf wafted downward and settled on her lap. "What do you mean?"

  "It's routine, in case something goes wrong. The power company would be held liable if you got accidentally injured while I was doing repairs."

  "I can't see why I need to leave. That seems excessive. I'll just stand out of the way and—"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am, but you're going to have to leave."

  "If it's that dangerous, shouldn't you be wearing protective clothing or something?"

  "Don't worry about me, I'm a trained professional." He placed his hand under her elbow and gently but firmly helped her stand up.

  She looked at the place where he held her arm…although, she didn't really need to look because she felt what he was doing with every other one of her senses.

  "It will only take a few minutes," he said. "I know you're in as much of a hurry as I am, so I'd appreciate your cooperation."

  Before she could form a reply, there was a sudden commotion from the corridor outside her apartment. Men's voices raised in anger.

  "Hey, take it easy," someone shouted. "Watch where you're going."

  "Get out of my way, idiot," a heavily accented voice said.

  "You could have broken my nose, slamming through the doorway like that."

  There was a spurt of muttered words that Abbie couldn't make out. They sounded foreign.

  Flynn tightened his grip on her elbow and pulled her toward the door. "Please, ma'am. You're going to have to get out," he said. "Right now."

  "But I can't just—"

  Something heavy slammed into her apartment door.

  "Oh, my God," she said. "They're fighting out there. The blackout must be making them panic."

  Flynn switched direction, pulling her back toward the balcony door. "They're coming in. We're going to have to use the balcony."

  "What?" She tried to tug her arm free, but his fingers couldn't be budged. "Who's coming in? What do you mean we have to use—"

  Something hit her door again. There was a sharp, splintering sound.

  Flynn shoved the fig tree to one side with his foot and lunged for the balcony door. It slid open only a few inches before it was stopped dead by the broom handle Abbie kept for security in the sliding door's track.

  "What are you doing?" she shrieked.

  The apartment door burst inward and slammed against the wall. Three men rushed in.

  Before Abbie could draw breath to scream, Flynn spun her behind him. "Get down," he ordered.

  She hadn't meant to obey him—she hadn't even registered what he had said—but she stumbled over the fig tree pot and lost her footing, going down to her knees, anyway. More leaves rained down around her.

  The intruders were silhouetted against the emergency lighting from the corridor. There were two short men and one tall, and the tall one appeared to be holding a…

  "Oh, my God, he's got a gun," Abbie said.

  The words had barely left her mouth when Flynn made a sudden movement. The flashlight he'd been holding hurtled across the room and struck the armed man in the wrist. His gun fell into the avocado plant.

  They must be looters, Abbie thought, groping on the floor for her purse. She'd heard of looting in prolonged power failures, but she'd never dreamed it could happen so fast, and in her building.

  The two short men babbled something incomprehensible and took out more guns. Abbie saw the metal gleam in the light from the hall and screamed a warning to Flynn.

  Instead of retreating, Flynn advanced on the intruders. He unbuckled his tool belt, hung on to one end and whirled it through the air. The heavy, tool-laden, hard leather pouch was suddenly a weapon. It made a clinking thud as it connected with the closest man's head.

  The man crumpled and fell to the floor. Flynn swung the tool belt again, dispatching a second man with the same brutal speed.

  Abbie clutched her purse to her chest and scooted backward, her shoes sliding through the leaves that now littered the carpet. What had happened to the nice, stable guy who liked children and had dinner with his parents? He was fighting off three armed looters all by himself, as if he did that kind of thing every day.

  The tall man, the one Flynn had hit with the flashlight, was clawing at the avocado plant, likely looking for the gun he'd dropped.

  In a move that Abbie had only seen in movies, Flynn spun around on one foot, swinging his other foot in an arc that connected with the tall man's jaw. The looter flew sideways into the bookshelf. A geranium that had been on the top shelf wobbled and crashed on his head. He didn't move again.

  "Oh, my God." Abbie struggled to draw a breath. Her pulse was pounding so hard, her lungs didn't work. "Oh, my God."

  "They're down," Flynn said.

  He stated that as if he were making a report, she thought. She ran a hand over her face, her fingers shaking. "Oh, my God!" she repeated. "What…who…?"

  "Throw the switch. We're getting out now." Flynn rebuckled his tool belt over his hips and strode over to where she was crouching.

  Switch? What switch? "But…" She shook her head, still trying to absorb what had happened. "Police. We have to call the police."

  "Later." He leaned down and reached past her to pick something up from the floor.

  It was the backpack she'd brought home from the class trip, she realized. "What are you doing?" she asked.

  He slung the strap of the pack over one shoulder and reached down to grasp her arm. "Damage control," he said.

  "What? I don't understand. Why—"

  "Later," he interrupted. He pulled her to her feet with a strength that would have surprised her two minutes ago, before she had seen him in action. "Right now we've got to get you out before more of them show up."

  "More? Do you mean more looters? But that's why we have to call the police."

  He shifted his grip from her arm to her wrist and started for the door. "We'll call them from somewhere safe."

