by Cynthia Eden
“Luke!”
He was gone. “FBI!” he yelled out. “Identify yourself!”
Sweat slickened her palms. She went after him, keeping cover, staying low. Her weapon was aimed and ready. But…
This isn’t right. It’s not his way.
The man didn’t stop walking. The shuffle of his feet traveled easily in the night.
“I said, identify yourself!” Luke’s order shook the porch.
But the guy didn’t speak. And he was getting closer.
Not right.
Then the guy’s hand lifted.
And Monica saw the glint of a gun. “Luke, he’s armed!”
Even as she screamed her warning, a bullet exploded, firing at the house, chipping wood just inches from Luke’s head.
“Sonofabitch.”
The man ran now, full-out ran, toward them. Yelling something as he fired, over and over.
Luke fired back.
So did she. Not aiming for the head. Or the heart. She should have, she knew, but…
Her bullet clipped him in the shoulder, and he staggered. Luke’s caught him in the chest. Blood burst from his wounds, spraying around him.
But still, somehow, he fired.
“Drop the gun!” Luke roared. “Drop it! Drop—”
“On… me!” The gunman screamed. “It’s on me!”
Monica’s finger froze on the trigger. Not our guy. “Luke, hold! Do you hear me? Hold—”
The guy fired again, and the bullet blasted right across her left arm. Oh, shit. Fire ripped the flesh away.
“Monica!” Luke shot again. The bullet thudded into flesh.
The gunman fell back.
“No.” She shook her head and raced across the overgrown grass.
“Monica! Stop, he’s not dead. It wasn’t a heart shot!”
The guy raised his head and somehow managed to lift his gun. Under the moonlight, she saw his eyes. So much fear there, and anger. Rage.
“B-bitch… not gonna… get me…” Blood dripped from his mouth.
“Drop your weapon,” she told him, never wavering with her own gun as she ignored the throb of fire racing up her arm. “Do it, just drop—”
But he shook his head. “N-not… like… him…”
She saw the tremble of his hand. Squeezing the trigger.
He wouldn’t miss her heart this close. Couldn’t miss. “Don’t make me shoot you,” she whispered.
“Monica! Get out of the fucking way! Give me the shot!” Luke’s furious shout.
The man, young, thin hair, thin face, tried to smile. “F-fuck y-you.” The gun shook. “F-fuck him.”
“Your last chance,” she told him and heard the distant wail of sirens. It had to be the sheriff, coming fast. “Just put down the—”
“M-my… way.” He jerked up the gun.
“Monica! Get out of the way, get out—”
The guy fired.
The red lights from the ambulance flew in a sickening blur, lighting then concealing the crime scene.
Another scene. Another body.
“Damn straight.” The sheriff slapped Luke on the back, hard enough to make him nearly stagger. “Bringing you two in was the right choice. You got him. Stopped that freak cold—”
Davis was sure the dead man, the bastard lying in his own blood just steps away, was the serial they’d been seeking.
Luke lifted his eyes to Monica. She sat in the back of the ambulance. Her shirt was torn, her left sleeve completely gone. A guy in an EMT uniform pressed a white bandage against her flesh. She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just kept her eyes locked on the body.
The guy had blown his brains out right in front of her.
“Guess some killers just can’t stand the thought of being taken in.” Another slap by Davis. The guy wore one big, face-splitting grin.
People didn’t normally get so excited over suicide. But then, this wasn’t your average case.
“He kept the control by shooting himself,” Luke said. A lesson he’d learned about serials long ago.
Control. For them, it was key. Lose the control, lose the game. Without control, the serials became sloppy. A sloppy murderer was one that could get caught. Or killed.
“Folks in this town will sure sleep better tonight, I tell you.”
Tires squealed. Luke glanced over and saw a news van braking to a hard stop just beyond the red, swirling lights.
A news van? Christ, that was the last thing they needed right now.
“Don’t worry, I’ve got ’em,” Kenton said. He’d arrived on the scene, riding shotgun with the sheriff, just in time to find Monica leaning over the body.
