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At Midnight
by
Debra Webb
Chapter One
An ice-cold shiver raced up Sarah Cook's spine as she stepped into the dimly lit alley. She told herself
again that she wasn't afraid. Her weapon nestled snugly against the small of her back offering its own kind
of comfort. Her training was more than adequate. There was no reason for her to be afraid.
Then why the hell are you shaking inside?
Sarah gritted her teeth and refused to acknowledge the question or the little voice niggling at her. Every
instinct warned her that this was most likely a setup, but she would not be deterred. Not even by what
her father called cop sense. Former Detective Sam Cook firmly believed that all real cops had a sixth
sense — cop sense. And right now Sarah's cop sense was humming like crazy.
The alley between the old warehouses stood nearly dark save for the three-quarter moon and the one
security light that tried valiantly to stave off the night. But since that one light was halfway down the rows
of dilapidated buildings, it didn't offer much help where Sarah waited impatiently for her contact to show.
In fact, she doubted it served any real security purpose at all.
She hugged herself against the chill of the March night. Any time now her man would show. He'd refused
to give his name, her first indication that this little tête-à-tête was not on the up-and-up. She glanced at
her watch; five minutes to midnight. The time and location did little to lend credibility to the supposed
informant, either. But Sarah was desperate. Desperate to prove her father was the man she'd always
believed he was. Desperate to clear his good name.
Sam Cook had spent the better part of his life as a homicide detective for Chicago PD. He had been a
highly decorated, fiercely loyal servant for nearly three decades to the city he loved. Then, two years ago
a case went south and Sam Cook was stripped of everything. Sarah had watched her father's health,
physical as well as emotional, decline ever since.
She knew he was innocent. He'd been framed — no two ways about it. But proving it was another
story. Her father had quickly given up. Hoping to save his family the disgrace and humiliation of a public
investigation, he had resigned, throwing away the retirement he'd worked half a lifetime for and all but
confessing to a crime he didn't commit.
It was Sarah's turn now. She'd worked hard these past eighteen months to get where she was. She'd
graduated from the police academy at the top of her class. Though she was only a rookie, she finally had
access to Chicago PD's inner sanctum. Now all she had to do was find a way to prove her father's
 
innocence. Shortly after she started dropping hints around the locker room that she hoped to prove her
father was framed, she got a call.
She glanced at her watch again. Midnight. She would soon know if her anonymous caller was friend or
foe. If she was really lucky she'd live to chastise herself later for the risk she was taking now.
A soft thud echoed from the other end of the alley. Sarah straightened, reaching automatically for her
weapon. Adrenaline sent her senses to the next level. She squinted at the darkness beyond the reach of
the waning light. Nothing moved as far as she could see.
The sound of soft-soled shoes whispered across the expanse of cobblestone.
Fabric rustled somewhere closer.
Just beyond the Dumpster.
Her gaze jerked in that direction. Sarah stiffened her spine, her weapon at the ready, her entire being
poised in a battle-ready stance. She strained to see any sign of movement. Where there was sound there
had to be movement.
She saw nothing.
An eerie silence filled the air.
Cautiously, soundlessly, she eased a few steps toward the Dumpster…toward the fringes of the pale
glow of light.
The silence thickened.
Her respiration picked up an extra twenty beats per minutes. She struggled to ignore the hammering in
her chest, focusing hard to hear even the slightest noise.
Nothing.
Realization dawned. Whoever was there knew he wasn't alone. Had she inadvertently made a sound?
She eased deeper into the shadows, taking care not to allow the fabric of her jeans and sweatshirt to
brush against the brick building. No. She'd been too careful. Not a single sound accompanied her
stealthy movements. Her training was too good…her skills honed by months of practice on unsuspecting
targets when she was off duty.
Whoever was out there hadn't heard her, he'd sensed her.
That could mean he was a cop, too.
For about one second she considered calling out. He, if it was a he, could be her contact, after all. But
what if he wasn't? What if this was a setup as she suspected?
Another five or so seconds ticked by as she held as still as stone. Surely if the guy was her contact, and
his intentions were good, he'd call out to her. He, at least, knew her name. More time crawled by.
Nothing, not even traffic in the distance broke the pulse-pounding hush that had settled over the alley.
 
This was going nowhere. She had to make a move, break the standoff. If this guy wanted her dead, she
might as well get in the first strike. The element of surprise was always an ally.
Taking a deep, bolstering breath, Sarah made a dash for the stack of garbage bags next to the
Dumpster. She'd still have the darkness and cover on her side, but the move would be impossible to
miss.
The instant she reached her new position she flattened against the wall. Listening, watching. She fought
to slow and quiet her breathing.
He moved.
He took up a position on the other side of the Dumpster, only steps away. She needed a decoy.
Something that would divert his attention from her position.
She reached for one of the garbage bags.
"Who the hell are you?"
The deep, male voice startled her. Sarah clutched the bag awkwardly as she considered the voice.
Definitely not her contact. Of course, he could have been using something to distort his voice when they
spoke on the phone.
She wanted to call out to him, to demand who he was, but she needed to retain the element of surprise.
She damn sure didn't want to give him any ammunition. If he wasn't her contact he didn't know she was a
woman, which could be taken as weakness.
"I arrived at midnight just like we agreed," the voice went on after several beats of silence. "Why the
cloak and dagger routine?"
Sarah shivered. Whether from the cold or the voice, she couldn't be sure. Maybe this guy was her
contact. Then again, why didn't he call her by name? Her contact knew her name.
A new jolt of determination obliterated the effect of the man's voice. With all her might she drew back
her right arm and threw the bag right into the center of the golden circle made by the security light. His
reaction was instantaneous and fearless. He scrambled toward the presumed threat.
Sarah bounded up the small mountain of garbage bags and across the top of the closed Dumpster. He
whipped around, weapon drawn, but he wasn't fast enough. Already airborne, she landed not three feet
away, her weapon aimed directly at him.
They stood in the pool of light, each with a lethal bead on the other.
"The way I see it," Sarah told him, "we can both shoot and both die right here. Or you can tell me who
the hell you are."
He lifted one tawny eyebrow. "And what's to keep you from shooting me while I'm busy telling you my
name?"
Sarah looked at the man, really looked at him, for the first time. He was far too handsome for comfort
and there was something about the self-assured grin now stretched across that sinful mouth that made her
 
