Siren in the Wind Book One of the MIT Series

Chapter Eleven

After unlocking the sliding door, Abby turned to Max who fiddled with the ornery latch on her front gate. It was rusty and needed oiling.

"I can fix this for you," Max called out. "Do you have any aerosol oil?"

"Nope, I can buy some tomorrow."

"Leave it to me. I'll grab you some." He jiggled the latch back and forth.

Her hands slipped into the deep pockets of his jacket, male scent surrounding her. Was she really doing this dating thing? Butterflies fluttered when she thought of him coming in for a coffee. Forget coffee, she wanted to shove him up against the wall and...wait. Abby's fingers closed around a small metal disc, which she pulled out to examine. A weird round battery thing with a built-in speaker. Where had she seen that before? Abby racked her brains. At Lizzy's home, a few months before, they'd watched an episode of "Dates from Hell." It showcased a stalker who'd placed something very similar in his victim's apartment. Abby's heart somersaulted, and she thrust the sinister device back where she'd found it.

Son of a bitch. Trapped in her yard as Max dusted off his jeans. Was he a psycho serial killer or had she finally been discovered? Why would he need a listening device? Ambling up the path, Max shot her a sexy grin as a crazy mix of terror and anger flooded her veins.

He paused. "What's wrong?"

Not again. Never again. The patio table near Abby held a bowl of fruit. Instinct pushed her to grab an apple and launch it like a professional pitcher. The hard fruit found its mark, slamming into his left eye. Max swore, staggering back and then moved with incredible speed, throwing himself forward.

Abby hurled herself inside, trying to slide the door shut. Out of time, she chose a deadlier alternative. Max scrambled, grabbing her through the half-closed door, before shoving through. With practiced ease, she dove across the floor, flipped to her side, slid to a stop and snatched the firearm out from under the sofa.

***

Shit, damn, shit. When had Abby made him? Max had faced scarier criminals—hardened terrorists—and was about to be offed by Snow White who, by the way, handled the gun like a pro. If Max survived this, the boys would be ribbing him for years. He'd underestimated her in every way. Easing down to his knees, Max raised his hands. Abby had no idea how close she was to having her last breath; his men would take her out.

"Put the gun down. Now. I fucking mean it." He spoke carefully. "My sniper has eyes on you. Your pretty head will explode like a melon."

"Who are you?" Hands shook as she aimed the weapon at his chest, scaring the shit out of him.

"Easy on the trigger, sweetie. If you shoot me, you're dead. I'll say it again; I have men watching you."

"The hell you do."

The outside light flicked on and off.

"That's my sniper...on your patio."

Abby's eyes glazed over in defeat. Max hoped that was surrender, but her sudden calmness scared him. "Do it then. Shoot me."

Max gentled his tone. "We don't want to hurt you, we just want to talk."

"I won't give you a thing."

He doubted that, had heard many hardened men say the same thing. A few rounds with Max and they cracked like babes. Her next words shook him.

"I wanted you to be the good guy. You were a white knight even though there's no such thing."

Looking like a deflated doll, Abby lowered the gun and slid it over. Slater stepped inside, his unwavering weapon trained on her. Abby automatically rolled over and extended her hands, turning her head away. Why did Max feel like he'd just kicked a puppy? Screw her. She'd done this to herself.