Shaking the man who’d tried to kill her. Tried to kill them.
She’d yelled at him, demanded, “Tell me! No, don’t do this! Tell me!”
But the guy hadn’t been able to tell her a thing. Kinda hard for the dead to talk.
“Hold on there, son.” Sheriff Davis straightened his shoulders. “This is my town. My people. They look to me for protection, and I’m gonna be letting them know they can sleep good again tonight.”
Monica blinked, like she was waking up from some kind of dream. Then she pushed away from the ambulance attendant. Her forehead wrinkled as she hurried across to him.
“The killer tried to set you both up, but he was the one to end up dying.” Davis shook his head. “Jasper is safe again. Our second brush with these bastards, but we came through. We came through.”
“Sheriff.” Monica’s clipped voice. “We have no concrete proof this is the killer we are after. There’s no evidence here to suggest…”
Davis’s jaw dropped. “What the hell? Davenport—this here bastard slashed your tires. Left you one of them love letters of his, then he came at you with a gun.” He pointed to the bandage on her arm. “You think he was just firin’ warning shots there? He came to kill you.”
“And he wound up killing himself.” She shook her head and lowered her voice. “That’s not the way this guy would go out.”
Luke stirred a bit at that. “I don’t know, maybe he would.” She looked tired and far too pale.
The bastard had shot her. Grazed her arm. A few more inches, just a few more…
His body stiffened as a wave of fury seared through him.
She’d been in front of the killer, staring down his gun. What if the perp hadn’t shot himself? What if he’d aimed for her?
Luke’s stomach churned with fury and fear. Yeah, he knew she was just doing her job. Just like he was.
But he couldn’t stand to see her hurt.
Good thing that bastard is dead. ’Cause I could send him to Hell myself right now.
Brain matter and blood littered the ground. The perp had done one hell of a number on himself. Half of his face was gone, blown to bits, and the eye that was left still stared, wide open.
A camera flashed as the crime scene guy snapped his images.
“Jeremy Jones has been nothin’ but trouble his whole damn life,” Davis said. “A real shame.”
Jeremy Jones. Yeah, that was the name they’d found in the wallet. But Davis had ID’d the guy even before they’d put on the gloves and gone searching for proof.
“He was in and out of juvie. Had two arrests last year.” The sheriff shook his head, and his lips tightened. Luke realized the guy wasn’t looking at the body. Hadn’t looked directly at it, not since he’d run toward them, glanced down and identified the body. “Jeremy, shit.”
“So this guy was a career criminal?” Kenton asked, rubbing the back of his head. “What was he in for as a kid? Animal mutilations? Break-ins?”
“Drugs.”
Monica’s gaze didn’t rise from the body. The sheriff wouldn’t look, but she couldn’t seem to look away. “What kind of drugs?”
“Any kind. Jeremy was what we call one equal opportunity boy.”
Doors slammed. The news crew, coming closer.
“Showtime for me.” Davis straightened his shirt and adjusted his star.
“You two did a fine job on this one. I’ll be sure to tell Hyde how impressed I am. Real good work.”
“Don’t tell Hyde anything,” Monica said. “And don’t talk to the media. This case isn’t over.”
But the sheriff shook his head and stood his ground as he frowned at her. “It’s over. Everybody in this county knew Jones was trouble. Just like his old man. His dad died on the streets, and Jeremy did, too.” He turned away, headed toward the news team and muttered, “Some folks just can’t be saved.”
Monica shook her head. “No, sometimes, we just can’t save them.”
Hell. Luke had to go to her. He closed the distance between them. Let his fingers brush her arm. Not too hard, not too intimate, but he needed to touch her. “You okay?” Because she’d scared a good ten years off his life. Maybe more.
Her lips pressed together, and she gave a small nod.
Not good enough. He caught her other arm, the uninjured one, and spun her toward him. “Stop looking at him. He’s dead. He tried to kill us. Nothing we could do.”
Her eyes looked so cold. Shards of ice. “There’s always something we could do.”
