"Turn. Right. And. Arrive. At. Destination," the monotonous voice of the GPS instructed as John Casey pulled into the driveway and reviewed his plan.
Step One: Determine that Ellie Bartowski is indeed here.
Step Two: Ascertain her state of mind and whether she poses a danger to herself or to others.
Step Three: Depart this evening (tomorrow morning at the latest), find a place to crash, go to a dive bar, get drunk, get into a fight and get some. In that order.
And mirable dictu, Bartowski's intel was spot-on because there was Ellie's BMW, parked under the carport.
Well, well, well… step one's already accomplished. Dive bar, here I come – hoo-rah!
John parked his car on the frosted grass, got out and rested his forearm on the roof of the Crown Victoria and took a moment to study the domicile.
The cottage was on the small side, but its location was ideal: nestled in a hollow among tall, majestic pine trees, not more than twenty feet from the shore of Big Bear Lake, with plenty of natural cover. It had one story, grey wood siding, a small brick chimney and an elevated redwood deck that wrapped all of the way around the structure.
It looked to be well-insulated and secure, the only issue being the exposed space under the deck – someone could hide under there with a small caliber pistol or a blowgun and do some serious damage.
A rhythmic chopping sound was coming from the other side of the house and John deduced that given the lack firewood stacked near the door to the deck, Ellie must be breaking up more fuel for the fireplace.
Either that, or she's finishing up her latest axe murder, he thought while stopping to retrieve the key from its hiding place as he climbed the steps to the deck.
He scanned the area, looking for anything suspicious – one of the first things his CO had ever taught him was that an accurate assessment of the terrain was crucial when it came to approaching the enemy.
Know your enemy, Lt. Casey. Know what weapon will do the most damage to them. Know where they are, know how you're going to get to them, know where they're going to hide or retreat and know what's available for cover.
Knowing Ellie as he did, John reasoned that she was more likely to offer him hot cocoa than pull any kind of weapon on him, so he was all right with the decision to forego his sidearm.
A quick peek inside the house revealed a large main room that was divided into two areas: living and eat-in kitchen.
He turned his attention to the view from the deck and whistled under his breath.
Damn…
John had been all over the continental United States as well as quite a few of the more interesting and colorful corners of the world, including the Khyber Pass, the Saudi Arabian desert, and most of the American territories in the South Pacific. He'd witnessed his share of natural wonders, from the aurora borealis and its sister phenomena, the aurora australis, to the first luminous snowfall of winter in the Himalayas, to the mellow luxuriance of a tropical sunset on Guam, but not much compared to the pristine beauty of a North American mountain lake.
Winter was evident in the scattered mounds of slush melting on the rolling, frost-covered lawn as it sloped down to the shore where a faded red dock jutted straight out into the water, the end of it just wide enough for two people to sit side-by-side and take in the golden gleam of the afternoon sunlight glittering on the waves.
Across the lake, small cottages like this one shared the shore with lofty feathered evergreens that soared into the brilliant blue sky while a massive snow-covered mountain in the distance glowed lilac and lavender in the deepening afternoon.
He leaned on the railing and took a deep breath. The scent of pine wafting in the air, the gentle lap of the lake at the shore, the tug of a brisk breeze at the collar of his jacket – they were seducing him with their simplicity.
He had to be careful or he'd seriously consider spending all three days here, Intersect's smoking-hot sister, or no.
Speaking of that, better go announce my presence.
John rounded the corner of the house and stopped short at the sight of her as she bent down to grab the pieces she'd recently split, tossed them into a little green wheelbarrow, and placed another large chuck of wood on the splitting platform.
Her back was to him and she was putting all five feet, eight inches of herself into splitting stout chunks of oak. She was wearing jeans, hiking boots, a long-sleeved t-shirt and a fleece vest and she was moving in them with unexpected grace, swinging the axe with a ruthless cadence that spoke of unexpressed wrath and frustration.
Right on target, every damn time, even though she's still furious, he noticed, following the fluid motion of her hips and back as she bent over and stood up. Pretty impressive.
He didn't know how long he stood there, but it was long enough for her to reduce the chunk into manageable sections, dump them into the wheelbarrow, stand up, whirl around, and aim the firearm she'd concealed within the chopped wood at him.
