Minutes to Kill (Scarlet Falls)

by Melinda Leigh

  Cruel, lean face. Goatee. Mean eyes. It was him. The man who had assaulted her in Vegas.

  “Remember me?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Hannah’s body went rigid. Sweat poured from her clammy skin. This man had hurt her before, and this time he was armed. Last time neither of them had been carrying, but today he had the advantage. Just as she’d been unable to carry her gun into New York City, her permit did not allow her to bring a weapon into a federal building. She’d locked her Glock in the safe to meet with the prosecutor. She said a silent prayer of thanks that Grant and the family weren’t home.

  If he’d been alone, if he hadn’t had an accomplice to ram her car, the scenario in the Las Vegas parking lot might not have gone his way. She scanned him from his boots to the backward cap on his head. The saggy jeans and oversize hoodie said city boy.

  He gestured toward her with the gun. “Turn around and raise your hands.”

  Hannah pivoted, the heel of her shoe scraping on the walk. She wasn’t dressed for the woods any more than him.

  “Move it, bitch.” He poked her back with the muzzle.

  “Where do you want me to go?”

  “My car is behind the garage. We’re going to take a ride.”

  Hannah followed the driveway around the house. On her right, the lawn rolled into the creek and woods beyond. The detached garage sat off the left side, at the edge of the trees that surrounded the property. Her brother used the building for tool storage rather than parking. They walked behind the small building. A Buick sedan sat between the garage and the forest. What could she do?

  He pulled a car key from his pocket and pressed the button on the fob with his thumb. The trunk popped open. Stepping to Hannah’s side, he pointed the gun at her temple. “Get in the trunk.”

  So he could incapacitate her, take her to a secluded location, and proceed with the torture-rape-kill scenario she bet was in his mind? She wasn’t going to cooperate with that plan.

  “From now on, you belong to me.” He grinned, confidence and malice filling his dark beady eyes. He motioned toward the trunk with the gun.

  Hannah considered her options. He stood three feet from her, too far away to disarm him. She took a step and turned toward the trunk. She glanced over her shoulder. Excitement lit his eyes, and fear gathered behind Hannah’s sternum. Getting into that trunk meant certain death. Her gaze flickered to the woods, her best chance for escape.

  She shifted her weight as if preparing to climb into the vehicle, then she kicked out behind her. Her foot caught his hand, knocking the gun out of his grip. It landed a few feet away and slid in the grass. He lunged toward the weapon. Leaving her Pradas behind, Hannah sprinted for the woods. After several days of intermittent rain, the ground was slippery under her bare feet. She zigzagged through the trees. Behind her, she heard huffing and crashing as gangsta boy lumbered into the forest like a tank on a Formula One course.

  Hannah swung right and doubled back toward the garage, her gray-on-gray ensemble blending into the autumn-bare woods. Slowing, she took care to avoid patches of dried leaves. She paused to take stock and track the sounds of twigs snapping to the man moving a hundred feet away. Ducking behind a group of evergreens, she picked up a short, sturdy branch and waited, hoping the dense greenery was enough to conceal her body. His footsteps came closer and closer. A bead of sweat rolled down Hannah’s spine. Her lungs bellowed, and her head spun from the sudden exertion of her sprint. She wasn’t in prime condition. Too much work and not enough exercise in her life.

  He passed the trees. Hannah lunged. She swung the branch at his head. He ducked, avoiding a direct blow. He lifted the gun in his hand. Before it leveled on Hannah, she dropped the branch and twisted. Both hands came down on the gun, swinging the barrel toward the ground. Applying pressure to his wrist, she turned the weapon toward him, twisting it out of his grip and pointing it at his face.

  “You won’t shoot me,” he said smugly.

  “Wanna bet?”

  He grabbed for the weapon. Hannah pulled the trigger. Click. Empty.

  “It ain’t loaded. After that scene at the car, I figured you’d try something.” He pulled a knife from his pocket and dove at her legs, sweeping both arms toward her knees for a tackle.

