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Only it was very clear that the assailant had skills of his own, training mixed with desperation, the hallmark of a crazed lunatic. He lunged at Noah and the two were rolling in the floor, so all Noah could think of was the gun at his hip and how to make sure the guy didn’t get it. He pulled up to look at the stalker’s face but it was too dark, it was pitch black in fact, and he ached for Max and how goddamned terrified she must be. Thinking of her huddled somewhere in the dark, or God, hurt, wounded, bleeding, drove through Noah like a firecracker so he found the strength, to pin the assailant with his body, to press his arms down.
“You son of a bitch,” he cursed.
But when the stalker refused to give up, when he hissed at Noah breaking one arm free, and began to reach for Noah’s side, Noah didn’t take any chances. He used his knee to pin the stalker’s chest to the ground, then raised his left hand, and crashed his fist into the man’s face. The other man had no time to prepare and the punch made his head roll to the side, knocking him out cold.
“You son of a bitch,” Noah repeated, getting up and flipping the man onto his stomach, catching his hands behind his back and securing them with his belt. His injured arm throbbed in complaint but he ignored it. There’d be time later, for now he had to contain this, to fix it. To hope like hell she was okay.
“Max? I’m here. You’re okay.”
No reply.
Noah swore under his breath, and a flash of fear sliced him in half. It was the first time in his life Noah had ever known anything like true fear. Adrenalin, sure, but nothing like this. He was immobilized, unable to take the first step, the prospect of what he might find too vivid and heart-stopping to propel him. But if she was hurt and he could help her? If he could save her?
He swallowed past the taste of bile in his mouth, ignored the jerking sensation in his legs and pushed to standing. Before leaving, he double-checked the restraints on the intruder – they held fast.
“I’m here, Max.” He walked into her room and flicked the light on, his heart slamming into his ribs at what he saw there. Her bed had been stripped completely, the sheets thrown to the ground, pillows in disarray. His heart in his throat, he slammed open the door to her bathroom – nothing. No blood. No Max.
Where the hell was she? He paced back to the bed, looked around, then crossed to the wardrobe. But before he went inside, he cast one last glance towards her bedroom door – the intruder was still there, but moving a little, groggy, waking.
He had to act fast.
He opened the wardrobe door and flicked on the light, looked around, saw nothing. No Max. Oh, God, where was she?
He pushed a hand through the clothes, and it was then that he heard it. A whimper. The softest, quietest sound, barely enough to attract his attention, except that he was hyper-attuned to her, to noise, his every nerve ending on overdrive.
“Come here,” he murmured, crouching down and pushing aside the dresses, checking her face and hands quickly, looking for signs of damage and injury, barely able to breathe with relief when he saw none. “I’m here, you’re safe, you’re safe.” He kissed her forehead
, then pulled her to standing. “Come and sit on your bed, darling. I want you to wait here for me. Try not to panic. You’re safe.”
In the distance, he heard the familiar droning of police sirens and expelled a deep breath. “You’re safe,” he said again, knowing it was for his own benefit, that he needed to hear that reassurance as much as she did.
“Sit down.”
He guided her to the bed and placed her on the edge of it, then turned and left the room, pulling the door behind him. He wanted to stay with Max. He wanted to be with her, to hold her, to hold her until colour returned to her cheeks. But this son of a bitch needed to be dealt with, and Noah wasn’t going to risk letting him get away.
He stepped into the corridor as the man flicked onto his side, and the fury in his eyes, the look of unhinged mania, convinced Noah that the bastard had come here with one thing and one thing only on his mind.
He dragged the man to standing, ignoring the way the stalker spat at him. He was rough, anger making his hands heavy as he forced the guy to stand with his face against the wall. He kept one hand on his shoulder as his other checked his body for weapons, anything that might add an extra element of danger to the situation. In his pocket there was a flip knife, and in his back pocket there were cable ties and mace spray. There was also a small roll of tape at his hip, clipped through the belt hook using a carabiner. A shiver of revulsion ran through Noah as he faced the reality of what this man had come here to do.
“You fucking asshole,” he ground into the guy’s ear, holding himself back with a restraint he didn’t know he possessed. He grabbed the stalker’s wrists and pushed him away from the wall, away from Max: down the corridor, towards the stairs.
“Ma-ax,” he called, at the top of the stairs, so Noah gripped his wrists extra hard.
“I swear to God, if you don’t shut up you’re going to lose your footing on these steps, asshole.”
The stalker laughed, a husky, maniacal sound, so Noah marched him down the stairs as quickly as he could, relieved beyond words when the front door to Max’s house burst open and four cops rushed towards them.
Noah dropped the guy’s hands, stepped back with his own in the air, making it clear he wasn’t a threat. His arm throbbed in complaint. Three of the police swarmed to the man, the other to Noah, keeping a hand on him as a precaution.
“I’m private security – my details are in my wallet, over there.”
But DCI Wingrave walked in at that moment, making a beeline to Noah. “You got him,” he said, nodding to dismiss the cop who was ostensibly restraining Noah.
“Yeah. Not a moment too soon. Bastard’s got a knife, cable ties, tape, spray.”
“Got it.” Wingrave moved to the assailant, letting out a low whistle. “That’s quite a shiner.”
“He was reaching for my gun,” Noah responded firmly.