She looks good holding a rifle, was his first (and very unexpected) thought.
Not shotgun or a real rifle, probably a BB gun or something air-powered… was his second.
Maintain your cover, maintain your motherfucking cover! was his third.
John's thrust his hands up in the air. "Don't shoot!"
"What are you doing here?" Ellie demanded.
"Uh…"
"Chuck sent you, didn't he?" she countered, her eyes narrowing as she slowly slid her finger against the trigger.
He knew it wasn't as dangerous a situation as it could have been, but the mild-mannered persona he'd adopted for this mission required him to behave like it was a real threat. "Whoa! I think better when I don't have a weapon trained on me, so how about you put that down and we hash this out?"
"Didn't he?" she insisted, shaking a bit of hair out of her face.
"Well, in a manner of speaking…yes," John admitted, detesting the blend of resentment, fear and honesty that was sluicing through him. Resentment that she had gotten the drop on him; fear that his edge was slipping because – damnit! – he hadn't anticipated that she would do something like this; and honesty because, much like his first grade teacher Mrs. Franklin, she had the unnerving ability to force the truth from him no matter how much he wanted to lie.
Ellie's jaw tightened as she clenched her teeth. "What part of 'I want to be alone' do you not understand?"
"Listen, you've got it all wrong – I'm on vacation," John clarified, keeping a close eye on her hold on the weapon. She was shaking a little, but it looked to be from annoyance rather than muscle fatigue. Still, if she managed to get off a lucky shot, he might lose an eye or something worse, so better to not try grabbing it from her. "I was going to go fly to Vail for the weekend, but Chuck said it would be cheaper to drive out here, what with the economy tanking and airfare being what it is. See, he even gave me a key."
He maneuvered said item in his palm until it was clearly visible.
"Chuck didn't tell me that you'd be coming up here," she challenged. "When did you talk to him?"
"Yesterday." Not technically a lie, since John and Chuck did have a debriefing with Beckman on the day in question.
"Then you didn't know I was here already, did you?" she said.
"No." That wasn't a lie, either – John hadn't been certain she would be there, just that there was an extremely high chance of it. "Chuck said your Great Aunt Nora is a snowbird and she plays bingo in Florida during the winter months and as long as I cleaned up after myself, she wouldn't mind me staying over for a weekend."
"And Chuck didn't send you up here to look after me?" she pressed.
"I just thought I'd spend a little time unwinding, enjoying the scenery and maybe doing some light reading," John replied, deliberately dodging the question with a plausible explanation. "Why do you think Chuck would ask me to 'look after' you?"
Ellie scowled. "Probably to make sure I didn't hurt myself. He thinks that I tend get a little crazy when I'm pissed off."
"Are you?" he asked neutrally.
"Pissed off? Or crazy?" she countered. She considered his words for a second before she allowed herself a grim smile. "Maybe a little of both. But then again, you could have been someone dangerous like a thief or a murderer, and I believe in being safe rather than sorry."
Smart girl, John agreed, approving of her mindset. "Listen, you obviously want to be alone, so, why don't I leave and you can have the place back to yourself again?"
"Fine by me," she replied briskly.
"Are you going to lower the rifle?" John asked, eyeing the barrel that currently pointed at his head.
"What?" Ellie peered at him, then glanced down at her hands. "Oh, sorry! You know, it's not really a rifle, it's actually a Red Ryder–"
"Ow!"
"BB Gun…oh no…are you okay?"
* * * * *
"It's just a scratch," John objected as Ellie opened the door and guided him across the threshold. "Really, I'm fine."
"The hell you are; I shot you," she countered, moving him to the kitchen table.
"With a pellet gun," he pointed out.
"Doesn't matter if it's a pellet or a .50 caliber – a bullet's a bullet and this one needs to come out," she announced as she pointed to the kitchen table. "Now sit down and take off the jacket while I get my First Aid kit."
She walked into the bedroom, leaving John to look around while he put pressure on the wound and mentally cursed himself out yet again for being such an idiot.
