Page 1 of Long Past Deadly

Chapter One

QM International Communication Check: 01:00:05 PST 12/15 San Diego HQ. Personnel status: Normal. No active threats. Ϙ

The main entrance double doors of QM International sighed open on a breath of night air and the faint echo of celebration.

Quaid Daniels stepped outside into the quiet. Upstairs, the wedding of Cait Hunter, his chief medical officer and friend, to her Navy SEAL husband had been reduced to brooms and vacuum cords after a touching ceremony and a rowdy reception. San Diego glittered on the horizon through it all, a spilled jewelry box in the dark night.

He loosened his tie and exhaled. The company’s first big party and they had survived the mayhem; he apparently had not. Watching a woman he respected promise forever made his own life shallow and scripted. The world saw a playboy. It made good cover. Lately, though, the disguise itched.

He stepped onto the sidewalk, flicked his lighter, and drew in on the single cigarette he allowed himself a day. Smoke curled into the warm, salt-scented dark. His phone buzzed – an unlisted number. He ignored it.

“Mr. Daniels?” Jensen, the security night shift, lingered in the door. “Everything all right?”

“Fine. Needed some air.” He shifted toward the parking lot, letting the night air and greenery settle him. Order soothed him. Which was why the odd pocket of shadow caught his eye; the dwarf junipers and ornamental grass along the building formed tidy, private alcoves.

He dialed his grandfather, one of many times tonight, and swallowed the surprise when he connected. Static, a story about monsoons, his mother reuniting with his father, and a Tokyo layover due to weather were not surprising excuses for the failure to arrive for the wedding. Same distance as always. He disconnected after a few minutes of conversation, rubbed the back of his neck, and put out his cigarette. The city noises had thinned to silence.

Quaid drifted further along the sidewalk and around the side of the building, destination unknown.

The parking lot was painted in fresh white lines, angled for efficiency, and bordered by native shrubs trimmed to regulation height. No weeds, no oil stains, no forgotten traffic cones. When people came to you with their troubles, they didn’t want to see a place with maintenance issues, so QM cultivated an immaculate setting somewhere between curb appeal and tactical advantages.

Cell phone in hand, Quaid mused on turning points. Growing up, he had a world-class gambler for a father, a dependent mess for a mother, and a globetrotting, money-making machine for a grandfather with not much in the way of belonging. His mother and father had separated and reunited dozens of times until his skepticism about their relationship formed a bedrock of doubts about all things marriage. The Marines and the CIA reinforced the doubt.

Lately, he’d found strength in this place with his Aunt Elizabeth, his partner Mackey Reynolds, and Cait and Hunter. These ties were the strongest, grounding and inspiring him.

About to retrace his steps, a whispered scuff stopped him.

He reached for a weapon he didn’t have.

“Down!”

He hit the pavement hard on his shoulder as the first gunshots shredded the side of the building. Concrete chipped in a shower of grit smelling like dust and ozone. He rolled into one of those quiet alcoves with a soft, firm body wrapped around his. The scent of citrus, honey, and cinnamon registered.

“Someone’s shooting at you,” the voice snapped.

Alanna Williams, FBI agent and currently a liaison to QM for a case.

He patted his pockets, but somewhere in the dive he’d lost his phone. Dammit.

“None of your people are covering this side.” She peeked over the bushes, light glancing off dark hair, blue eyes, and porcelain skin.

He yanked her to better cover. More fire, suppressed and disciplined flew in the confined space. Concrete spewed in mini-shards.

She shoved at him. “Dammit, could you stop?”

“Can you stay down?”

She got in his face. “I am trained, Mr. Daniels. We have to get around to the front.”

“Where’s your phone?”

“Left it inside.”

“Terrific.” Cut off in his own parking lot with most of the staff distracted by wedding cleanup. “Where’s the shooter?”

“By the parked cars on the street edge.” Two hundred feet.

“Aiming at us specifically?”