I wouldn’t let him near Jack’s bedroom but showed him to the spare. “This place is already wired, locked down, airtight. The WiFi is encrypted, dedicated, not your mom’s maiden name password protected. I don’t get cable. The only phones are my cells. There’s no safe room, but my armory is in the basement.” I watched as Walker hefted his big black bag onto the bed. “Feel safe?” I spoke through clenched teeth, anxiety for Jack, Mel, and Jessica’s welfare putting paid to any deceptive calm cool edge. “As houses,” Walker remarked, unpacking his firearms. I wanted to break doors off the hinges, hit plaster with my knuckles. If I’d put my people in danger because of Vicente fucking Valderas, I’d make sure he’d die a long, lonesome, cruel death. Instead of going hari-kari on my house, I made four sandwiches, wielding the knife like a stabbing blade, mutilating the head of lettuce and pretty much committing murder on the tomatoes. Walker hung back at the door of the kitchen.