  Hannah dropped the empty gun and sprawled her legs back. Her hands, arms, and body weight came down on the back of his shoulders. Off balance and surprised by her response, he hit the ground face-first. Still pressing down, Hannah spun on his back. She slid one arm under his chin to encircle his neck and locked him in a choke hold. Squeezing her elbows together, she applied pressure to the sides of his neck and cut off the blood supply to his brain. He flopped on the dirt. Hannah held on. Twenty seconds later, he went limp.

  She wiggled out from under him and patted him down. His pockets were full of interesting items. She opened his wallet. His Nevada driver’s license said his name was Mick Arnette. She stuffed his wallet, knife, car key, and cell phone into her pockets. She pulled a few plastic strips from the front pocket of his jeans. “Zip ties. How handy.”

  She used them to secure his wrists behind his back and bind his ankles together. Then she ran for the garage, visible through the trees. He’d be awake in a few minutes, and it was time to turn the tables on this scumbag. He was going to tell her what he did with Jewel. Was the girl still alive?

  As she’d learned from her meeting with the prosecutor, criminals knew the law well enough to use it to their advantage. Once she called the police, Mick would clam up and demand a lawyer.

  She opened her brother’s garage and scanned the walls of construction tools. She spied a coil of yellow nylon rope. Looping it over her shoulder, she spotted a come-along hand winch on a shelf. She read the label. The cable puller had a four-ton lifting capacity. That ought to do it. A short length of chain was coiled next to the hand winch. Perfect. Taking both, she jogged back to Mick.

  Wrapping the chain around a nearby tree, she snapped the hook on one end of the come-along to two thick links. The nylon rope went around Mick’s ankles. Hannah looked up and located a sturdy tree limb about twelve feet overhead. A few tosses put the other end of the rope over the branch. She took up the slack in the rope, made a loop, and tied it off. Then she hooked the other end of the hand winch to the loop in the rope. She cranked the handle back and forth, ratcheting Mick’s feet off the ground. She worked the hoist until he was hanging upside down with his head about five feet off the ground. The blood rushing to his head would wake him up.

  Her father’s survival drills had been crazy, but at that moment she was thankful for every brutal second.

  He shook his head, his eyelids fluttering.

  She smacked his cheek. “Wake up, Mick.”

  He stirred and blinked at her. His eyes moved in wild arcs, and his body twisted like a worm on a hook. Hatred shone from his eyes, but there was also apprehension. Good.

  “You and I need to have a conversation,” she said.

  “You’re going to regret this.” He struggled, his body swaying. “Go fuck yourself.”

  “I hardly think you’re in a position to make that sort of suggestion, Mick.” Hannah took his knife from her pocket and waved it in front of his nose. “Here’s how it works. The person who isn’t hanging upside down from a tree gets to ask the questions. You need to start talking.”

  “I’m not telling you anything. You’re going to let me down, and you’re going to do what I say.” Spite, gleeful and malicious, pinched his face. “If you want to see your friend alive again.”

  That must mean . . . She was alive! Hannah didn’t let her relief show on her face. She channeled her contract-negotiating expression—similar to emotional Botox. “Just tell me where she is.”

  Mick’s body went still. “She?”

  “The girl.”

  “What girl?” His face reddened as the blood flowed into h
is head.

  “Jewel.”

  He laughed. “You’re hung up on that little whore? She’s long gone. I have no idea where she is.”

  “What did you do with her?” Hannah asked. Then discomfort rode up her spine as she realized the full impact of his statement. “Who were you talking about?”

  “Check your e-mail.” Glee lit his eyes.

  What had he done?

  Hannah took her phone from her pocket and opened her e-mail. She had fifty-seven new e-mails. She scanned the list, stopping on a message from theking@hmi.com. Clicking on the attachment, she gasped. Staring back at her was a picture of Chet, bound, gagged with duct tape, and apparently unconscious. She studied the photo. The picture was zoomed in close. Where was he? She couldn’t see much of the background. Just grass and weeds under his head. A dark red wall of some sort behind him. He could be anywhere.

