Always a Warrior

218 Pages·2007·0.8 MB·English

by  Bruening Patricia Oshier

Chapter One
Her eyes snapped open. Laurie Crawford peered intently into the shadows.
Nothing jumped at her but every fiber of her being tensed into painful knots.
Every instinct she possessed screamed danger. Tossing off the bedclothes, she
scrambled out of bed. She tiptoed to the open door of her daughter’s bedroom
and peeked inside. Nothing stirred in the soft moonlight. Stacy slept peacefully,
a stuffed brown dog in her loose embrace.
A door creaked down stairs. Laurie froze, every muscle rigid. Heavy thudding
footfalls galvanized her. Breath held, she quietly closed the door to Stacy’s room
and peeked over the railing of the upper landing. No one moved on or near the
stairs but the light spilling from the kitchen grabbed her attention. Heart
pounding painfully in her chest, she inched back into her bedroom. She picked
up the bedside phone but heard only an ominous silence.
Her glance fell on the window, lingered until she shook her head and turned
back to deal with the intruders herself. The second floor windows were too high
for a safe escape. At the bedroom doorway, she stared at the empty staircase.
One set of footsteps became three. Low, muttering voices drifted up the stairs.
The rough sounds and syllables made no sense. Laurie held her breath, straining
to hear over her bounding heartbeat. Metal clattered. Glass shattered. Doors and
drawers opened and closed. Panic gurgled in her throat, tasting like bile, but she
forced down an instinctive urge to scream. She clenched her fists, gritted her
teeth, and stepped slowly down the stairs.
In the way of eerie slow motion, seconds stretched like hours but eventually she
stopped at the bottom of the stairs. The voices were closer, louder, but still
incomprehensible. She swallowed hard and slipped along the wall to the kitchen
entrance. She peeked into the room.
Three black-clad figures in ski masks rummaged through drawers and cabinets,
flinging the contents around the room.
The man at the back door turned his head and spotted her. Surprise widened his
eyes as their gazes locked for a brief moment before he shouted. The one nearest
her strode forward, yanking her glance to him. Menace glittered in his dark eyes.
Drawing a harsh breath, Laurie ducked back from the door, turned on her heel,
and ran.
Her trembling hand grasped the doorknob. A five-fingered vise clamped onto her
wrist and yanked her around. She staggered, stumbled back into the wall, but
stayed on her feet. His eyes gleamed as he drove his fist toward her face. His
hand was huge, magnified in her mind’s terrified eye. She jerked her arm up,
instinctively blocking the blow. Pain exploded up her arm.
“Mommy! Where are you?” Stacy yelled, terrified, from the top of the stairs.
“Hide, Stacy!” Laurie screamed at the ceiling. Small feet pounded down the hall
overhead. A door slammed shut. Then silence reigned.
The intruder brought his arm down, backhanded her across the mouth. The sharp
burst of pain stunned her. The metallic taste of warm blood spurted into her
mouth, over her tongue.
“Please,” she begged through the agony of split lips. “Take anything you want
but don’t hurt my baby.”
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He yelled over his shoulder. One of his cohorts ran up the stairs. Doors opened
and closed amid muffled curses. A single thud was followed by silence.
Head still turned away from her, the attacker shouted another incomprehensible
stream of words. With an abrupt explosion of adrenaline, Laurie drove her fist
into his gut. As he doubled over, she jerked her knee up and smashed his nose.
He fell over, sprawled on his back. Blood gushed from his nose and stained the
plush, light blue carpet. In her frantic haste to get to Stacy, she leapt over the
writhing body.
The front door exploded inward, ripped off its hinges. The crash reverberated
through the house and her skull, shaking pictures off the walls and knick-knacks
off the shelves. The clatter rang in her ears. She faltered.
Men in black military style uniforms stormed through the front door. More men
crashed through the back door. The third intruder flew out of the kitchen, down
crashed through the back door. The third intruder flew out of the kitchen, down
the hall, followed closely by more men, obviously soldiers. Several people ran
around upstairs. Their rapid footsteps pounded over her head. Gunfire exploded
around her. Laurie cringed, her ears ringing again. The acrid smell of gunpowder
filled the air and her nostrils. Smoke obscured her vision, brought tears to her
eyes.
