Free Deadly Pursuit by Ann Christopher

how to keep you safe.” Crossing to the sink, he turned on the water and splashed his face, getting rid of most of the blood.
    “Hey—”
    Ignoring her protest, he grabbed the bar towel from the ring, dried off and tossed it onto the dish rack.
    “Don’t just stand there. Get going.”
    “No.”
    He treated her to a string of curses on a growl ofincreasing frustration and Amara decided she’d had enough. If he’d wanted to kill her, he’d have done it by now. The fact that he hadn’t gave her the courage she needed to march to the kitchen door, which was, sure enough, now unlocked—
thanks for breaking into my house, jerk
—and hold it open in the hopes of facilitating his speedy departure.
    “Thanks so much for the warning about the … you know … bad guys.” God. How stupid did she sound? Bad guys. Right. “I’m going to lock the door again after you leave, keep my eyes open, and if any of them show up—”
    “Don’t patronize me.” He did another one of those vaulting across the room maneuvers—how did such a big man move so quickly and silently?—snatched her away from the door and closed it. “I’m not talking about people who will key your car if they get mad at you. These people will torture you to find out what you know about me and then they will kill you. You feel me? Kill. You.”
    Amara jerked her arm free and opened her mouth to argue.
    And the lights went out.
    Not just the lights. The hum from the refrigerator stopped. The low murmur of voices from the Travel Channel in the living room fell silent. For no reason at all, the world went dark, quiet and scary.
    An angry accusation formed on her lips and she looked to Jack, ready to demand an explanation.
    But then she caught a shadowy glimpse of his wide-eyed expression and read it with no need for interpretation.
Oh, shit,
said that grim face, and Amara’s fear hiked several notches higher.
    They stared at each other, frozen and waiting, andheard it at the same time: the soft but unmistakable sound of a footstep.
    On the hardwood floors in her hallway.
    In her house.
    Then came the pinpoint flash of a light on her wall, and Amara knew.
    This was no random power outage, and if she glanced out her window she would not discover that her neighbors’ houses were also dark. This was the very same bad guy Jack had just warned her about, and he’d cut her power for the express purpose of coming in here to kill them both. He had a flashlight and probably a gun and she and Jack would be dead within minutes.
    Panic propelled her to take a step toward the door, but Jack touched her arm and then raised a finger to his lips.
    Shhh.
    The
oh, shit
was gone from his face and he didn’t look scared or even worried. He looked calm and cool, as though he’d been through this drill a million times before and was counting the seconds until his next coffee break. That obvious and unshakable confidence gave her strength enough for a deep breath.
    She nodded.
    Using hand signals she’d seen in some military TV show or other, he motioned for her to get down and crawl under the kitchen table. She obeyed without hesitation, hanging on to one sturdy oak leg and angling her body so she could keep him in sight.
    A half smile of approval flickered across Jack’s face as he reached behind his back and produced … Oh, my God.
    Was that a
gun?
    The floor creaked. Right outside the kitchen. That pinpoint of light danced across the kitchen door … the range … the baker’s rack.
    Oh, God.
Fear clamped down on her, prickling her scalp, burning her throat and constricting her lungs.
Please, God. Please, God, pleasegod, ohgod, ohgod, please—
    Praying for survival, she watched Jack blend into the wall to the right of the archway from the hall, and then the floor creaked again, too small a sound to warn of this new evil in her peaceful sanctuary, and a figure came into view, a phantom, an intruder.
    Shaking, Amara clamped her free hand to her mouth and tried to