Rogue Operator Read Online Free PDF Page B

a
little sparse compared to at work. When their son Charlie was growing up, there
was plenty, but now he was a teenager and didn’t seem to laugh as much around
his parents. Her husband was usually happy, and would laugh when they watched a
movie or TV show, or when they had company and a good joke was told, or with
her at the dinner table or in bed when she told him about her day and something
one of the little rascals had done at school.
    But he
rarely initiated the humor. The curse of marrying a scientist. She knew
he was an egghead, and loved him for it. His brain was what had attracted her.
She loved smart men. She loved Carl. But lately he had been distant. Whatever
had happened at the lab had drummed most of his humor from the house.
    She performed
a quick toilette, then stepped back into the bedroom, flopping face down on the
bed. On his side of the bed. She inhaled, hard, drawing in his scent from the
pillow.
    I
miss you. I miss the old you.
    Which
had her concerned. Could their marriage survive? She thought so, but it would
be difficult. And that was based on an assumption. That things would get
better. That whatever was going on at the lab would work itself out, and they
could move on.
    If
only I knew what was bothering him! If only he would talk to me about his work!
     But it
was forbidden. She had no idea what he was working on, but she had the sense
Maggie did. When she had talked to her about Carl, about how he had changed
over the past few months, she had said, “I’m not sure what’s going on, but I’m
terrified that they might have actually succeeded.”
    She had
pressed Maggie on it, demanded she tell her what she meant, but Maggie had
laughed it off—uncomfortably Phoebe thought—and nothing more was said. The
conversation moved on to kids and life, and the topic of their husbands’ work
and their state of mind, never came up again.
    The door
opened with a click and a creak.
    “Charlie!
I’m not dressed!” she yelped, grabbing her pillow and curling up into a ball as
she tried to cover her naked form. Looking at the door to admonish her son, she
gasped, then screamed. A man stood in the doorway, all dressed in black, a face
mask covering his features.
    She
reached for the phone and the man quickly strode around the bed to stop her.
She rolled several times to her side of the bed, closest the door, and hit the
floor running.
    “Charlie!
Get out of the house! Run!” she screamed as she raced toward the stairs, her
mind a jumble of disjointed thoughts. Who was the man? Why was he dressed as if
he were something from a movie? Was he alone? Why did she have to lie naked on
the bed today of all days? Where was Charlie? Was he okay? Who had been at the
fridge? Was Charlie even home?
    Her feet
slid on the floor and she grabbed the railing, rushing down the first few steps
and turning the corner for the final run. She cried out as another man was coming
up the stairs toward her, and with the thud of footsteps behind her, she knew
there was no going back.
    Her
kickboxing classes popped to mind, and she snapped out her right leg at the
knee, her heel nailing the surprised man squarely on the jaw. He tumbled
backward and hit the floor with a grunt. She continued down the stairs and
jumped over him, but as she cleared his stunned form, she felt an iron grip on
her ankle that stopped her dead, sending her crashing to the floor. She writhed
and kicked, and a blow to the man’s head with her free foot was enough to break
his grip for a moment.
    She
yanked away as the second man cleared the last few steps. She jumped to her
feet, rushing toward Carl’s office. Bursting through the door, she slammed it
shut, pressed the button on the door knob, locking the door, then reached up to
a piece of wood protruding from the bookshelf that lined the wall by the door.
    The
bookshelf was solid oak, integrated directly into the wall, and had been
designed by her husband. This was their mini-panic room. It wasn’t meant