Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Dammit. Why did she always have to be right?

The rasping of her ancient farmhouse door’s hinges, followed by a creak of the loose floorboard in her downstairs front hallway, alerted her to the fact she had uninvited and unwanted visitors.

Moira Bliss slipped quietly off her bed. Crouching low, it took only a few fast seconds before the comforter beneath which she normally slept, was smoothed out.

Considering what had gone on that day, she hadn’t dared shut her eyes, hadn’t used the covers upon which she’d been reclining fully dressed, nor had she put her firearm in its normal spot in her safe.

She took a moment to slide her 9 mm Glock 17 silently off the bedside table, and clutched it in a steady hand. Head in the game, Moira . She needed to determine how many individuals were downstairs in her home. The number mattered. If there were one or two intruders, she’d go on the offensive and try to take them out. Three or more, and her best bet was to put plan B into action and disappear off their radar. Moira was no pushover, but neither was she stupid. She knew when to engage, and when to back away.

Making sure her phone was still safely tucked in the pocket of her sweat pants, Moira quietly and cautiously made her way to the partially opened door of her bedroom, where she paused to listen.

Gravelly voices, not particularly quiet, sounded from below.

“Bones, take your boys and go right. The rest of you are with me.”

The interlopers clearly thought they had an advantage of numbers; not concerned with one female sheriff whom they believed needed to be taught a lesson.

Their mistake.

Taking a few deep but hushed breaths, Moira inched her way into the hall and peered down the wide, open staircase, watching her stalkers disburse. One shadow…two…three… And they all had guns. Another three voices came from just inside her living room. Crap. At least six. Too many to take out, even if she had the advantage of surprise.

Time to retreat and regroup. Maybe even call for back-up once she was safe.

Moira’s feet shuffled carefully backward, easily reaching the doorway of her unused guestroom where, earlier, she had removed the screen and made sure the one window was greased to open silently.

Making fast work of her emergency exit, she slunk into the nearly empty room, pushed up the sash and deftly slung one leg out the window. She grabbed onto the heavy trellis she’d judiciously erected just before dark, and hoisted herself up. Wanting to give herself every advantage in her escape, Moira also took the time to close the window behind her, then climbed nimbly to the top of the wooden slats she’d constructed, until she could drop and crawl flat-bellied onto her roof.

Thank God it was September, and still warm-ish outside.

With the easy part of her evading accomplished, Moira pondered her next move. She’d erroneously thought that the 227 MC would send one, maybe two goons to take care of her after being so pissed that afternoon, in which case she would have snuck up on them and subdued the vermin. But with six or more of the bastards roaming around…

Moira inched her way across the roof of her two-story home, making it to the front peak where she peered cautiously over the edge. Seven bikes were parked in her driveway. Seven. They either hadn’t underestimated her, or they’d all been bored. Either way… Yup. She needed support.

Unfortunately, the nearest able-bodied law enforcement person she knew just had to fucking be her highly capable yet supremely annoying SWAT team leader, Welker Vestore.

The man was incorrigible, and perpetually on her naughty list; a well-known and self-acknowledged flirt. He messed with her head at every opportunity, trying to get past her firmly erected barriers, which should have pissed her off, but he also understood boundaries, and never did anything that made her completely uncomfortable. He engaged with her constantly—which she wasn’t used to because she put forth to everybody a demeanor that said, “don’t go there”, yet he continued to treat her in a playful way that was almost…goofy. And she’d come to…like it?

Fuck that .

Most times Welker simply had her rolling her eyes at his antics, knowing the man was trying to get a rise out of her. But she somehow managed to ignore him because…and here was the rub, Welker Vestore was a known womanizer. The last thing she needed was to encourage the man, possibly ending up as one more notch on his bedpost, if there was anything left of the wooden pylon after years of the man shagging the entire female population of his acquaintance.

Not happening .

But did she want his help now? To get her out of a jam?

Moira needed to carefully consider her options.

Bangor, home of the Penobscot County Sheriff’s Department where her official colleagues worked, was nearly twenty minutes away. Welker lived thirteen minutes to the east. It was only a seven-minute differential, but Moira knew from experience that a mere handful of seconds often made the difference between life and death.

Well, shit. She was going to have to call her LT.