The living room was paneled in oak, carpeted in dark grey sisal, and furnished with a sturdy couch, chair and ottoman covered in blue denim, a cedar chest, and a television stand. A pair of beanbags were stacked atop each other next to the fireplace and the wall was hung with all sorts of camping kitsch, including a rowboat shadow box, an oar and a cast-iron herd of miniature moose trooping across the walls. Above the fireplace was a plaque that read, "Welcome to Camp Run-A-Muck – Keep Out The Muck Or I'll Make You Run For Your Life".
Evidently Great Aunt Nora had a sense of humor.
The kitchen had a faded linoleum floor, old-fashioned oak cabinetry and plain, ancient white fixtures, but it was impeccably clean. John glanced down at the white plastic placemats with their faded ivy borders and took a deep breath.
I'll get myself some bactine and a Band-Aid up and them I'm outta here, he promised himself as he unzipped his jacket and eased out of it.
"Shirt's gotta go, too," Ellie ordered as she set the First Aid kit on the table and surveyed the damage. "Come on, off with it."
"You sure this is necessary?" John asked.
He had a lot of scars and bruises from his latest mission and he did not feel up to explaining any of them to her.
"Of course it is," she answered as she began putting on a pair of latex gloves. "I can't see the point of entry if you don't, so you take it off or I cut it off of you."
John had rarely met anyone who wasn't intimidated by him in some way. He was much, much taller than the average man, built like a Sherman tank and everything about him was huge – his build, his hands, his feet, his, um…other important attributes.
He was the intimidation factor in a mission, the "bad cop" in a interrogation, the brute force ensuring total cooperation in dealing with a recalcitrant criminal.
He was Major John A. Casey, USMC (retired) and he was able to make grown men wet themselves in abject fear with a lift of his eyebrow and an accompanying growl.
None of that mattered a whole hell of a lot right now when he was up against the likes of one Eleanor Faye Bartowski, M.D.
God knows he tried to stare her down, but she stared right back at him before cocking her head to the side, smiling and snapping the second glove into place. "Of course, the choice is yours."
John heaved a sigh and relented, reaching behind his neck for the scruff of his long-sleeved black T-shirt to pull it over his head "Damn, that stings."
"Of course it does," she said, helping him with the motion. "What do you expect when you get…shot…?"
He followed her gaze as it slid down his torso. "What?"
"Whoa, those look painful," Ellie commented, biting her lip as she dropped his shirt onto the table. "Where'd you get them?"
John looked down at the patchwork of livid purple and sickly green splotches on his torso before he started pointing to various injuries and "embellishing the truth". "Well, this is from a refrigerator that almost crushed me at the Buy More on Monday; this is courtesy of unloading the newest mega-wide screen TVs on Wednesday; this is from breaking up Jeff and Lester's reenactment of Gandalf versus the Balrog in the cage on Thursday; and I just got this enormous, putrid, festering wound from a lovely lady armed with a bb gun not five minutes ago."
"'Enormous'? Hardly," Ellie snorted as she anointed a cotton ball with hydrogen peroxide and started cleaning around the site of the damage. "It's just a flesh wound."
"That's what I've been trying to tell you," John replied, wincing as the disinfectant started to bubble. "I'm fine. Hell, I've had mosquito bites worse than this."
"Yeah, well, mosquito bites cause infection and so do bullets if the wound isn't properly treated," Ellie declared as she gently wiped the worst of the blood away. "How long has it been since you've had a tetanus shot?"
"March, last year," he answered, trying not to look at her cleavage.
It wasn't easy, though, because it was right there, right in front of him, not more than six inches from his face, almost begging him to dive in or at least ogle to heart's content. He could smell her soap, her laundry detergent and even a hint of the sweat she'd worked up at the chopping block, and it was all he could do to will himself to sit there and not drool.
It was common knowledge among his oldest friends that John Casey had always been a fool for a great pair of tits.
Big or small, perky or full, it didn't really matter – if they were there and they were real, he was interested and his adoration of the female form had got him into major trouble on more than one occasion due to this predilection. Women had been his Achilles heel since he was a little boy, and one of the reasons why he joined the Marine Corps – not a lot of women were eager to throw themselves into the brutal physical and mental conditioning that came with that branch of the military and John was happy to be safe from temptation.
But here it was again, staring him in the face.
