Rarities Unlimited 04 - The Color of Death

cut a big hole out of the glass and take a look around. If she had motion sensors, he could deal with them too.
    Thirty-second alarm delays made his life easy.
    He took one last look around. Smiling at the glittering rush of his blood that heightened all his senses, he opened the briefcase and went to work. His heartbeat picked up in his eagerness to feel the woman’s softness and terror when his knife bit into her.

Chapter 59
    Glendale
    Sunday
    2:25 A.M .
    Sam woke up with a rush of adrenaline that told him something was wrong. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew it was real.
    Next to him, Kate stirred briefly, then went completely still. The change in her breathing told him that she was awake. Wide awake. Whatever had pulled him out of sleep had done the same to her.
    The alarm panel above the bed showed green at every station.
    Sam didn’t believe it.
    Slowly, he brought his lips to Kate’s hair. When he spoke it wasn’t a whisper, which would carry in the stillness like a hiss of steam. His voice was a bare thread of sound that went no farther than her ear.
    “Don’t move,” he breathed, reaching for the weapon harness he’d left right by the bed. “I’ll check out the house.”
    “My gun,” she murmured, shifting carefully as she spoke.
    “Where?”
    She reached down and under the bed and came up with a handful of metal. “Here.”
    The gun was smaller than his, but by no means a girly weapon. It would do just fine putting a hole in someone’s bad intentions.
    “Don’t shoot me by mistake,” Sam murmured.
    “Same goes.”
    “Stay here.” His hand tightened in her hair. “Promise.”
    “Unless I hear shots.”
    He wanted to protest. He shut up because he knew he wasn’t going to win and arguing could give them away to whoever was prowling around outside in the yard.
    Or in the house.
    Jesus, I hope not.
    But Sam wasn’t going to count on it. Whoever had managed to get close enough to wake both of them up and yet not trip any of the alarms was a pro, not some careless hype breaking into homes for drug money.
    Naked as the gun in his hand, Sam walked silently to the closed bedroom door and listened.
    And listened.
    All he heard was his own light, slow breathing and a softer whisper in the room behind him that was Kate’s careful breath as she sat up in bed.
    From somewhere in the house came a muffled thump. If Kate had had a cat, Sam would have thought the sound came from a feline jumping from the kitchen counter to the floor. But Kate didn’t have a cat…
    Silently, Sam waited, judging the danger of staying put versus trying to get past the squeaky bedroom door handle and into the rest of the house. He opted to stay and let the attacker come to him. Assuming there was anyone out there.
    He really hoped there wasn’t.
    A slight rustle from the bed told him that Kate was on the move. He glanced briefly over his shoulder. Her naked body was a paler shade of darkness sliding off to his right. He wanted to tell her to stop, to get in the closet, to go out the window and run like hell—do anything except quietly position herself so that if the door opened quickly, slamming into him, she would have a clean shot at the intruder.
    And even as Sam wanted her to flee, he silently saluted her pragmatism.She knew that the bedroom door handle squeaked, that neither one of them could get out without giving away the game.
    So they waited.
    A few minutes later there was another muted noise, not enough to worry about except that both of them knew there was no reason for anything in the house to get up and move on its own.
    The door handle turned slightly, squeaked softly.
    Stopped.
    Sam had already taken the safety off his gun. Distantly, he was aware of adrenaline firing up his blood, sharpening his senses, picking up his heart rate, his body silently demanding that he do something.
    All he could do now was wait and pray that there was only one man testing the door, and that the attacker never had a chance to get close to Kate.
    The handle turned more. Squeaked.
    Stopped.
    Kate felt cold sweat slide down her back and turn slick along her ribs. She ignored it along with the wild beating of her heart. Her instructor’s words ran in her mind like a jingle from an obnoxious commercial.
    When you can’t run, use the gun. When you can’t—
    Squeeeak.
    Silence.
    The door handle was halfway turned. A little more patience, a few more squeaks, and it would open.
    When you can’t run, use the