Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

Welker was uncustomarily nervous. And wasn’t that a bitch. Normally when on a call-out, no matter the circumstances, he was cool and decisive. The things that happened here in Maine were never, even remotely, as intense as the majority of his SEAL deployments, and since opting out of the service, he’d always been able to keep any concerns he might have during a job, compartmentalized.

But this, with Moira, felt…personal.

This conundrum of a woman had been on his squad since day one of Downeast SWAT’s charter, and he’d instantly respected the buttoned-down, competent, Chief Deputy Sheriff. He hadn’t, at first, been physically attracted to her. Hell, no. His tastes ran toward svelte blondes; a little on the daffy side; high on the sexually-seductive scale.

Neither of which described Moira in the least.

Moira was…stoic. A reliable, stalwart team player, a non-rocker of boats. If something needed to be done, she’d do it. If controversy arose, she was never involved. During get-togethers the team would often have once an operation was complete, she never drank, never said anything inappropriate, and was always the first to leave.

Over the months and months of having her as a colleague, Welker had to admit he still didn’t know her at all. He just understood there were hidden depths to Moira Bliss than those that met the eye, which had made him more and more intrigued by the iron-willed woman. So much so, that he’d begun teasing and flirting with her to see if he could shake her out of her all-business, all-the time, demeanor; get some kind of a rise out of her. But, alas, none of his irreverent overtures produced results, and Welker had to admit to himself that his good-natured taunting, over time, had turned into something a little more…fervent, inside him. A niggling of something a little more needful.

The woman intrigued him. She was a secret he couldn’t crack; a case he couldn’t solve, and the more stymied he was, the more captivated he became. He not only looked forward to seeing her every time there were drills or call-outs, but in those moments, he found himself seeking her carefully adjudicated input, her focused way of attacking the problems they found themselves up against.

Only recently had he started being truly honest with himself. It was an anomaly, but… He wanted Moira’s attention on him, as well as on the job.

Weird .

That’s not how he rolled, with women. They were either family, family friends, or conquests. There was never a woman in his life who’d been…Moira.

Right now, what was even more fucked up, was that when she’d called, and he’d pictured her alone, hunkered on her roof with an asshole group of MC members after her, he finally figured something out…

Dammit. He cared for Moira.

Like… cared , cared.

Somehow, the woman—who continually treated him with complete respect while on the job, and total disinterest during the teams’ get-togethers—had burrowed her way under his skin, and…

Shit.

Did he want to be best buds with her? Date her? Take her for a quick tumble and see what was under those freshly pressed unisex-uniforms she always wore?

Welker wasn’t sure.

What would the woman look like with her tightly braided brown hair loose and framing her bright, square-chinned face? If he removed the shaded glasses she always wore, would her eyes be blue? Green? Brown?

All those thoughts swirled together in Welker’s brain as he drove, refusing to coalesce into real answers.

Focus, asshole , Welker told himself. Now is not the time. You have a team-member in trouble, and she needs your help, not your mental meanderings.

Two miles out from Moira’s house, Welker turned on the siren and blue lights that he’d had installed in his personal truck, and thought ahead to how he’d play things from here on out.

It depended on what would happen, now that he’d audibly alerted the MC that the authorities were on the way.

If the gang disbursed, afraid that a corps of cops was approaching, Welker would damn well recon in and make sure they’d all completely vacated her property. He’d also make sure Moira hadn’t suffered a single scratch, or there’d be hell to pay.

If the assholes, however, decided to hang around and take their chances with law enforcement, Welker would have to make it seem like an entire team was coming down on them. Which lent credence to what Mason had ordered; that he should probably hold off until additional back-up arrived.

But what if the assholes found Moira on the roof?

The chances of her coming out unscathed while facing at least seven adversaries were slim. It wouldn’t matter that she was one of his finest, most well-trained squad members. Numbers were numbers, and unfortunately, when they weren’t in your favor, things had a tendency to go sideways.

He glanced at his phone on the seat next to him, willing it to ring again. If his loud approach had persuaded the MC to bolt, wouldn’t Moira have called him?

Fuck . He didn’t dare contact her . Depending on her position, her ring-tone could alert the intruders as to her position.

