No, she’d simply been giving him the opportunity for a better life—a life that she could still be a part of.
But if she hadn’t given him up for adoption, would he be in this situation now? Regret squeezed her heart again. She couldn’t think like that. Not now.
She continued her descent. Everything remained silent. She gripped the wooden rod like a baseball bat, wishing it would protect her from bullets.
At the bottom of the stairs, she saw that the blood trail ended at the edge of the deck. Whoever had been shot had been dragged onto the grass. Into the woods? She couldn’t be sure.
She swung her head back up, soaking in her surroundings. She had to pay attention. Her life depended on it.
The back door of Christopher’s house was wide open. She paused at the corner of the garage and slowly peered around. Nothing. No one. As quickly as possible, she darted across the deck. She stopped at the doorway.
With baited breath, she raked her gaze across the inside. Lots of broken glass. A splintered coffee table. The Christmas tree lay wounded on its side.
But no one was in sight. Not even Christopher.
Certainly he hadn’t abandoned her. Not again.
She shook her head. No, he wouldn’t do that. Not in this situation.
Still, doubt trickled down her spine. Trust was such a fragile, fickle thing at times.
She stepped inside. Glass crunched at her feet. She froze, waiting for the telltale sound that someone had heard her.
Nothing.
Slowly, carefully, she crept forward. She kept her back to the wall. Her breathing sounded so heavy in her own ears that she wondered if she’d even hear someone sneak up on her.
When she heard a noise upstairs, she knew she would.
Someone was in the house. Had that person killed Christopher, dragged his body into the woods and gone back upstairs to check for her?
Just then, the stairs creaked. Someone was coming down. Coming toward her.
She glanced around, desperate for a place to hide. Instead, she pressed herself into the wall.
When the intruder got to the bottom of the steps, she would swing the stick and hit him.
And she’d pray that her hit would knock him out.
But before she had a chance to swing, a gun cocked behind her, and the fear that was becoming all too familiar froze her blood—again.
FOUR
Christopher approached the intruder from behind, veering off the main staircase at the last minute and taking a second set of stairs on the other end of the house. There was still one person in the house. Just one, best he could tell.
It was dark, void of any light. The air was hazy, evidence of a smoke bomb. And the smell of ammunition hung heavy in the atmosphere.
The sounds, the smells...they all reminded him of another time, another place.
A time and place he was trying to forget.
He rounded the corner and spotted someone crouching beneath the first staircase. Crouching, ready to attack?
He cocked his gun, drawing on all of his training. It was time to get some answers.
“Don’t move,” he commanded. “Or I’ll shoot.”
The figure twirled around, a stick in hand. Wide, familiar eyes met his. Fear stretched across their depths.
His muscles relaxed a moment, but the relief was quickly replaced with agitation. “Ashley? Are you crazy? I told you stay in the garage!”
“Christopher?” Ashley blinked, her stick still hoisted over her shoulder as if she might swing.
He lowered his gun and glared at the woman in front of him. Even in the dark, Christopher could tell that her face was void of any color or life. “Yes, it’s me. It’s a good thing I didn’t shoot you. I heard the glass crunching downstairs and thought the men were back to finish the job.”
“I saw the blood on the stairs. I thought you were...dead. I...”
He raised an eyebrow. “You were coming to defeat the bad guys with a dowel rod?”
She shrugged. “I had to do something. I couldn’t stay up there forever.”
He stepped closer so she would be sure to see the irritation in his gaze. “I told you I’d be back.”
She didn’t look away. She was still as stubborn as ever. “You’ve been gone for hours.”
“Twenty minutes.” He sliced his hand through the air. “Twenty minutes is all.”
She frowned and lowered her stick before jutting out her chin again. “It felt like hours.”
He scowled again and ran a hand over his face as he dragged in a ragged breath. Images of war continued to beat at him. They tried to transport him back in time. He wouldn’t let them. Still, Ashley coming up on him like that could have been ugly. Really ugly. That was the second time he’d pulled a gun on her in less than four hours. “Are you okay?”
She nodded, strain pulling at each of her features. “I’m fine. Are the men gone?”
“Best I can tell. They messed this place up, didn’t they?” His gaze roamed around them. It looked like a massacre, only thankfully, the only casualties were his furniture, belongings and the house itself.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted. “I should have never come.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. This is just stuff. It can be fixed. Besides, you weren’t the one with the gun.”
Big, luminous eyes looked up to meet his. “Who was? Who were those men?”
He looked away before he got lost in the depths of those baby blues and shook his head. “I have no idea. But they mean serious business.”
“Why’d they leave?”
“That’s what I want to know, also. They didn’t do all of this damage just to send a message. They used a smoke bomb and everything. They came here to kill us. I want to know why they left before finishing the job.”
“And where did the blood come from by the garage?”
“Another great question.” He put his hand on her back. “I know one thing. We’re getting out of here before they decide to come back. I called Eyes and they’re sending some men out. They should be here any minute, but we’re not waiting around.”
“Where are we going?”
“I have an idea.” He led her toward the front door.
She reached back. “My phone. It was in the living room.”
“Forget about it. That’s probably how they traced you here. All those new-fangled phones have built-in GPSs. You’re better off without it.” He grabbed his jacket—surprisingly still intact—from the back of a chair.
“But what if Josh or David try to call?”
“If you’re dead, it will do no good.”
They stepped out of the front door—which had been ripped from its hinges—and onto the front porch. His truck had bullet holes in the window also, but the tires looked fine. “I’m glad you’re wearing a coat. It might be a cold ride.”
He opened the door and, using the thick sleeve of his jacket, he brushed broken glass shards from the seat. Then he ushered Ashley inside, instructing her to be careful. They didn’t have much time. Every minute counted.
He cranked the engine—and the heat—and turned around in the driveway. The cold wind hit his face as he took off down the road.