furious.
She cocked her weapon, the sound reverberating around them. "Absolutely nothing."
Chapter Two
When he'd first realized that his attacker was a woman, William Quinn had relaxed a fraction. He could
handle a woman. He was bigger, stronger. But now, staring past the black barrel of her cocked weapon
and into those fiercely determined brown eyes, he wasn't so sure.
"I hope you have a permit to carry that weapon," he said by way of making conversation and in hopes of
defusing the razor sharp tension. His own weapon was still leveled center torso. If she planned to rob
him, he hoped like hell she'd get on with it. Unexpected company was the last thing his informant would
want. Any minute now the guy would show up, see this woman and the guns, and that would be the end
of their scheduled appointment.
"Who are you?" she demanded. Though undeniably feminine, her voice was laced with steel. Those dark
eyes were equally hard but he'd have to have been blind not to notice the exotic shape and extra long
lashes.
"You go first," Quinn suggested in a tone he hoped came across as charming. "Ladies first and all that,"
he added with a hint at a smile.
Her gaze only grew colder and her trigger finger tightened just the slightest bit. "This is not a game."
Okay, so charm didn't work. The lady was serious. Very serious. "All right. I'll lower my weapon, if you
lower yours. My wallet is in my right hip pocket. Take it and get outta here and we'll forget the whole
thing happened." He mentally ticked off all the items he'd have to replace. His driver's license, credit
card, student ID. Geez, this was going to be fun. He'd lived his whole life in Chicago and never once
been mugged.
Her expression turned stricken. "You think I'm going to rob you?" Her tone matched her expression.
He shrugged one shoulder. "What am I supposed to think?"
Fury streaked across that pretty face. He watched in morbid fascination as the graceful line of her jaw
hardened. That full mouth flattened into a grim line. She was a looker. Too bad she was a thief.
"Last chance, buster," she growled. "Who the hell are you?"
She was tenacious. He had to give her that. "William Quinn," he said flatly. This little game had grown
tiresome. He had a meeting. Quinn quickly glanced from side to side. Any second now his guy would
show. She was going to ruin everything.
A line of concentration furrowed its way across her elegant brow. She was running his name through her
memory banks to see if it rang a bell. He tried to tell himself that he needed to study her, to remember
every detail. But the path of his gaze had nothing to do with memorizing a perpetrator. She was far too
gorgeous for a criminal. Her thick mane of chestnut-colored hair was pulled back into a youthful ponytail.
He imagined it would feel silky between his fingers. He had the sudden, almost overwhelming urge to
reach out and run his fingers through it. But the desire to live outweighed that particular urge — just
 
barely.
"What're you doing here, Mr. Quinn?" Her tone had turned all business, brisk and devoid of emotion,
anger, or otherwise.
Since her weapon was still pointed in his direction, he chose to keep his bead on the lovely lady as well.
"I'm sorry. I didn't catch your name."
"You don't need to know my name," she retorted, impatience slipping back into her voice. "What're you
doing in this alley at this time of night?"
"I could ask you the same, you know."
A flare of impatience lit those brown eyes. He tensed when she reached beneath her sweatshirt. "Officer
Sarah Cook," she told him pointedly as she shoved her ID in the general direction of his face, right next
to her weapon, the ultimate reminder that she still considered herself in charge of the situation.
Quinn studied the ID for about two seconds. "You're a cop?" It wasn't until he said the words out loud
that the reality struck him. She was a cop .
"Gee, you're a fast learner," she mused sardonically as she tucked the ID back into the waistband of her
jeans. "Now, what the hell are you doing here, Quinn?"
Knowing the move could very well prove to be a mistake, he lowered his weapon. "I'm here for a
meeting with an informant. And you?" He tried to think of one legitimate reason for a cop, an
out-of-uniform beat cop at that, to be in this alley at this time of night. She wasn't Vice or Homicide. He
looked her over again. Considering the way she was dressed, he supposed she could have been out for a
run. Some people preferred to do their physical training at night. But then, why the cloak and dagger
routine when they first stumbled upon each other in this alley?
One dark eyebrow arched as she promptly ignored his question. "I know you aren't a cop, not local
anyway. If you're a PI, you're the one who'd better have a permit to carry a concealed weapon."
She hadn't relaxed her battle-ready posture. As a former cop himself, he knew firsthand that her training
would never allow her to surrender control easily. He still had trouble with that himself. Judging by her
age, really young, twenty-two maybe, she had to be a rookie. In that case, she might just be a little trigger
happy as well. No point risking his life to prove anything.
"I have a permit," he assured her. "It's in my wallet along with my ID. I'm a law student and I'm working
on a special case for one of my professors."
"Give me your weapon," she ordered, simultaneously reaching out her left hand. "And then I want to see
your ID."
"Look, Officer Cook, I don't know what your beef is, but I'd feel at a little disadvantage if I handed over
my weapon. How about I tuck it away, keep my hands in plain sight and you check out my ID? Fair
enough?"
Her eyes searched his for several beats before she relented. "One wrong move, and it'll be your last,"
she warned.
 

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