He really wanted to shake her. Or kiss her, hard. But too many eyes were around. “He was a killer. We closed the case.” The sheriff sure thought so. “End of story.”
“No, it’s not.”
Kenton cleared his throat. “Um, look, excuse me and all but…”
Luke glanced over at the other agent.
“You guys need like a moment or something? And, damn, man, what happened to your eye? I thought it was a gun fight.”
A rumble rose in his throat.
But Monica snapped first. “What I need is for you to get over there and stop Davis from screwing up my case.”
Kenton blinked.
“Don’t let him tell the good folks of Jasper that they’re safe. They’re not.”
One brow rose. “The dead body on the ground says otherwise,” Kenton told her.
“Oh, it says something, all right.” And she crouched down, right next to the blood and the pieces he really didn’t want to think about too hard. “Right here.” She pointed to his wrist. The wrist that had slumped over Jeremy’s chest after he’d fired that last bullet. “Right here it says that he has rope burns.” A pause. “They’re on both wrists.”
What?
“Ma’am, don’t touch the—” The tech began in a high, nervous voice.
“I’m not touching the damn body!” Monica surged to her feet. Kept those shards of ice on Kenton. “Strange, wouldn’t you say?”
Yeah, Luke would say that. Monica gave a hard hmmm like a revving motor then asked, voice tight, “Why was our killer tied up—pretty recently, by the look of those marks?”
“Maybe the asshole was into S&M,” Kenton said, shaking his head. “Maybe his girlfriend got a little rough with him tonight.”
“Maybe he’s just not our guy,” she fired back at him. Her delicate jaw worked a minute, then she called out, “Hey, deputy!”
Vance stumbled to a halt at Monica’s call. He cast a fast glance down at the body, swallowed, then met her stare. “You—you don’t want me to touch ’im, do ya?” He’d just arrived on the scene, and he already looked like he might pass out.
“You can’t touch—” The tech said again.
Oh, Christ. Luke ground his back teeth together.
“No.” Monica clipped out. She swiped back a lock of her hair and said, “You knew him, right, deputy? Davis said he was a local and—oh, hell! Kenton, Davis is going live with some shit over there. Go stop him!”
Sure enough, Davis had a mike in front of him and a shining spotlight covered him as the camera lens zoomed in.
“Fuck.” Kenton took off at a lope. “Special Agent, coming through!”
Not that his announcement cleared his path. But it did get the attention of the reporter. Reporters always responded to Kenton.
“He’s not blowing my case.” Monica’s spine straightened.
Vance began to inch away.
“You knew him.” Monica pointed her finger at Vance’s chest.
A quick nod. “W-we all knew Jeremy. He was… always around. I-I think Lee went to school with him at Jasper High.”
“Davis said the guy’s dad died on the street. What was he talking about?” she asked.
Vance’s muddy eyes darted toward Davis. A no-longer-talking Davis because Kenton had the mike firmly in his hands. “About seven years ago, the sheriff shot him,” he whispered.
“How did it go down?” she pressed.
“H-he was dealin’.”
Luke wanted to be clear on this. “Dealing what?” he asked.
“Meth. Jason Jones—he was… I mean, I wasn’t here but I heard… he was making it, in his house. Word was… um, when the sheriff busted in, the whole place was near to exploding.”
Yeah, he didn’t doubt that.
“Jason, he ran. Sheriff and his deputies chased him.” Another quick glance at the sheriff. “The guy ran into the street. They told him to stop. Everybody said they told him to stop.”
“But he didn’t.” If the guy had been high on meth, no chance he would have backed down.
Vance scooted away from the body. “Is it—is it supposed to smell like that?”
“He defecated.” From the crime scene guy. What was his name? Gerry? He’d been around a lot lately. Probably more work than the guy’d had in years.
“Def—oh, shit.”
“Yeah.” The tech stood and held his camera tight. “It happens.” He strolled away, dark head bent.
Vance’s face flushed beat red. “I’m gonna be sick.” Standing over a body that had been blown to hell would do that to you.
“Come on.” Monica grabbed the guy’s arm and led him a few feet away. “Sit on the ground. Put your head between your knees.”
