God, help me, Elsa prayed as she straightened her shoulders, took a deep breath and marched toward the small office door at the side of the warehouse. Usually she was logical and levelheaded, never a risk-taker. But desperate times called for desperate measures. She intended to speak to Troy 's boss, this Curt Poarch he'd mentioned. And if the man was uncooperative, she'd wait and talk to Troy. She had to make him understand the danger he was in, the horrible chances he was taking by working for Booth Fortier-for the Louisiana branch of the Southern Mafia.

Halfway to the door, Elsa paused, opened her shoulder bag and glanced down at the small can of Mace she carried. She didn't own a gun, was in fact uneasy around them. And she didn't usually carry Mace because in a town like St. Camille she really didn't need it. But on the way here this evening, she'd made a stop to purchase a can of Mace and a whistle.

She chuckled silently, laughing at herself and her silly precautions. All the safety paraphernalia in the world wouldn't make her an equal match for a real criminal. After closing her purse, she headed straight toward the warehouse. When she reached the door, she didn't hesitate to knock, loudly and repeatedly. She waited several minutes for a response, but received none. The door remained locked. She tried again, knocking again and again, until her knuckles tingled with pain. Still no response. After that, she tried knocking on the huge double doors. Nothing.

Maybe there's another entry, around back, she thought. But in order to reach the back of the building, she'd have to go down the alleyway. Okay, just do it, she told herself. After all, it's still daylight. There aren't any boogey men waiting to jump out in the dark. But what if something did go wrong? These warehouses and the area around them seemed unusually quiet, not a single soul stirring. If she screamed, would anyone hear her?

Don't chicken out now,an inner voice goaded her into action. She walked up the street, rounded the building on the end and found the alley that ran between the warehouses and the river. Pausing briefly, she garnered her courage and headed down the alley. Suddenly, from out of nowhere, a couple of guys sprang out at her. Gasping, she jumped back and began trying to unlatch her shoulder bag. She made eye contact with first one man and then the other; and realized they weren't much more than boys. A couple of kids about Troy 's age. One black. One white. Both scruffy-looking. Both smiling fiendishly.

"What's a fine thing like you doing down here on the wharf?" the black teenager asked, his ebony eyes raking over her insultingly.

"She's come to see me, haven't you, baby doll?"

The redheaded, freckle-faced white boy came toward Elsa. She backed away… slowly… as her fingers circled the can of Mace in her purse.

"Go away and leave me alone," she warned them.

"You got a gun in that purse?" the redhead asked.

Just as Elsa jerked the Mace from her purse, the black teen pounced, knocking the can out of her hand. When he snatched her purse away, she managed to clasp the whistle and close it up in her hand before he shoved her to the sidewalk. Hitting the sidewalk on her knees, she winced in pain. Oh, God, what a fine mess she'd gotten herself into this time. While she struggled to stand, the two boys emptied her purse, dumping the contents on the sidewalk.

"She ain't got no gun," the redhead said. "Just a can of Mace."

They rummaged through her wallet, pulled out the cash and tossed the wallet back on the ground. "All she's got is forty bucks," the redhead complained.

"Yeah," the black teen agreed, then zeroed in on Elsa, who was trying to back away from them. "Maybe she's got something else she can give us to make up for not having no real money."

Fear surged through her body; adrenaline pumped wildly through her veins. Elsa turned and ran, and in the process managed to get the whistle in her mouth. She could hear the boys laughing as they ran after her. She kept blowing the whistle, kept running. She made it to the end of the alley before they caught up with her. What now? she asked herself when she felt one of them latch his hand onto her shoulder. She knew one thing for sure and certain-she was going to give them the fight of their lives!

Just as the redhead whirled her around, a deep baritone voice coming from behind her said, "Let her go."

Both boys shifted nervously, but the redhead didn't release her. Elsa wondered who her rescuer was and if he could truly save her from these hoodlums.

"Yeah, who's going to make us?" the black teen asked.

"I am," the man replied.

"So you got a gun. Big deal. We got guns, too." The redhead tightened his hold on Elsa.

A gunshot splintered the concrete as it hit the sidewalk half an inch from the redhead's right foot, letting the boys know the big deal was that his gun was in his hand. The redhead jumped when the bullet hit so close, and in the process, released Elsa, who didn't waste any time turning and running. A tall, muscular man, in jeans and T-shirt, a baseball cap covering part of his shaggy brown hair, held a large, sinister-looking pistol in his hand. When the black teen took a step forward, as if he was going to come after Elsa, her hero fired his weapon again, this time sending the shot a hairbreadth from the other guy's foot.

"You win, man. We're outta here." The redhead backed away.

"Toss the lady's money on the ground by her purse," the man told them. "Then you can go."

The redhead jerked the bills from his pocket, dropped them on top of Elsa's empty purse, then started backing away again. The black youth followed suit; when they'd backed up about ten feet, they turned and ran down the alley.

Elsa released a pent-up breath and made direct eye contact with her rescuer. "Thank you."

"What the hell were you doing back here in this alley?" He scanned her from head to toe. "You don't look like you belong anywhere around here."

"I-I was trying to find someone inside one of the warehouses," she said, realizing as she spoke that her statement probably didn't make any sense to this man. "My brother works down there-" she pointed to the Garland Industries warehouse "-and I wanted to talk to his boss."

Narrowing his gaze, the man studied her, as if he was wondering whether he knew her. "You made a big mistake coming down here. Go home and don't come back. Whatever trouble your brother's in, you can't fix it with his boss."

"How do you know-"

He grasped Elsa's upper arm, dragged her up the alley to where her purse and its contents lay. "Gather up your things and I'll walk you back to your car."

She knelt, raised the flap on her handbag, shoved the contents inside and picked it up.

After she hung the strap over her shoulder, she turned to him. "Do you work around here? Is that the reason you-"

He grabbed her arm again and marched her up the alley, toward the end of the street. She quickened her pace in order to keep up with him. When they rounded the corner onto East Fifth Street, she stopped and dug in her heels.

"Please, if you can, help me." She gazed pleadingly up at him, but his hard expression didn't soften. "My brother's life could depend on my getting him to quit his job."

"What's your brother's name?"

Elsa hesitated. She didn't know this man, had no idea if she could trust him. But he'd rescued her, probably saved her from being raped or perhaps even killed.

"Troy Leone."

"You promise me you won't come back down here to the warehouse, and if there's anything I can do to keep an eye on your brother, I will."

"Do you know Troy?" she asked.

He didn't reply.

Realizing she'd lost the battle, she nodded. "I'm Elsa Leone. I want to thank you again for saving me."