Free Hot Target by Suzanne Brockmann Page B

second floor. “If we don’t find him by then, we’re going to have to settle for Pierce Hugo.”
    There were too many shadows. Every lightbulb in this place needed an increase in wattage. Cosmo made a mental note to tell Decker.
    Mercedes was on her way into the suite that made up both her bedroom and her private office, but he stopped her. He stepped in front of her, opened the door, flipped on the light switch, and quickly scanned the room. The desks were all open, more like tables, and impossible to hide behind.
    There were framed movie posters on the walls, including that of
Hell or High Water,
the low-budget
Blair Witch
knockoff that had kicked her career from zero to sixty before she’d turned twenty.
    Apparently one of the problems with being an overnight success was the difficulty in making lightning strike twice. There were two other movie posters on her wall that carried her name as producer, but Cosmo hadn’t heard of either of them.
    He went through her office to her bedroom beyond, and into the bathroom, too. She kept the place fairly neat, but both her dresser and bathroom counter were cluttered. Perfume, makeup, hair care products, lotions . . . Panty hose and bits of silky underwear hung on the towel racks.
    No doubt about it, a woman lived here.
    The big bathroom had no windows. This was the predesignated safe room in the house. If there was trouble—a code red situation—Jane would lock herself in here until reinforcements arrived.
    “Oh, come on,” she was scoffing as he came out of the bathroom. “If someone really wanted to kill me, they wouldn’t break into my house and hide in here, waiting for me.”
    Probably not, but wouldn’t they all feel foolish if they were wrong? Cos went to each of the bedroom windows, checking the locks. They were old, but still in good shape. He pulled the curtains closed.
    “Do you not talk”—Mercedes’ voice was sharper now—“because you’re supposed to be blending into the background, or because you have nothing to say?”
    He thought about that. “Both, I guess.”
    “News flash,” she said, rearranging the piles on her desk, paper rustling, her movements broadcasting her frustration. “You don’t blend in, Rambo, so you might as well stop trying.”
    “Name’s Cosmo.” He came back into her office.
    “Yeah, see, that was a joke. What, do they remove your sense of humor when you—”
    “It’s an insult, in the Teams, to call someone Rambo.”
    She stared at him. “You’re kidding.”
    “No, ma’am.”
    Mercedes laughed her disbelief. “Rambo’s some kind of giant, ass-kicking hero and you think—”
    “SEAL
team,
” he said. “It’s called that for a reason. Guy like Rambo, goes off on his own . . .” He shook his head. “It’s an insult. Don’t call me that again.”
    She was wide-eyed. He’d purposely left out the
please
and he’d scared her. She swallowed before she spoke, and her tone was no longer flip. “I apologize. I didn’t mean to—”
    “Apology accepted.” He nodded and moved back toward the door.
    She pulled a smile out of her arsenal and picked up her telephone, pushing one button. “Hi, Patty, will you remind my brother that he’s got a five a.m. call tomorrow? He needs to go to bed, soon.” As she listened to whatever her intern had to say, she kept that smile in place, but it got decidedly strained. “Thanks,” she said, and hung up.
    “I’ll be in the hall,” he told her.
    “Is that how it’s going to work?” she asked, crossing her arms in front of her, obviously still rattled and choosing to express it as thinly veiled defiance. “You’re just going to lurk outside my door?”
    He stopped. Nodded. “Until we get the security system up and running, yeah.”
    “I work with my door closed,” she informed him coolly.
    “Just don’t lock it.”
    “Sometimes I take my laptop into bed with me,” she said. “If the purpose of all this is to make me feel more secure, I have to tell you