Literally.
He screwed his eyes shut tight to keep from looking.
"Jeez, John," Ellie remarked as she pulled out a chair, sat down and picked up the tweezers. "I haven't even started the painful part yet. Are you going to need a leather strap to bite down on when I go for the pellet?"
"No," he grumbled, opening one eye and scowling at her.
"Okay, but don't be afraid to ask," she said as she ran the tips of her fingers over the skin of his upper arm. "The pellet looks like it's burrowed under the skin – here – and I'm going to need to move it towards the opening with my thumb before I can get at it. I need you to make a muscle and hold it steady while I do that so it doesn't go any deeper. Okay?"
"Roger that," John replied, curling his fingers into a fist and pulling the fist towards his shoulder.
"Great, perfect," Ellie murmured as she closed her hand around his biceps muscle and started wriggled her thumb against the pellet. "Wow! You know…you have…incredible… definition. I mean…your arms...are…bigger…than Devon's."
God, you're so fucking whipped, John scolded himself as he turned his head and grinned into his opposite shoulder, careful to make it look like a grimace so she wouldn't suspect the thrill it gave him to know that she had noticed him in that way.
"I'm going to dig the pellet out now," she advised as she picked up the tweezers. "Feel free to grunt if it hurts."
On a scale of one to ten of sharp, localized pain – with one being a stubbed pinky toe and ten being a root canal without novocaine – this rated a solid three. Nothing much to scream about.
"Excellent," Ellie purred as she pulled the pellet out from under his skin, placed it and the tweezers onto a napkin and pressed a piece of gauze over the wound. "You put pressure on this while I hunt up some antibiotic and a bandage."
"Okay," John muttered as he complied, his attention momentarily recalled to her breasts.
She'd shed the fleece vest and her shirt was made of a waffle-weave material that had been washed so many times as to render it almost transparent in the soft afternoon light.
John took a moment to remind himself of what happened the last time he'd fallen prey to the Almighty Rack as he swiftly shifted his gaze to her hands.
"So what's it gonna be, Johnny-Boy?" Ellie asked with a grin as she displayed his Band-Aid options. "Strawberry Shortcake or Care Bears?"
"Um, Johnson & Johnson?" he suggested.
"These are J&J," she replied, showing him the manufacturer label.
"I mean, the adult-person band-aids – you know, the clear ones?" he explained.
"Sorry, big guy, you're out of luck," Ellie informed him. "This is all that Great Aunt Nora has in stock. Oh, don't pout. No one's going to see it under a long-sleeved shirt. Now, how do you like this one?"
"What's with the blue cartoon bear?" John asked.
"That's Grumpy," she answered as she stripped off the backing of the Band Aid, placed it over the gauze and secured the adhesives to the skin covering his biceps and triceps muscles. "He's my favorite."
"Fine, whatever," he said, giving into the inevitable. He was out of here as soon as she was done and the only interruption in his grand plan was going to be a stop at a drug store so he could pick up a box of less mortifying bandages. "Well, thanks for patching me up…"
"Least I could, considering I was the one who shot you in the first place," she replied. "I really am sorry – "
"Forget about it," John cut in as he got up from the table. "Now I guess I'll be on my way."
"Oh, you're not going anywhere," Ellie told him with a wry grin as she removed her gloves.
"And why is that?" John asked, staring down at her.
"You obviously haven't been listening to the weather report or you'd have known that was going to happen," she said as she jerked her head in the direction of the window.
John growled as he saw at least twelve hours of his vacation being slowly swallowed up by the snow that was beginning to fall fast and thick.
It had probably started right after she brought him inside to get him cleaned up and he hadn't noticed because he'd been too distracted by her…um, curvier parts to notice. Now it was coming down in fierce skirls of huge, fluffy flakes that were going reduce visibility to zero within the next five to ten minutes. He doubted that he'd be able to make it out of town before the roads disappeared under a layer of the stuff.
"Looks like we're stuck with each other for the night," Ellie announced as she finished cleaning up. "Want some cocoa?"
"Yeah," John responded, folding his arms in front of his bare chest as he fought the wave of utter irritation that threatened to consume him. "With marshmallows. Lots of them."