Worming her way back across the roof toward a secure position behind the bricks of her chimney, she settled into a small alcove and withdrew her phone. Shielding the light from the device with her body, she picked Welker’s number out of the many on her SWAT list, and hit connect.

It rang once, twice…

“Bliss? You’re kidding me. It’s…” she could hear fumbling, and hear sleep in his voice, “two in the morning. Now’s the time you decide to show interest in my awesome self?”

“Shut it, Vestore,” Moira hissed softly, trying very hard not to imagine Welker naked in his bed. “I’m in trouble.”

“Tell me.” His entire demeanor changed in a snap, and he instantly came alert. She could also tell from the ambient noises she could hear over the line, that he’d leapt out of bed at her assertion, and was already on the move.

Moira wasted no time explaining.

“Seven-plus bogies are in my house. I put Tormentor, the head of their MC behind bars today, where he joined his VP and several lieutenants who’d already been tried. When I left the courthouse, I was approached by Tormentor’s next minion in line, Mick, who threatened to come after me. I assume that’s who my visitors are.”

“Where are you now?” Welker was all business, and that was one thing Moira secretly liked about the man. He might be irreverent down to his boxer-briefs when in seduction mode, but taking care of business? He was one-hundred percent focused.

“On the roof.”

“The roof?”

Moira almost chuckled, imagining the look on his face as he hissed over her location.

“Yeah. I had an exit strategy planned, and took it. But I’m not sure those creeps won’t find me once they search my house and find I’m not inside.”

“Stay put,” he commanded. “I’m on my way. And just a warning, I’ll be coming in with my siren blasting. That way they’ll know you called for back-up and most likely they’ll spook and take off.”

“Maybe you’re assuming too much,” Moira grunted. “There are seven of them, Welk. They may not scare so easily. If they don’t leave, do not engage. Don’t be a hero.”

Welker growled. “Who’s the boss, here, Bliss?” he asked.

“Mason,” she rebutted, naming their SWAT chief. She actually had the urge to stick her tongue out at the phone. “And he’s my next call.” Just because Welk was Squad H leader, didn’t mean he was the big man in charge.

“Not a bad idea,” Welk huffed. “He’ll have SWAT convene so we can keep you safe tonight and discuss what your next move should be. You can’t stay out there in the boonies by yourself if you’ve got these assholes after you. Now call him, but keep me on the line. I’ll be there ASAP.”

Moira heard Welk’s truck door slam, and bristled at his high-handedness. “I’m not leaving my house,” she snapped. “I don’t care if they send the entire MC after me, I’ll make sure I’m covered.” She hadn’t had time after court to put any safety measures in place besides her escape route, but with a full day off tomorrow, she’d already planned to set up surveillance, trip-wires, and a few nifty booby-traps.

She hadn’t survived everything life had thrown at her during her younger years, to be driven out of her house, now.

“Call Mason,” Welker ordered annoyingly. “I’m not arguing with you.”

“Why not?” she goaded. “Isn’t that your norm?” She couldn’t help herself. The man pushed every one of her buttons… Even a few she wished he didn’t.

“Because you need to stay focused and vigilant,” he reminded her.

He had a point. And yeah, that’s what Welker Vestore did to her brain; took it over and turned her into a simpering idiot, which she normally wasn’t. He was the only one who managed to get under her skin these days, and with how thick she’d purposely made her adult epidermis, that was saying something.

Moira gave him an update, choosing to ignore his warning. “I hear the bastards. They’re not even trying to be quiet now. They must have figured, after they couldn’t find me, that I went someplace else for the night.” Smartly, she’d parked her car in the old barn, which was over the hill on the back side of the property. They’d be hard-pressed to find it.

She continued. “Because they’ve been deprived of the chance to off me, they’re trashing my house instead.” Not that she had a lot of personal possessions, but she freaking hated shopping, and the thought of having to go out and buy new plates and glasses—which she heard them smashing—made her want to spit nails, or get down off the roof and pound the curs, senseless.

“ETA eight minutes,” Welk told her. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Hah. It was as if he knew her.

“I’m putting you on hold and calling Mase.” Without waiting for a response, she punched a couple buttons and heard her boss’s phone ring.

“Moira?” His sleepy voice had her instantly rethinking her call. Everlee was heavily pregnant in her third trimester, and it was well known that neither the boss nor his wife were getting a lot of sleep lately. Surely, she and Welker could take care of this on their own?