No!” Laurie shrieked over the din.
Confused by the large number of people scattered through her house and the
unconscionable noise, Laurie covered her ears and charged toward the stairs,
focused only on Stacy. Yet another soldier ran through the door and crashed into
her. She fell under his heavy impact and hit the floor hard. The breath exploded
from her lungs. Bullets flew all around her but none hit her.
She forced the confusion from her mind and concentrated on her struggle with
the soldier trying to hold her down. He slid back to grab her leg. She raised her
other leg to deliver a crushing blow to his face. He blocked her foot with his
other arm and grabbed her ankle.
On his knees, he dragged her to the door. She grabbed the doorjamb, splinters
gauging her palms, but he pulled relentlessly. Her hands lost their grip and she
was outside, shoved between the rose bushes and the wall. Fury choked her.
Stacy was still trapped! She glared at the soldier, now crouched by the door. He
peered around the door frame and pointed his gun inside.
Laurie squatted behind him and would have gladly traded her next royalty check
for a baseball bat.
“Stacy!” she screeched like a banshee.
He clamped a hand over his ear, turned, and glared at her. His dark brown eyes
glittered with a strange fire of grim excitement.
“Stacy’s fine,” he whispered. “Shut up and be still.”
Laurie shook her head in frank disbelief. She leaned on the wall, studying the
small tunnel formed by the bushes and the wall. She had to get to Stacy. Staring
at her rescuers back, she edged backward. Thorns and branches scraped her skin
but she ignored the tiny pains. Tiny rocks and fallen bush debris dug into her
knees. Her hands clenched into fists in the dirt but she did not stop.
knees. Her hands clenched into fists in the dirt but she did not stop.
He looked back, scowled, and grabbed her wrist.
“Let go of me!” She tried in vain to pull away.
“If you want to stay alive, shut up and stay still,” he hissed and jerked her toward
him.
Thunder shook the world. The window blew outward. Glass shards and jagged
pieces showered the bushes. Laurie cringed, positive she was now deaf. The
soldier threw himself on top of her. The back of her head smacked the ground.
Tiny rocks dug into her back. Squirming ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia
Bruening
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beneath him, she struggled to catch her breath with her face buried in his chest.
She opened her mouth to drag in air but tasted only the cloth of his uniform. She
squirmed again until she dragged in air that carried a faint, masculine scent.
He rose up on one elbow, relieving her of some of his weight, and studied her
intently.
She sucked in more air. Her gaze clashed with his and she could not look away.
Wriggling, she slapped her hands on his chest and shoved. He didn’t budge. His
every taut straining muscle in contact with her body sent unwanted electric
tingles through her nerves as she stared up at him.
The depths of his dark brown eyes reflected concern and something she dared
not examine too closely.
“Are you okay?” His surprisingly soft baritone caressed her ears.
Laurie nodded, as breathless from his disquieting nearness as from the sudden
eruption of violence in her home.
“All secure!” was heard from inside the house but the soldier made no effort to
move. He merely stared down at her. Laurie squirmed beneath his considerable
weight, her eyes riveted to his unfathomable gaze.
“Stacy!” She shoved hard and pushed him off her. She crawled from under the
“Stacy!” She shoved hard and pushed him off her. She crawled from under the
bushes, glancing wildly around the yard.
“Mommy!”
“I’m coming, baby!”
Stacy, long dark hair flying behind her, ran from the direction of the driveway.
Relieved, grateful, and trembling with the force of it, Laurie pulled Stacy into
her arms and sank to the ground with her.
A spotlight from the truck at the curb lit the yard. Damien McAllister watched
the reunion with his usual nonchalance. But despite his best efforts, his gaze was
frequently drawn to Laurie Crawford as a woman, not as an assignment. He
crossed his arms over his chest. He was here to facilitate the capture of a terrorist
not ogle the terrorist’s daughter. He did not deny the physical attraction that had
assaulted him in the bushes. He simply ignored it. He forced himself to view her
as any one of a dozen pretty girls.
