Oh, that first glimpse of the hero in a new book. Just saying it makes me all tingly. :D As far as I'm concerned, it's one of the more important moments in a story, and one of my favorite scenes to write. The hero-introduction scene in SAVAGE ANGEL
was particularly fun to put together, since I wanted to display not just the
hero, but the heroine’s skills and mindset right out of the gate. No one can out-soldier a descendant of the
Seraphim, as Gideon quickly finds out…
The paved drive
leading from the main road was as smooth as glass and nearly a mile long. Eventually
it ended in a graceful loop in front of a three-story Victorian house that
seemed to go on forever. It looked like something out of a sugar-sweet storybook,
complete with wide verandas, twin turrets on either side of the impressive structure
and a whimsical cupola that sat like a cherry on top. The fairy tale façade crumbled
the moment she climbed out of the car and the barest sweeping movement of
security cameras caught her razor-keen attention. With a professional eye she
counted eight remote camera locations in all, set in such a way there was only
one minor blind spot coming up from the east through what appeared to be a rose
garden. Deep-throated howls from dogs kicked up off to her left, past a
carriage house that had been converted into a massive garage. She swiveled her
head in that direction, the same direction that the breeze was blowing. Recognition
that her scent was being carried to an unseen dog run sent up another mental
red flag. Unless she was mistaken, there were at least four full-grown dogs
alerting to her presence the way any trained guard dog would.
Armed guards at
the gate, plus multiple security cameras, plus a pack of guard dogs. If she did
the arithmetic right, it all added up to a grand total of something nasty.
Nasty wasn’t a
problem. Hell, nasty was her specialty. But still the question nagged at her. Why
had Noah Mandeville specifically asked for her?
The blazing heat
of the late summer sun hammered down on her. She never noticed it. Nor did she
think of the discomfort of wearing her usual black leather jacket to conceal
the butterfly-backed shoulder holster she preferred. Her senses heightened
further still, absorbing every aspect of her surroundings—the hum of gears of
the automated cameras sweeping back and forth, the sound of the wind rustling
through the fragrant rose bushes, the dogs jumping over each other to slam
against what had to be a chain-link fence.
And…movement.
It was faint. Stealthy.
Far back in the tree line where there was no path or outbuilding. Just sneaky
movement where there shouldn’t be any.
Her footsteps
were as soundless as a cat’s as she moved back down the drive, seemingly away
from the sound of something alive in the trees. But as soon as she rounded the
bend, she left the paved road to dart into the tree line, avoiding the random
twig or pecan without conscious thought. She moved more quietly than the wind,
her breath shallowing out so that even its sound was no louder than that of the
rustling of the leaves above her. A flicker of motion, something that shouldn’t
be there, dropped her into a crouch, and she focused on the spot past the
clumps of purple sage and red-tipped photina growing amongst the trees.
There.
Sara’s eyes
narrowed. It was possible to be trained in such a way that surprise never got
the better of her. Her father and Marcel, her lifelong sparring partner, had
drummed that into her. Expecting the unexpected was the hallmark of not just
the warriors born into the Savitch bloodline, but of every agent in Lynchpin. Surprise
was the one reaction that could never be allowed.
She had to
admit, though, the last thing she’d expected to find lurking in the bushes was
a commando straight out of Call of Duty.
Through the
trees she could see him—fully decked out in fatigues and camo war paint smeared
over every inch of exposed skin. This wasn’t some deer like she’d been hoping,
or a wayward gardener harvesting pecans. Whoever this was, he was serious about
keeping himself concealed.
Too bad for him
very little could be concealed from the Savitch senses.
It was second
nature to move when her target did, covering what sound she might have made with
his movements. She circled behind a reedy clump of photina and ditched her
sunglasses for a better view. With the camo war paint covering his face and his
hands encased in field gloves, she had no clue what race the intruder was, but
if the breadth of his shoulders was anything to go by he was one-hundred-percent,
testosterone-driven male. Though he was hunched over in a stance of obvious
concealment, she suspected he was at least as tall as her Amazon-like six-foot
frame, and there was no way to tell what color hair he had under the
military-style brimmed cap he had pulled low over a face she couldn’t see from
her vantage point. What she could see was a pair of binoculars being lifted to
his face aimed toward the house, and that was all she needed. If this guy was
part of the property’s existing security detail, he wouldn’t have to camouflage
himself and hide in the bushes.
This guy was
trouble.
With calm
efficiency, Sara slid a hand under her jacket for her custom-made clip-point
eight-inch combat knife lying snugly against her back. A well-practiced flick
of her thumb worked the snap, and in less than a heartbeat cold steel filled
her hand like an old friend. Of all the fighting styles she had mastered over her
lifetime, Filipino escrima and its
flexibility in the use of handheld weaponry was by far her favorite. It fit her
personal style, just as surely as the grip of her knife was made to fit the
curve of her hand.
Now to find out
if her opponent approved of it as much as she did.
Marking the sun
so she wouldn’t throw a shadow over the intruder to warn him of her presence, Sara
rounded the bush and snuck up behind him in a fluid movement no ordinary human
could ever hope to beat. She pressed her front to his back, hooking her left
arm under his to lock her hand behind his nape, while the hand holding the
knife went right for the throat, laying the flat of the blade against the
jugular. He jumped and struggled, then hissed when a flick of her wrist stood
the deadly edge of the blade against his skin to slice it like butter.
“Hey, soldier
boy.” Once again pressing the flat of the blade to the wound to show him just
how much in charge of the situation she was, Sara spoke into the ear closest to
her. “If you’re looking for somebody to play war with, I’m available. Wanna
have some fun?”
A disdainful
grunt was the intruder’s answer before he threw his head back, butting it
against her cheekbone. Stars bloomed like fireworks before her eyes even as the
world went end over end.
Crap.
Time slowed to a
crawl as Sara focused hard. Damn it all, she’d already screwed up,
underestimating this guy by not keeping her vital areas out of striking range. Frigging
rookie mistake if there ever was one. No way was she going to follow up that
boneheaded move with any more noob idiocy. Her heightened proprioception had
always been one of her greatest strengths, knowing where every part of her body
was at all times—even when she was upside down and flying through the air. Agility
went hand in hand with that, and she had her ceaseless training to thank for
her well-oiled response. No one could outdo her when it came to this sort of
fighting. No one.
Soldier-boy had
gotten her good by flipping her O goshi-style
over his back. He did it at the expense of his own neck as she managed to slice
him again, this time more deeply, as she went airborne. But the moment she
cleared him and his hold loosened, she executed an acrobatic half-twist that
wrenched her free from his grasp and enabled her to land, catlike, facing him
and ready to spring.
“Bad move,” she
breathed, expertly flipping the now-bloody knife to lie flat against her
forearm for easier, close-quarters slashing. “You’ve now officially pissed me
off. I think I’ll take your scalp to make me feel better.”
“You talk too
much, Sara.”
The stone-cold
beat of her pulse stumbled like a dojo beginner. There was only one person who
could halt her heart by doing nothing more than saying her name.
“Gideon?”
*
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