  “Where is he?” she asked.

  “Like I’m going to tell you.” He sneered. “My brother is watching him. If I don’t call by eight o’clock, he’ll kill the old man. He’ll enjoy doing it.”

  An icy ball formed behind Hannah’s ribs. She took his phone out of her pocket.

  A lock screen appeared. “Pass code?”

  “Like I’d give you that.” The arrogant bastard actually smirked. “Let me down and untie me. Then I’ll tell you.”

  Right. Not. Hannah debated for a minute. She could call Brody. He’d bring the police. They’d start a formal search for Chet. But would Mick talk to the police? She doubted it. She had a feeling he knew the Miranda warnings by heart.

  She waved the knife. “My father was an army ranger. He taught me how to do all sorts of interesting things, like rig snares and hunt game. By the time I was twelve, I could skin and field dress a deer.” She reached up and touched his solar plexus with her forefinger. “You make a cut from the deer’s sternum to its crotch. That’s the tricky part. The cut has to be deep enough to get through the hide and abdominal muscles, but you don’t want to puncture the intestines. You need to pull those out intact so their contents don’t taint the meat.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. The brief shimmer of fear in his eyes gave her hope that he’d tell her where his partner was keeping Chet.

  A predatory, egotistic smile split his face. “Nice bluff, counselor. But you aren’t like me. You aren’t going to cut me. You have morals. You care about doing what’s right. And you’d go to prison for it.”

  A small voice inside her wanted to make him pay. He was the worst example of humanity. He preyed on helpless young girls and old men. He wasn’t worth the air he breathed. Once he was arrested, the courts would take over. He’d be one more cog in an overcrowded wheel. He was a plea away from a short sentence.

  But she couldn’t do it. She’d fight to defend herself or another, but she couldn’t hurt a man hanging helpless from a tree, no matter how much the man deserved it. Her father and her brother had fought and sacrificed for freedom and democracy, not vigilante justice. But now she truly understood the anger and frustration that had driven Grant to pound on their brother’s killer.

  Damn it.

  She couldn’t let him go, and she couldn’t make him talk. That left one option. She had to trust Brody.

  Hannah pulled out her own cell and dialed Brody. His voice mail answered. She called the police station. A man answered the call. “Scarlet Falls police. Sergeant Stevens.”

  “If you call the cops, I’ll never tell you,” Mick said. “If the old man dies, it’ll be your fault.”

  Hannah ignored him. “I need to talk to Detective McNamara.” Hannah stared at the photo of Chet. There must be a clue in the picture that could tell her where Chet was tied up.

  “Detective McNamara is unavailable.”

  “Please, interrupt him.” She gave the sergeant her name. “It’s an emergency.”

  “Better hurry,” Mick chided. “It’s fucking cold out here today. The old dude won’t last long. When we grabbed him, he already looked half dead.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “The suspect opened fire first,” Brody said for the tenth time. Why was he wasting time recounting the shooting over and over while he’d rather be searching for the killer?

  “And you have no idea how seriously he was wounded?” the chief asked.

  “No. I saw his body jerk, but he kept running.” Brody knew debriefing after a shooting was important, but the chief and mayor were in full butt-covering mode. A killer was on the loose, and they didn’t want to assume any blame. Plus, once he was caught, they wanted every i and t accounted for, in case the criminal sued the township. They always sued the township.

  “We have the local ERs on alert in case he seeks treatment.” The chief scratched his smooth jaw.

  Brody scraped a hand over his own stubble. He hadn’t taken time to shave.

  Stella sat at the other end of the table. As the officer who’d shot the suspect, she’d been put on desk duty. Helping with the search wasn’t an option for her.

  The mayor slapped both hands on the table. “I think that’s enough, Detective.”

  The chief turned to Stella. “Department policy states that any officer involved in a shooting is automatically placed on desk duty for a minimum of one week. Although I see no indications that this is anything but a justified shooting, I’ll be performing a full investigation. You will also be required to see the psychologist. The doctor will have to clear you to return to patrol. You too, Detective McNamara.”