“Come on, Moira. Call,” he glowered at the phone.

He was closing in on the small dirt road to his right that led toward her property.

The only reason he knew that was because he might have cyber-stalked her acreage to see what kind of place she lived in. Her address, after all, was on file with SWAT, so he hadn’t actually crossed too many lines, checking her out. He’d simply assuaged his curiosity.

And that was a good thing, now. Because he knew the lay of the land.

The rutted road he turned onto, also led past her house, wrapping around a hill that the topographical maps called Mount Beinn, a Scottish word that actually meant “big hill”, before leading back out to a main road on the other end.

He wondered if Mason knew of the second way in.

Pulling over for a hot minute, Welker picked up his phone and punched Mase’s contact info.

“On our way, Welk. Where are you?” The boss didn’t miss a beat.

“Pulled over on the end of the dirt road leading to Moira’s house. I haven’t seen any motorcycles leave this way,” he replied. “I was thinking, in case you’re not aware of it, you should have a few of the team come at her property from the Outback Road side of things, to head the group off if they travel in that direction.”

“Already done,” Mason informed him. “Mike’s unit is entering from that side of things, while E squad, with me, will be following in the way you’ve gone. Which means we’ll have the bikers locked in, as long as they don’t get by you before we get there. And in that regard, tuck yourself away where they can’t see you and wait for us. I’m only eight minutes out.”

Welker knew he was going to get a ration of shit because he’d already decided to move in and not wait for Mase. While he searched for the words that would declare his insubordination in the nicest of ways, his phone indicated an incoming call. He looked at the screen.

“Moira’s calling,” he curtly told Mason. “I’ll call you back.”

Reprieve .

Without waiting for his boss’s approval, Welk cut the call and connected with Moira.

“What’s happening?” he barked.

“Your siren alerted the pricks that I’m here, and since even their pea-brains figured out I had to have been the one who called in the house-break, they’re outside now, looking for me.” Her voice emerged hushed, but her tone didn’t display a single tremor. Moira was one tough cookie. “The man in charge, Tormentor’s replacement and flavor-of-the-day, Mick, gave the bunch five minutes to find me before they have to take off.”

“You’re still on the roof?” Welker asked.

“Yeah, Welk. There’s no way for me to get down with them spread out across my yard. And unfortunately, without a lot of places to hide, I’m pretty much certain they’re going to look for me, here, eventually.”

“You have your firearm?” he questioned again, opening his car door before heading into the woods at a fast clip.

“Of course,” she answered matter-of-factly.

“Okay. Here’s the plan. I’m at the end of your road. I’m leaving my siren on so hopefully it sounds to them like I’m waiting for more squad-cars, but in reality, I’m coming in on foot.” He was already bushwhacking.

“Not smart, Vestore.”

Great. They were back to last names again.

“Just listen,” he growled while using the skills he’d learned during his years with the SEALs to traverse the woods in complete silence. “You might not have time to wait for SWAT, so we’re doing this my way.”

“Fine,” she said, never losing her aplomb.

“Okay. Here’s the deal. Once I’m close, I’m going to start shooting, then I’m going to run to another spot, where I’ll lay down even more fire, repeating that again and again to confuse them into thinking?—”

“—that there are more of you out there than just one,” Moira finished for him. “And you want me to add to their confusion by doing the same, from the roof.”

“You’ve got it,” he praised, glad she was so fast on the uptake.

“It’s not a bad strategy,” she replied coolly, as if they were talking abstract logistics, not life or death. “You sure you don’t want to wait for the team?”

“And have those assholes find you in the meantime?” Welker growled, close enough now to see the lights on in her house. “Not going to risk it.”

“I’d say the odds are fifty-fifty on them locating my position,” she responded calmly.

Damn. She’d be betting her life if he waited.

He growled. “What do you figure the odds are for your survival if I come in shooting?”

“Seventy-thirty,” she countered without hesitation.

“Right. So we’re going with my plan. And FYI, I’m not aiming to kill, only to rattle the bastards and maybe wing a few. They should take off because of the threat, after which either Mason or Mike’s team will intercept them depending on which way they go.”

“Okay. Have at it, Arthur,” she declared.

“Arthur?” Welk questioned. Who the hell?—?