Still he could not stop staring at her. Dark brown hair tumbled in disarray around
her head and shoulders, hiding her face from view. That short skimpy T-shirt she
wore was even sexier than if she had offered herself to him stark naked. Her
height, not quite five foot ten inches, carried her frame well. Gently rounded
buttocks in skimpy white panties and full firm breasts gave her a sensual
femininity that hid a wealth of strength and determination.
She had not killed the terrorist they found near the front door but she had
certainly hurt him. The other two were dead, killed in the gunfire. But the one
she had rendered almost unconscious might provide some useful information.
Good old-fashioned lust tinged with reluctant admiration tightened his loins.
Irritated, he squelched his urges. He was on a mission not in a bar.
As he watched, she glanced warily around the yard then focused on him. He
sighed. She wanted answers now. She stood, held her daughter’s hand, and
walked toward him. Grace and purpose in each long stride drew his attention to
her long legs. He did not move, forcing her to come to him. Quit staring, he
berated himself. You’ve just been without a woman too long.
He shifted his gaze to the little girl. Stacy was a perfect copy of her mother. She
had the same long dark hair and graceful walk. At the moment she clung to her
mother and stared at the ground, obviously scared. Damien thought of his own
mother and stared at the ground, obviously scared. Damien thought of his own
two children, then banished the ALWAYS A WARRIOR Patricia Bruening
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accompanying ache in his heart. He glanced at the house then back at Laurie
Crawford standing in front of him, shaking her head. She shivered in the cool
autumn air and her face turned red.
His gaze dropped involuntarily to her hardened nipples, prominent beneath the
flimsy T-shirt. He blinked and lifted his gaze to hers.
“Neal! Get a blanket!” he called to his second in command without looking
away from her.
“Let’s have it.” She lifted her chin and faced him squarely, her hand fisted on
her hip.
“What the hell is going on here?”
“Not now,” he muttered and deliberately focused on the house. Six of his men
carried three bodies, all in black, out the door. One squirmed slightly and
moaned. The other two remained still. The ski masks had been removed. Out the
corner of his eye, Damien noted that she stared at them without even a flicker of
recognition.
“A-are those two men d-dead?”
“Yes,” Damien replied coldly, meeting her curious stare without hesitation.
“What are you going to do with us?” she demanded and her eyes went wide with
fright as she pulled Stacy closer.
“Nothing,” he shot back, startled. Why would she think he intended her harm?
Was the woman stupid? Or was she just shaken up? He shook his head in
disgust.
Abruptly pulling the blanket closer around her, she turned to lead Stacy back
into the house. Damien halted her with a firm grasp of her upper arm. He
deliberately ignored the soft warmth under his fingers but it took some effort.
She merely looked at the ground.
“You can’t go inside yet,” he told her, his voice low but firm. “My men are still
searching.”
She shot him a puzzled glance of protest. “But they carried everyone out.”
“Bombs,” he answered calmly. “Or anything else they might have left behind.”
He fixed his steady stare on her. Her expression went from shocked confusion to
fury in the blink of an eye. Her emerald eyes flashed fire.
“Bombs!” The word exploded from her, followed by rapid questions. “What is
going on here? Why would there be a bomb in my house? Who were those men?
Why are you here?”
Ignoring her furious battery of questions, Damien only looked around the area.
Neighbors and a few media representatives formed a half-circle in the street. The
low buzz of scattered voices hummed in the night air. Damien shifted his gaze
back to Laurie. She appeared unaware of the speculative glances and outright
stares, the people around her, as two of his men kept the crowd under control.
She only stared at her house.
Two men fastened a huge sheet of sturdy rigid plastic over the window and
another replaced the door on its hinges. Only minutes passed before two men
exited the house and declared it clean. Damien nodded acknowledgement but
heard Laurie’s sigh of relief as she led her daughter inside.
