Troublemaker Read online

  She thought about that, running through things like scheduling and the budget—things that, as chief, she had to think about. “It would have to be on their own time. I don’t think their involvement could be on the town dime.”

  “I don’t expect them to do it for free, and I’ll handle their pay.” He shrugged. “I’m always gone too much to spend my paycheck, so it accumulates.”

  Privately Bo thought he might have to fight the men to get them to take money, given the way they were all but hero-worshipping him, but that was a problem for later.

  Instinctively she knew that Morgan was slipping into his zone now, that he was going on the offensive instead of waiting for someone else to make a move. She could sense his focus sharpening, all but feel the electricity zinging through his veins. This was his world, a world of strategy and violence, and he was at home in it.

  CHAPTER 25

  INVITING KILLERS TO COME AFTER HIM MEANT MORGAN had to do some serious strategizing, not just for himself but for Bo and any of the Hamrickville officers who elected to help. He went for a run, needing the automatic physical activity that would free his mind to worry and pick at the situation like a wolf picking at a carcass. He put on his shorts and running shoes, told Bo how long he’d be gone, and set out over the hills, pushing himself to a dead run.

  He was afraid Bo was going to be a problem. His instinct was to make sure she was far away from any potential harm, and he expected her to fight him every inch of the way. He respected that, up to a point—the point at which he turned hairy and started dragging his knuckles on the ground. The bottom line was that she was precious to him and he’d do anything and everything he could to keep her safe, no matter how much of a battle she put up.

  One step at a time, though; if he’d learned anything from all his missions over the years, it was that events never played out the way they were originally anticipated.

  That was worrisome because it meant that no matter how he strategized, he couldn’t cover everything. He had to play the odds and plan for the most likely avenue of attack while staying alert for something—anything—different.

  This could go down several different ways. Yeah, it would be great if Homeland Security showed up and arrested him, because that truly would be the best outcome for both him and the country. He wanted Congresswoman Kingsley to be innocent, to be working for the country rather than against it. He liked her. She seemed warm and genuine. Big deal. He went with facts, not emotion.

  At any rate, he didn’t have to make any preparations for Homeland Security—likely the FBI. He was good there.

  The possibilities after that were trickier, and far more likely.

  The bad guys might use the Russian mob again, but he’d bet against that for a couple of reasons. One, they’d already tapped that asset, and it hadn’t worked out well. Using them again established a pattern, one that pointed to Russia, which could lead to Yartsev. And while the Russian mob could blend in with a large metropolitan population, it was a different story in Hamrickville, West Virginia. A Russian would stand out like a hyena in a wolf den. Hell, someone from New York would stand out.

  Which left the Kingsleys and Yartsev with two or three options: hire a home-grown hit man—which had a higher probability of success but meant bringing in a stranger who might or might not be reliable and who would represent another possible security risk—or involve the SVR, which had taken the place of the KGB.

  If Homeland Security and FBI involvement was Morgan’s best-case scenario, the SVR was his worst. The organization could bring to bear measures he’d have a difficult time countering: FLIR imaging, for one, which could literally tell them how many warm bodies were in the house and where. Overwhelming force was another possibility, in which every living thing in the house would be obliterated. A massive explosion was another possibility, as was a trained sniper taking him out any time he ventured out of the house.

  On the other hand, if the Kingsleys were dealing state secrets to the SVR, the Russians wouldn’t want to call attention to the organization or the connection. If anything went wrong—and something almost always went wrong, in some way—the repercussions would far outweigh the benefits.

  Morgan mentally rolled the situation around, decided the SVR’s involvement wasn’t likely. Neither was the Russian mob’s. Higher on the probability scale was a professional, but when secrecy was essential, involving others was a risk.

  The most likely move they’d make was much closer to home. One of them personally would come to do the job.

  Again, he necked down the probabilities. Joan Kingsley was the least likely, with her husband only slightly more likely, because he knew both of them on sight. Then again, maybe they both had unsuspected skill with weapons, which they would count on to take him by surprise. Yartsev himself was another possibility. He for certain would be weapons trained, and likely also trained to disguise himself. Though Morgan would have photographs and possibly video to study soon, he’d seen Yartsev in the flesh only once, and at a distance.

  So—Yartsev was the most likely, followed by Dexter Kingsley, then Joan Kingsley. Or Yartsev and Dexter working together. Or all three of them.

  Despite Yartsev’s training, Morgan thought that was something he could handle. His own training was far beyond anything Yartsev would have experienced, at least in weapons and strategy. The SVR man dealt with espionage and intelligence; Morgan dealt with devastation—two very different disciplines.

  He would prepare for three shooters; if only two, or even just one, tried to take him out, he’d be overprepared, which wasn’t a bad thing.

  While he’d been mentally sorting through all the details he’d been running full out, and now he slowed to a jog to cool down. A glance at his watch told him he’d been running for an hour; he was soaked with sweat, but all in all he felt pretty good. He was all systems go, heart and lungs working hard but smoothly. His legs weren’t up to snuff yet after enduring two months of enforced inactivity, but every day he was adding distance to what he’d done the day before.

  If they came here expecting to find a broken-down wreck, they were in for a surprise.

  That said, he couldn’t afford to feel cocky about his chances. His good physical condition would be easy for them to find out if they did even the most rudimentary fact-finding before acting. He had to assume they would if Yartsev was involved. The Russian wouldn’t walk blind into his own bathroom. The Kingsleys . . . maybe, if they were acting on their own.

  He took an easier pace heading back to the house, and halfway back ran into Bo and Tricks on their walk. As soon as she saw him, Tricks whirled and raced toward him, barking happily. He knelt down and gave her some vigorous ear rubbing and chest scratching, which evidently felt so good she almost collapsed in bliss.

  Bo approached at a slower pace, Tricks’s pink leash hooked through her belt loop out of her way, her green tank top baring the gleaming skin of her shoulders to the bright morning light. She was smiling as she watched him and Tricks. “Did you get everything worked out?” she asked, and when he stood, she linked her arm through his despite his sweatiness.

  Morgan looked down at her and everything coalesced inside him in a blinding moment of light, the color around him flaring in brilliance before fading back to normal. In the trees a mockingbird began running through its repertoire of trills, whistles, and warbles, the sweet tone sinking into his bones. “Not yet,” he said, feeling as if he were in an alternate universe and liking it. “The main part is up to you.”

  “Me?” She looked both puzzled and pleased. “I thought you didn’t want me to help. Okay, what can I do?”

  No hesitation, he thought, just a willingness to throw herself into the fray and do whatever she could. “You can marry me,” he said.

  She froze and actually turned white. Her big dark eyes widened until they eclipsed her face. Her mouth worked, but nothing came out.

  He figured the turning white wasn’t a good sign, but he knew the battle he had to fight wa