  Abbie stumbled after him, stepping over the unconscious men who lay sprawled on her floor. Pot shards crunched under her feet. "All right, maybe we should call the police from somewhere else, but—"

  Her words cut off as the lights came on. She squinted at the sudden brilliance, then gasped at the scene the light revealed.

  Her neat, orderly apartment was in shambles. Leaves, potting soil and bright-red geranium petals were scattered everywhere. The men she had stepped over weren't merely unconscious, they were bleeding. She felt her stomach roll as she saw the damage the tool belt and Flynn's foot had done to their battered faces.

  Yes, Flynn had done that, she thought, her gaze snapping to the broad back that moved in front of her. He'd done it to defend her, but still, what kind of man was capable of fighting that viciously? He was an electrician, for God's sake.

  And why had the power come back on when he hadn't done any repairs?

  And why on earth did he want that green backpack?

  The caution she should have felt ten minutes ago when he'd first talked his way into her apartment finally asserted itself. She braced her feet and hung on to the broken door frame with her free hand before he could drag her through. "Let go of my wrist," she said.

  He turned toward her. This was the f
irst time she had seen his face clearly. She saw details now that she hadn't seen before: laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, the hint of a cleft in the center of his chin, the shadow of a dark beard along the sharp edge of his jaw.

  He was as startlingly handsome as before, but something was different. There was no flashlight beam to light his features from below, so there was no way to mistake what she saw. There was more going on behind those sparkling blue eyes than she'd assumed. His expression was more than hard. It was predatory.

  "Abigail, please." He released her wrist and placed his hands on her shoulders. "We've got to get away from this apartment."

  "No, you go ahead. I'll—"

  "I can't risk your safety by leaving you here." He looked toward the stairwell. "There could be more men on their way."

  "How do you know that?" She inhaled sharply, realizing what he'd just said. "And how do you know my name?"

  Flynn met her gaze squarely. His eyes probed hers for a few tense seconds. "All right. I've got no choice. Keep running the security check, and we'll sort it out later."

  He was still looking directly at her, but she had the feeling he was talking to someone else.

  "Are you going to come with me, Miss Locke?" he asked.

  Her mind was reeling. There was simply too much to take in, to figure out, to try to make sense of. She shook her head.

  "I should have known you wouldn't do this the easy way," he muttered. In a move too swift to follow, he leaned forward, wrapped one arm around the back of her knees and straightened up, flinging her over his shoulder.

  She tried to scream, but the force of his shoulder hitting her stomach had knocked her breathless. Her head bounced against his back as he jogged to the elevator. She hit him with the purse she was somehow still clutching, but the blows had no effect—beneath his loose shirt, he was built like a brick wall. She clawed at the backpack he carried over his other shoulder in an attempt to lift herself up. "Put me down!" She gasped. "What do you think—"

  "I'll explain everything later, Abigail," Flynn said, carrying her into the elevator. "We're using the central car, Gonzales. I'll need a control override so it won't stop on the way down."

  "What? Who's Gonzales?"

  The doors slid shut, and the car started downward. It plummeted past the other floors without showing any signs of slowing. Just as Flynn had said, it didn't stop.

  Abbie wriggled, trying to kick free from his grasp.

  Flynn tightened his grip on her legs. "Please, don't do that, Abigail. You're only making this more difficult. I promise I'm not going to hurt you."

  Her fingers latched on to the backpack's buckle. She braced her arm against its side and lifted her head just as the buckle snapped. The pack had been crammed so full the top flap sprang open the moment the pressure from the buckle was released.

  Abbie went still. She'd wondered briefly about what was in this pack, but she hadn't bothered to look. She'd known children liked to carry an incredible amount of paraphernalia with them, so she hadn't found the weight that unusual. Nor had she been surprised that the owner hadn't claimed it—her classroom was full of items that had been left behind.

  But judging by what she could see poking out of the top of the green canvas, she was certain this pack didn't belong to one of her students.

  Money. The pack wasn't full of Pokémon cards, it was stuffed with money. Thick, bundled wads of it. So much that she could actually smell it.

  It couldn't be real. No, this must be some kind of joke, and the wad of bills next to her nose had to be from a board game with very, very realistic props….

  Game? Joke? Those looters who had broken into her apartment had been dead serious. As was the blood on their faces and the vicious way Flynn had fought them.

  The looters? Had they been after this money? How had they known she had it, when she hadn't known she had it? And why had Flynn grabbed this pack…unless he, too, had known what it contained?

  Something clicked in her brain. This is what he'd been after all along. He was no electrician. He'd lied. He'd used that story to get into her apartment.

  And she'd believed every word. She'd looked at that charming smile and those oh-so-sweet dimples and she'd been so sure she'd had his number, but she hadn't, had she? She'd thought she'd learned her lesson about believing handsome men, but she'd been played for a fool. Again.

  Dammit, she should have followed her instincts and slammed that door while she'd had the chance.

  What was she mixed up in?

  The elevator bypassed the ground floor. It didn't stop until it reached the first level of the basement parking garage.

  Where was Flynn taking her?

  And why in God's name was she letting him?