“Yeah. Arthur. You’ve obviously decided you’re the king, so we’ll do it your way.”

Welker strangled back a laugh. He never knew what he’d get from Moira. Normally she was a stolid teammate, but every now and then she’d send him a zinger. Had she done it now because she could sense he was on edge? It had succeeded in loosening up something in his chest.

“Cutting our connection now,” he told her, vowing to get back at her for her irreverence once this was all over. “Count to thirty, then start firing.”

He hung up and pocketed his phone.

Skirting the property while sticking to the tree line, Welker paused and focused on the silhouettes of several men spreading throughout Moira’s yard.

He finished counting down. “…three…two…one.”

He raised his Glock and fired several times, low, while at the same time, he heard answering shots coming from the roof.

Welker ran like a fucking cheetah to a new position and discharged his weapon again, this time targeting the ground around several of the men who’d turned their attention to the peaks of Moira’s home. He continued to shoot as they spun around looking for the threat, then Welker sprinted five yards to his left and opened up again.

There was another round from Moira, covering his move, followed by a high-pitched yelp.

“I’m shot,” a man cried.

Good . Moira had hit one of the assholes.

Welker kept moving and firing, moving and firing, until finally an authoritative voice rang out.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

Shadowy figures ran for their bikes, and Welker turned his attention to their rides as he moved closer. It was fricking dark, but he aimed for tires and tanks, hoping he did some damage. Glancing up, he saw Moira’s figure on the roof, and noted she was also aiming in the direction of the metal stable.

After several accurate hits, the entire group took off on the remaining five—undamaged—bikes, lighting out of there like the hounds of hell were after them.

As the pipes faded away in the distance, Welker chuckled and lowered his weapon. The barrel was damned hot from how many times he’d fired, so he wouldn’t be putting it back in his holster any time soon.

He marched from the trees.

“You okay?” he called up to the roof. Welk could just see Moira, currently perched on her porch shingles, her legs hanging over the edge as if she were up there for fun.

“Fine. You?” she asked, in that dry way she had.

“If I told you I’d been shot, what would you say?” he replied cheekily.

“I’d say you’re a terrible liar,” she called down. “Either that or a king who thinks getting his ass capped is all in a night’s work.”

Welker snorted. Except for the king thing, she wasn’t far off the mark. He had a few scars on his body that attested to some firefights he’d been in, but he was glad those days were far behind him.

“You coming down sometime tonight?” he asked, “or are you star-gazing?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s pretty nice up here. And if I come down, I’m going to wish I’d done more than wing one of those pricks once I see what they’ve trashed. I’m assuming my house and belongings are history.”

Welker took a quick look at her front yard, and saw an awful lot of destruction. He hated to think what the inside would look like.

“Maybe you should stay up there,” he suggested.

“Nope.” Her tone was firm. “Nothing’s going to change what’s already been done. I might as well face it, now.”

He watched her shadow disappear to the rear of the house, before a scant minute later he spotted Moira walking toward him, glancing dispassionately at the broken things in her yard.

He heard her cluck her tongue, before her voice emerged, pragmatic. “Nothing that can’t be replaced,” she stated.

“You want to go inside and take inventory?”

Welker walked toward her, feeling at a loss. If this were any other woman of his acquaintance, he’d put an arm around her for comfort and tell her everything was going to be okay. But Moira wasn’t just any woman. She’d never once invited that kind of overture from him or any one of the team, and wouldn’t change her spots, now.

She grimaced. “Since the Penobscot Sheriff’s Department has jurisdiction here, and that’s my outfit, I suppose I could catalogue the damage. But I think I’ll wait for Mase. That way the investigation will remain impartial.”

Welker caught a slight warble to Moira’s words, but nothing that told him of her real feelings.

Ah, hell. How should he proceed?

In the end, Welker fell back on teasing; the one, tried-and-true way he always interfaced with the prickly woman.

“Look on the bright side, Bliss. Once your insurance kicks in, you’ll have some awesome shopping trips ahead of you,” he offered cheerily.

She sent him a hard look that would have shriveled a lessor man’s balls. But…damn. Her eyes were a rich, deep coffee brown as she stared him down.

“I hate shopping.”