  She blinked to Brody, and he nodded. He’d follow up with her, as he wished someone had done with him in Boston. Instead, the precinct cops, mostly old-timers, had projected a suck-it-up mentality that he’d felt obligated to emulate. Would his marriage have failed if he’d gotten help then instead of waiting for full-blown post-traumatic stress to develop? It didn’t matter, he decided. His wife had left him when the going got tough. Clearly, she’d thought “for better or for worse, sickness or health, and richer or poorer” were multiple-choice options rather than vows. He was better off without her.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  The chief frowned. “This better be important.”

  The sergeant opened the door. “I’m sorry, sir.” He nodded to Brody. “I have a call for Detective McNamara. She says it’s an emergency.”

  Brody stood. “Excuse me. I’ll be right back.” He followed the sergeant out into the main room. “Who is it, Sergeant?”

  “Hannah Barrett,” the sergeant said. “I put the call through to your desk.”

  Brody hurried to his office, picked up the phone, and pushed the blinking button. “Hannah? What’s wrong?”

  “I have bad news. There was someone waiting for me when I got home. Let me start with I’m fine . . .”

  Brody’s limbs turned cold, and his heart stumbled as she gave him a succinct synopsis of her abduction at gunpoint. “You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Yes. I handled him.” Her voice sounded strained. “But his partner has kidnapped Chet. They must have been following me.”

  “You’re at Grant’s place?”

  “Yes. In the woods behind the garage.”

  “Is he restrained?”

  “Don’t worry. He’s not going anywhere,” she assured him.

  “Stay put. We’ll be right there.” Brody hung up. He returned to the chief’s office, summarized Hannah’s call, and gave his boss Grant’s address. “I’m going there now.”

  The chief rose to his feet. He motioned for the sergeant. “Get whoever is on patrol out there, and get some backup from the county and state police. They’ll have to pull personnel from the manhunt. Brody, do you have any physical evidence other than the haircut the killer gave the second victim to indicate these two incidents might be related?”

  “Not yet.” Brody ran for the exit. Hannah was in the woods with a
n armed attacker. Pushing his sedan, he cut the drive out to her brother’s place to twelve minutes. He parked near the garage behind a patrol car. Running toward the woods, he yelled, “Hannah?”

  “Over here,” a male voice answered.

  Brody spotted figures in the forest. What the . . . ? Hannah was leaning against a tree, arms crossed, brows knitted. She appeared calm, but Brody could see the turmoil brewing behind her negotiation face. Next to her, a uniformed patrol officer stared at a man strung from a tree by his feet.

  “Get me the fuck down from here,” the criminal barked.

  “You want me to cut the rope?” Hannah pushed off the tree trunk and started toward him.

  The criminal craned his head to stare at the ground five feet below his face. His body twisted. “No!”

  “Make up your mind.” She shrugged, her casual gesture belied by the fury in her eyes.

  Brody’s gaze swept the scene. Hannah had strung the man up like a side of beef. He and the patrol officer exchanged a look of disbelief—and respect.

  His gaze lifted to Hannah. He walked over to her and pressed his forehead to hers. She’d told him she was all right, but until he’d seen her, touched her, his heart had refused to process that fact. “I can’t believe you caught him. You’re amazing.”

  She was totally badass, and he was damned glad.

  Her eyes were bleak. “Show him the picture, officer.”

  The patrol cop held out a cell phone. It looked like Hannah’s cell phone case. Brody shaded the screen. Oh, shit. Chet.

  “He won’t tell me where he is.” Hannah’s mouth thinned.

  “We’ll find him.” Brody put an arm around her. More sirens approached. He went over to the patrol cop. “Let’s get him down.”

  The cop grabbed the thug’s shoulders. Brody released the gear spool on the winch, and the officer lowered the man to the ground.

  The cop handed Brody a wallet. “His name is Mick Arnette. He’s from Las Vegas.”

  “Is this the man who attacked you in Vegas?” Brody asked Hannah.