But his head flew up. “Everybody will see me.”
“Yeah, but at least they won’t see you puking all over the place.”
He sat and shoved his head between his knees.
“Breathe.” Luke advised him.
He did. Luke heard the deep, shuddering breaths.
Gerry came back and put a sheet over the body. Finally.
Monica’s shoulders had relaxed a bit, but a faint furrow lined her forehead. He could feel the energy rolling off her.
A bullet wound hadn’t slowed her down. But then, he’d never known anything to slow down Monica. She was tough, fierce, and even in the midst of a nightmare, sexy.
He was so screwed. Luke sighed and glanced at the deputy. “Gonna keep the cookies down?” Luke asked the guy.
Vance managed a nod.
“Good.”
“What happened after the sheriff told Jason Jones to stop?” Monica’s quiet voice. Not threatening or demanding in the least. Smooth and easy.
Ah, she’d changed her style. Probably because good old Vance was close to a breakdown.
“I-I told you, I w-wasn’t there, I’d just started workin’ in Mobile back then—”
He saw her jaw clench. “I realize you weren’t there, Vance. But what did you hear?”
“I—he—Jason pulled a weapon and fired on Davis.” He licked his lips.
Luke looked up and saw the sheriff stalking toward them. Moving at a pretty fast clip.
“Sheriff Davis fired back,” Vance’s words came faster, too. Probably because he’d just seen the sheriff closing in on them. “So did two deputies. They took him down—”
“Right in the street,” Monica finished.
Like father, like son. One hell of a coincidence.
“F-felt bad when I heard.” Vance rubbed his hand over his face. “Shame, ya know? Watchin’ your old man go out like that.”
In a hail of gunshots and blood.
“Watching?” Monica leaned in close. Blood had appeared on her white bandage. Shit. She needed to get that checked again. She probably needed stitches.
“Jeremy was there.” His Adam’s apple b
obbed. “His ma died when he was a baby. His dad—he took care of him. That night, word was that he ran after his old man—”
And watched him die.
“Vance!” Davis thundered. “Why the hell are you sitting on your ass? We got a perimeter to secure. Move, man, move!”
Vance scrambled.
“I spoke to the mayor,” Davis said, giving a hard nod. “We’re holding a press conference at 7 a.m. tomorrow.”
Attendants loaded Jeremy’s body onto a gurney. Zipped him up and rolled him away.
So much blood was left behind.
Not an easy death. But he’d chosen to go out like that. Chosen the bullet.
By his own hand.
“We’re closing this case.” Fierce voice. Blazing eyes. The sheriff’s voice thundered with an authority Luke hadn’t heard before. “Jones is the killer, and that’s what I’m saying on the news. Jasper is a safe town. I won’t have folks worrying anymore.”
With that, he spun around and strode away.
“I think they do need to worry, Sheriff.” Monica’s voice came, quiet but clear, and stopped the guy in his tracks. “Actually, I think they should worry one hell of a lot.”
The sheriff had frozen, but he didn’t glance back at her. “My town is safe now,” he said again, and Luke wondered if he was trying to convince Monica of that fact—or himself.
Then an EMT raced up to her, muttering about the blood dripping on her arm. And the sheriff kept walking.
“Sheriff—” Monica called.
Luke stepped in front of her. “Stitch her up,” he ordered, shoving his hands into his pockets. The better not to touch. Hold.
Not now. Because that message was plain in her eyes.
Her rules. Her game. Not for much longer.
Monica could hear the ticking of the bedside clock, counting off the seconds. So slowly and way too loud.
No, not too loud. The room was just too quiet.
Monica grabbed the clock. Yanked the batteries out and threw the damn thing across the floor. Her hands were shaking, her entire body trembling.
Fury rode her. It tightened her gut and pounded through her head. She jumped out of the bed. Can’t stay there. Pressing her palms against her eyes, she began to pace. Fast, desperate strides.
F-fuck… you.
Her hands dropped. A dead man’s voice, playing like a broken record in her head.