  He shifted his grip, sliding her down the front of his body until she was standing on her feet. The instant the doors opened, he fastened one arm around her waist, drew her against his side and started forward.

  Abbie didn't wait for answers to any of her questions. She didn't pause for regrets or self-recriminations. She reached for the screwdriver on Flynn's tool belt, yanked it out of its slot and drove it as hard as she could into Flynn's arm.

  He muttered a sharp oath and loosened his grip for a vital second.

  Abbie dropped the screwdriver, twisted out of his grasp and ran.

  "Miss Locke, stop!"

  At the shout from behind her, Abbie moved faster. She darted toward the nearest row of cars, the sound of her footsteps echoing through the cavernous garage. Her parking spot was on the next level down. Should she try to make it to her car, or head for the exit ramp? She glanced over her shoulder.

  Flynn was following her. He was pressing his hand against his forearm, and she could see blood on his fingers. Her stomach churned. How badly had she hurt him?

  "Abigail!"

  She veered to the right, choosing to try to reach the exit instead of her car. The sooner she got outside where she could get help, the better her chances of escaping this…this…whatever she was mixed up in.

  "Block the exits," he said. "She's heading for the ramp."

  His voice was low and hard. Who was he talking to? Was he crazy? She looped the strap of her purse around her neck and broke into a sprint, her arms pumping as she gulped in air. Her foot hit a patch of oil as she followed the ramp around a pillar. She slid sideways and crashed into the wall.

  "Abigail, please stop!" he called. "We're not going to hurt you."

  We? We? She slapped her hands against the cement wall and pushed off. She didn't see the van that was coming down the ramp until it was directly in front of her.

  Tires screeched as the vehicle skidded to a halt. A trim blond woman in a yellow cardigan set stared through the windshield at her, then opened the driver's door and hopped out. "Are you all right?" she asked. "I didn't hit you, did I?"

  Abbie heard footsteps pound up the ramp behind her. She glanced over her shoulder and saw that Flynn was steadily closing the distance between them. His jaw was clenched. The sleeve over his forearm glistened dark red. She whipped her gaze back to the woman from the van and made a split-second decision. "Please. You've got to help me," she said, racing around the hood to the passenger door. "That man's crazy. I need to get out of here and call the police."

  The woman didn't hesitate. Abbie had barely pulled the door closed behind her when the woman slid behind the wheel, flipped the power locks on the doors and threw the van into reverse.

  Abbie braced her hands on the dashboard, trying to catch her breath. She saw that Flynn had stopped running. His lips moved, as if he were talking to himself again.

  "No problem, Sergeant," the woman said. "I'll take it from here."

  Flynn smiled and lifted his bloody hand to his forehead in a crisp salute.

  Abbie whipped her gaze back to her rescuer.

  The blond woman palmed the wheel as she changed gears, expertly sending the minivan into a skidding half circle so that it was pointing up the ramp instead of down. She gave Abb
ie a tight smile. "Relax, Miss Locke. If you had the good sense to run away from Flynn O'Toole, then you won't have any trouble understanding what I'm about to tell you."

  Chapter 4

  The warehouse looked as if it had been empty for years. The weeds that poked through the cracks in the asphalt loading area were waist high in places. Rust stained the overhead doors and trailed down the brick wall beside the corroded rain gutters. High in the wall beneath the eaves, the rising moon glinted from a row of windows. The darkness behind the broken panes stood out like missing teeth.

  Flynn eased back on the throttle and let his bike coast toward the middle door. "It's O'Toole," he said quietly.

  The door lifted on well-oiled rollers. Staff Sergeant Lang was on guard duty. He averted his rifle and motioned Flynn to drive inside.

  The bike's headlight revealed several parked vehicles beside a canvas tarp that formed a wall directly in front of him. Flynn took off his helmet and waited until the warehouse door rolled shut, then swung his leg off the bike and headed toward the tarp.

  In fact, the tarp was one side of a large canvas military tent that the team had erected inside the warehouse as part of their security precautions. The ruse was low-tech, fast to implement and surprisingly effective when it came to ensuring the outside of the building continued to appear dark and deserted.

  The operational detachments from Delta Force were accustomed to working on their own—after some spectacular failures decades ago when the force was first formed, they had learned the hard way not to trust outside intelligence. They'd also learned the more fingers there were in the pie, the more likely that matters would spiral out of their control. The best way to keep a secret was not to tell anyone, so besides the president and the brass at the Pentagon, no one knew that Eagle Squadron was here.

  Flynn lifted aside a flap, stepped over a bundle of electrical cables that snaked along the cement floor and strode into a blaze of light and activity. The tent was organized into two areas: one for equipment, the other for personnel. To his left he saw two soldiers cleaning their guns while Rafe Marek sorted out the ordnance they'd assembled. On Flynn's right, the team's communications center had been set up on a table crammed with radio, telephone and computer equipment. Scale maps of the area and photos of known members of the LLA had been taped to the poles that supported the roof. Some folding chairs, a trestle table, a small refrigerator and a microwave oven marked the mess hall and beyond that were two rows of cots that would serve as their barracks for the duration of the mission.