Damien followed her, listening. The neighbors gossiped in loud whispers as they
wandered back to their homes. The truck roared off into the night. Finally, all
was silent. She stumbled into the house and Damien shook his head. Now came
the hard part—telling her what was going on without telling her what he was
really doing.
Laurie stopped abruptly in the living room, gripping Stacy’s hand, and stared
dejectedly at the destruction. The explosion had ripped through the room. Bullets
punctured walls.
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Everything had to be replaced, though most were priceless—the value
sentimental rather than financial. This is unreal, she thought desperately. It can’t
be happening.
“I’m securing this door.” The soldier’s voice startled her and she spun around,
gaping at him.
He locked the door, checked the hinges, and stood and faced her, his expression
unreadable. “Put the child to bed. This will take a while to explain.”
Rather than waste time defying his order, Laurie did as she was told. Once Stacy
was safely tucked into bed, clutching her stuffed dog for comfort, Laurie
detoured to her bedroom.
Anxious for answers, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt then dragged
a brush through her hair before twisting it into a ponytail. A glance at the clock
drew a groan from her. It was three thirty in the morning. She wanted coffee.
The huge mess in the kitchen almost put her on her knees. While the coffee
brewed, she cleaned. Her frenzied efforts soon had the kitchen presentable if not
perfect. Rinsing the rag, she glanced up from the sink. The soldier watched her
from the doorway. She busied herself putting cream and sugar on the table.
“You rescued us,” she declared, awestruck. Sanity returned with a jolt. “From
who? How did you know? I don’t even know your name.”
Her hands shook as she poured coffee into two mugs. She placed one on the
table in front of her rescuer as he sat down. She leaned against the counter,
sipping from her mug. Absently, she fished a pack of cigarettes out of the drawer
by the sink. Fumbling, she got one out and lit it.
“Who are you?” She took a long drag off the cigarette. It steadied her nerves and
gave her something to do with her hands.
“Lieutenant Damien McAllister,” he supplied as he picked up the mug and drank
slowly.
His steady stare never left her.
Laurie smoked her cigarette and sipped her coffee, eyeing him intently. In the
bright light of her kitchen, his rugged good looks commanded attention. Even
bright light of her kitchen, his rugged good looks commanded attention. Even
sitting at the table, he looked tall, muscular, and trim. Strength and determination
emanated from him but he appeared unaware of his own attractiveness. He had a
job to do and radiated his confidence in his ability to do that job. Those
compelling dark brown eyes speared her where she stood. Caught and held in his
relentless stare, she almost felt helpless. This was not a sensation she wanted or
liked.
Adrenaline, she mused, waiting for the letdown. She gripped the mug tighter in
an effort to stop the shaking. Her heart beat erratically, painfully. She had
studied the effects of adrenaline rushes, written them into her books, but rarely
experienced the phenomenon herself. Forcing herself to draw a deep breath, she
dragged her gaze from the soldier. A bullet lodged in the doorframe grabbed her
attention. Her heart lurched at the thought of everything she had nearly lost.
She blinked but could not look away from that bullet. She took a slow step back,
slowly crushed out her cigarette in the ashtray on the counter. Her hand trembled
and she curled her fingers around the edge of the counter. She struggled for calm
logic but her efforts were no match for terror sparked adrenaline.
Damien watched her carefully controlled movements. Long familiar with the
effects of adrenaline, he knew what she faced. The mug slipped from her fingers
and smashed on the floor.
She flinched at the sharp sound. Coffee splattered on the floor. Her green eyes
blazed with rage and fear. Her whole body trembled. Damien approved. His
mission was far from over. Tense, he waited for the storm to break. He was not
prepared for tears as delayed reaction set in.
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She clenched her fists until her knuckles whitened. Her fingernails cut into her
skin.
Blood seeped from the half-moon cuts. Tears glittered in her eyes, fell in streams
as she fought and lost the battle for control. With a wild shake of her head, she
squeezed her eyes shut.
Damien watched her closely as she staggered then caught herself on the counter.