Page 55 of Midnight Secrets

He was walking slowly, pretending to have runner’s cramps, when the front door opened and two big guys—one tall, one not—came out with two lookers. The ones who had helped Harris put up security cams and monitors around Delvaux’s house.

The men were operators. Kearns could tell by how they handled themselves, the way they looked around. It was pure luck that he was coming up on them as they walked down the little sidewalk and got into their vehicles. If he’d already passed them, and turned to look at them, they’d have made him. These guys observed everything.

Shit, this was getting impossible.

Level of protection the bitch had, he’d need at least a twenty-man team, and here he was in Portland, all alone with his ass hanging out.

Blake should be paying him ten times what he was for this.

His cell rang. One of the guys—the shorter one but still a big bruiser—glanced over briefly. At least Kearns had a reason to stop.

Jogger getting a business call. Or maybe a call from the little lady.When are you going to finish that run? The food’s getting cold.

“Talk to me,” Blake said. He wanted a report.

Kearns swore he could feel his liver spurt bile.You send me out here with zero resources, no backup at all, I’m supposed to keep tabs on a chick that has navy SEALs protecting her?

He couldn’t say that, though. Because then Blake would want to know how long the SEALs had been around and he’d have to start defending himself.

Blake himself wasn’t scary. He was a politician and he was soft. Used to the good life. Had fucking drivers, probably had forgotten how to drive. Wouldn’t know how to mow his own lawn or fix his own car. But he had operators around him and those operators were scary. He was surrounded by guys who’d carried out the Washington Massacre. Almost one thousand people gunned down and blown up, one thousand Americans, and they did the job in ten minutes then disappeared slicker’n snot. Not even DNA left behind.

If Blake snapped his fingers there would be no place on earth for Kearns to hide, because that was another thing. Blake seemed to have unending money. Rivers of it. Oceans. World-changing money.

So he said what he had to say.

“Nothing’s changed. It looks like she hasn’t even left the apartment today.”

“Itlooks like?” Blake said, his voice icy.

Fuck.

“I’m alone here. I make the rounds every two hours, but I can’t do more because someone is going to notice something. I haven’t seen her go out. And last time she did go out she was shaky. Today’s cold and there’s ice on the sidewalks. I figure she won’t go out when it’s this cold.”

“Next report, I want more facts. And make sure you brief me on any changes.”

“Roger that,” Kearns said evenly, keeping the resentment out of his voice.

No changes, asshole. Just a pack of navy SEALs. Nothing worth reporting.

* * *

Dinner wassomething called spelt soup with onion and cheese bread. Joe didn’t actually know what spelt was but learned all about it from Isabel. One of the oldest cereals known to man. Mentioned in the Bible, older than wheat. Isabel said that some specialty microbreweries made beer from spelt and promised to find some for him. She said it had a special nutty flavor.

God.

He’d never eaten like this in someone’s home. Home for him meant takeout or something scrounged from someone else and put in the freezer for a rainy day. Lots of rainy days in Portland.

Metal was a decent cook and Joe loved eating over at his place, but it was nothing like this.

“So. You ran a food blog?” Joe pointed his spoon at Isabel.

She smiled sadly. “Ranis the operative word. I haven’t posted anything since…” She swallowed, kept her voice even. “Since the Massacre. I haven’t even looked at it since then. I’ll have lost all my readers.”

“How many readers did you say you had again?”

“About a million and a half.”

Fuck. “Your readership was more than the number of active personnel in the US military. That’s a lot. Literally an army of foodies.”

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