Damn . Was it Welker’s sideways suggestion that Mason would want her displaced for her own safety that had her lamenting the current connection, or was it regret only at waking up her beleaguered SWAT Chief.

Moira sighed. “Yeah. Sorry to bother you Mase, but you know the trial I testified at today?”

“For Tormentor, the president of the 227 MC?”

Of course, he had his finger on the pulse of everything his team members were involved in, even if he was personally distracted. The man was freaking amazing.

“Yeah. That one.” She didn’t prevaricate. “Tormentor went down, sentenced to ten years for grand larceny, but his next available lieutenant—the bastard who should just be gleeful over not getting caught, and over his pending, elevated status to president—decided he needed to make an example out of me for my part in busting up their little gig.”

The gig wasn’t really little at all. Moira had dug deep for the better part of six months, and found that the MC was making use of the off-season to break into empty mansions in Bar Harbor. They’d strip them of everything they could carry away, including all the copper plumbing and wiring in the walls, leaving nothing but destruction behind. The bastards.

Moira had broken the case open while posing as housekeeping for several estates, surveilling the ring and subsequently gathering enough evidence to put a number of the MC members behind bars; the highest profile one being Tormentor, today.

“Which means?”

Moira could hear the impatience in Mason’s voice, and got right to the point. “They broke into my house a little while ago, and are currently destroying the place.”

“Where are you?” he barked.

“On the roof, waiting for Welker. He says he’s coming in with sirens blaring, so he’ll either scare them away, or…” She trailed off and shrugged, even though Mason couldn’t see it. He’d know what she was saying.

“Or get his ass shot,” Mason finished up with a growl. “I’m calling the team. I assume you’re still on the line with Welk?”

“I am,” Moira answered, snorting at the sound of furniture below being smashed . Oooh. Big, tough men. Her stuff was the cheapest box-store shit available, so the particle board construction wasn’t putting up much of a fight.

“Tell him not to engage,” Mason ordered. “He’s to stand by until we get there unless you alert him that you need immediate assistance.”

Moira sighed. “That’s going to go over well.”

“You want me to call him, instead?” Mason was clearly on the move.

“No. I’ll take care of it. See you soon.”

“You will Moira, and stay safe.”

She disconnected, then relinked with Welker. “Mason and the team are on their way,” she told him without preamble. “And Mase says you’re to step down until they get here.”

“Not happening,” came the angry reply. “I’m not leaving you on the roof to get shot.”

Moira was doubting with every passing minute that getting killed was in the cards. “They’re too busy trashing my place to look for me outside my four walls. You’ll be in more danger driving up to confront them.”

“You let me worry about that,” Welker grunted.

“And when Mason demotes your ass?” she leaned into her argument, pissed at herself now for calling him when she’d known he would fly to her aid. What had she been thinking? Oh, yeah. That he was not only the closest member of her team to her location, but that she…trusted him to get her out of her jam.

Fuck. That realization didn’t sit well. Why him, when so much of what she knew about the man pointed to him being just as big of a philandering asshole as…? Nope. She wasn’t going there. In her current life, she tried to expend as few brain cells on her father as possible.

“I’ll handle Mason,” Welker snarled. “Just keep yourself hidden. I’m hanging up now, and coming in hot. You’ll probably hear my siren in the next minute or two.”

“It’s your funeral,” Moira grumbled, also disconnecting, but if Welk thought she was going to let him take all the heat of the MC entirely upon himself, he was delusional. That’s what teams were for, right? Having each other’s backs? That’s all that was motivating her, she told herself sharply.

Moira inched away from her chimney hidey-hole, edging back to the front lip of her roof where she had a view of her entire front yard and walkway.

She took a few, calming breaths, seeing a bunch of her shit having been tossed out of her house and onto the lawn. The assholes would pay. She’d make sure of that. Just not right now, with Welker putting his tight, provocative glutes on the line.

In a matter of seconds, she heard the low wail of a siren to the east. The sound grew exponentially louder, and she heard a cessation of the destruction going on in her house.

“What the fuck?” someone from within, swore. “Who would have called the cops? There’s nobody else living on this shitty dirt road.”

“The bitch must be hiding somewhere,” another angry voice declared. “We have five minutes before we ride. Find her.”