Free The Empty Warrior by J. D. McCartney Page B

it possible that he would get a treat or an ear scratching as part of the bargain. At least, O’Keefe reasoned, he made a formidable racket.
    Ajay was wholly different in temperament. O’Keefe had named her after his boyhood canine companion and the big Weimaraner, although far from vicious, was no less protective of him now than her namesake had been of the then child O’Keefe. She approached the door reluctantly, looking back over her shoulder with imploring eyes. It was clear she wished to stay at his side.
    “I know you don’t want to go out, but you have to,” O’Keefe said gently. “Now go on.”
    The dog stepped hesitantly through the door, but almost immediately her face appeared at the bottom of a nearby window. Her large gray-green eyes gazed intently into the room for a short time until her head dropped below the sill. Moments later, the eyes reappeared at another window from where she again surveyed the interior of the home. O’Keefe understood from experience that this behavior would continue until she was certain that he was in no danger. She was so overly protective that O’Keefe had been forced to have an electronic barrier installed around a wide swath of area encompassing the circular head of the driveway in what passed for his front yard. It was the only way to allow people access to the short concrete walkway that led from the driveway to his door without subjecting them to a close encounter with the dog’s seemingly vicious warding behavior. Even so, packages were still apt to be dropped on the driveway at the end of the walk rather than by the front door as the sight of Ajay stalking along the edge of the invisible fence, staring at the offending truck maliciously and remonstrating with various growls and snarls, was enough to convince many delivery men that discretion was the better part of valor.
    O’Keefe almost smiled in wonder, never ceasing to be amazed by the dog’s behavior. He was touched, as much as he could be touched this late in his life, by her devotion. His heart, long since hardened by the emotional desolation of his existence, softened slightly for an instant, until he was called back to himself by the sound of a creaking car door opening and then slamming shut in front of the house.
    He maneuvered his chair back up the ramp, the low knap of the carpet there seeming to claw at his wheels, and then out of the den and into the hallway, heading for the master suite. There, he rolled up to the bedside table and took out the loaded, military issue forty-five caliber he kept in the top drawer. He removed it from its holster and ejected the clip. Finding it filled, as always, with cartridges; he shoved the magazine back into the stock and pulled back the bolt, releasing it to chamber a round. Then he engaged the safety and reholstered the gun before shoving it into a pocket made into the outside of the right armrest of his chair. He whipped the conveyance around just as the doorbell rang.
    Take your time , he told himself, intentionally slowing the pumping action of his arms. Let them wait, whoever they are. Several long seconds later, he leisurely rolled up to the door and pulled it open.
    A strikingly attractive young woman stood on his porch, standing several feet back from the door’s threshold. She was tall and slender with straight brown hair and wore a short black dress that might have been expensive. Her legs were encased in sheer black hose while on her feet were shiny black pumps that looked brand new. Under one armpit she carried a large, wide strapped, taupe colored bag that had the appearance of being constructed of a fabric only slightly more elegant than canvas. It seemed out of place, to say the least, hanging from her shoulder. O’Keefe had no idea who she was.
    The two appraised each other for a moment over the threshold, the only sound being the dogs barking in the background, while O’Keefe primarily wondered why a woman so provocatively dressed who was not