They were on their feet, racing for the side entrance of the house, when the second explosion tore a huge hole in the side of the garage, catapulting debris and flames. Lilly dug her feet into the grass and sprinted for the door.
Turning at the doorway, they watched as wood, metal, and sparks rained down on the yard. The garage had little in it to burn. Thankfully the Hummer he kept in there was out for service and the Jag was parked out front or the resulting explosion would have taken out part of the house.
“Get in.” The door opened and Travis was pushing her inside as he jerked his phone from the holder at his side. “It’s Travis. Get the fuck over here.”
He disconnected the call and turned to face her as he pushed her into the kitchen.
Nik and Henry were racing through the hallway, coming to a hard stop at the sight of them.
“Stay here, Henry,” Travis barked. “The bikes just went up in flames. I’ve called for a cleanup crew.” He turned to Nik then. “Explosives. Get out there and see what you can find.”
Nik moved past her, his pale blue eyes like frozen chips of ice, his hard corded body pumped for action.
She turned to Travis, realization suddenly racing through her. “Attempt number three,” she whispered. “I’m starting to get the feeling someone doesn’t like me, Travis.”
And that someone had to have been in her home, the only place her cycle could have been accessed. The only place anyone could have planted the explosives.
And once again she had been damned lucky. Someone didn’t know what the hell they were doing obviously, or she and Travis both would have been dead.
As Lilly turned, stared around the kitchen and fought to get her bearings, she began to wonder if she would ever be safe, and if this was the reason she had deserted her home, her family, and her way of life for six long years.
Lilly stood in Travis’s kitchen, her arms folded across her breasts as she leaned back against the counter, one ankle crossed over the other.
She lounged, she thought, and she watched.
She especially watched the black-garbed, black-masked men that moved through the garage and the house. No law enforcement personnel were present. The situation was being carefully contained.
And that didn’t surprise her. She was standing back, munching on a stalk of celery, watching, waiting, thinking.
This was the third attempt on her life. First, there had been the night her father had been killed, then a gunshot to the head, now her motorcycle. And it wasn’t just any motorcycle either. That had been her baby even if she couldn’t remember where she had gotten it from.
Lifting the celery stalk to her lips, she bit off another piece and listened to it crunch.
“Someone didn’t know what the hell they were doing,” a dark, slightly accented voice said.
Lilly turned her head to stare at the figure that entered the room. Black eyes, a peak of black hair beneath his mask. He was foreign.
It was becoming a game to stand, to watch, to let knowledge roll through her mind.
He was Maverick. She couldn’t remember the name he went by, the identity he used, or the agency he belonged to but she knew the code name.
“That, or they didn’t have the time they needed to wire it right.” Wild Card. Deep, dark navy blue eyes. He was different, she thought, different from the others somehow. He wasn’t a killer. He was a hero.
But did that make the others killers?
No, not killers, but they were harder, more lethal, for some reason.
But once upon a time, Wild Card too had been a killer. Now, he was a lover, a man who returned to home and hearth every chance he had.
Maverick had changed over the years as well. Just as Heat Seeker had. Heat Seeker was watching her now, his dark gray eyes thoughtful, intent. As though he saw more than she wanted him to.
Could he see that she knew things she was aware she shouldn’t know?