by LENA DIAZ,
Judging by the shrapnel and bits of threaded pipe they’d already found, there was little doubt this had been a pipe bomb. But to figure out the bomber’s identity, Rafe needed to know exactly how the bomb had been constructed. Bomb makers tended to settle on a favorite design and stick with it. The bomb’s design was like fingerprints, or DNA.
“Nice of you to dress up for work today.”
Rafe glanced up at the sound of his boss’s voice. Captain Buresh was just stepping inside the warehouse. Although he was only twenty feet away, it would take him a good half a minute to maneuver through the minefield of debris to reach them.
Rafe peeled off his gloves and set his supplies on the jacket he’d already discarded because of the heat. Without bothering to respond to his boss’s teasing about his appearance, Rafe stood to greet him. Buresh knew exactly why Rafe was dressed the way he was, and why he was sorely in need of a haircut and a shave.
Blending in with the local criminal element in some of the rougher areas of town was crucial when trying to establish new contacts—future informants—which had been Rafe’s assignment for the past month. If he hadn’t been sidetracked by Darby’s call, he’d be home right now enjoying a long, hot shower. Or he might have already gotten his hair cut short again, which would have made it much easier to bear the Florida summer heat, especially in this warehouse that captured heat like an oven. He ran the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping off the sweat.
“Bring me up to speed,” Buresh said, stopping in front of him.
“The coroner took the vic, or what’s left of him, out the back a few minutes ago.”
“Was the vic the assistant D.A. you mentioned on the phone?”
“Can’t be certain yet, but that would be my bet. There was a wallet in the corner, sheltered from the blast, with Victor Grant’s driver’s license and credit cards inside.”
“Whoever did this wanted us to know the vic’s identity.”
“Looks that way.”
Jake paused with tweezers in hand. “If you’re not going to help, get out of my way.” His voice carried more irritation than warranted. Jake didn’t have much use for Rafe, not since Rafe had survived a brutal home invasion a year ago and his wife hadn’t.
Shelby Morgan had been Jake’s sister. With the killer still at large, and no one else around to target his anger, Jake blamed Rafe. Rafe wished he had the same patience and empathy for Jake that Darby had shown when talking about her clients blaming her. A year of Jake’s insults and snide remarks had frayed Rafe’s nerves and temper to the breaking point. The only thing holding him back now was that he knew how much his wife had loved her only sibling.
He pushed those dark thoughts to the back of his mind to focus on the present. Bombings were rare in this small tourist town. And premeditated as this one obviously was, Rafe seriously doubted the bomber was going to stop at just one victim.
The bomber was toying with the police, and Darby, by sending the picture and timer. He’d probably assumed Darby would open her mail early this morning, and that the police would have spent all day futilely trying to find and save the victim. Since she hadn’t opened her mail until late in the day, unfortunately the police had never had a chance to search for the victim.
And the bomber hadn’t gotten his anticipated thrill out of watching the chase.
That had Rafe worried the bomber might feel cheated, and he might pick another victim sooner than he otherwise would have. Would the bomber send Darby another envelope? Had he fixated on her as his audience, or was she the next intended victim? Rafe stepped away from Jake and led Buresh to the open doorway.
“Did you send someone to Dr. Steele’s office to keep an eye on her?”
Buresh nodded. “Daniels is there now. He’ll watch the building, make sure no one goes in or out.”
A small crowd had gathered at the edge of the warehouse’s parking lot. Rafe swore when he recognized a familiar figure behind the police line—Darby Steele. “Too late. What was she thinking coming over here? I specifically told her not to.”
Across the street, Officer Daniels sat in his police car outside Darby’s one-story office building. She must have left right after Rafe had, before Daniels arrived. The woman needed to learn what the term stay put meant.
“She shouldn’t be out in the open, not until we know why the bomber sent her that envelope,” Rafe said.
His boss held his hand in the air, waving for Daniels to join them. “I’ll have Daniels take her back to her office. You think she’s a target?”
“Possibly, or she’s someone the bomber knows and he wants to brag about his accomplishments. Either way, she’s central to this case. We’ll interview her, see if she knows something she doesn’t even realize she knows, then keep an eye on her until we get this guy.”
Rafe was about to go back inside to help Jake when he realized Darby wasn’t standing where he’d seen her a moment ago. He scanned the crowd, looking for the petite brunette in the baby-blue business suit—the woman who’d tilted his world on a crazy angle earlier. The simple act of grabbing her wrist, of feeling her soft skin beneath his, had sent a zing of awareness slicing through him, straight to his groin.
Which made absolutely no sense, because he didn’t even like Darby Steele.
Daniels reached Buresh, a smile of greeting on his face. “Hey, Captain, Detective. What’s—”
“There she is,” Rafe interrupted. “Where’s she going?”
She was walking away toward the dock at the end of the street. A man was walking beside her, his head covered with a black baseball cap. The two of them were so close there was almost no sunlight separating them.
An uneasy feeling swept through Rafe. He looked back toward the crowd where Darby had been standing just a moment ago. A large manila envelope was lying on the curb. He clawed for the Glock holstered to his side and jerked his head back toward the dock.
Darby and the man she was with were about to get into a small, red speedboat, bobbing in the water. Sunlight glinted and Rafe saw what he hadn’t seen earlier.
A knife pressed against Darby’s side.
He took off running. “That’s the bomber,” he yelled back over his shoulder. “He’s got Darby!”
Chapter Two
The man with the knife shoved Darby into the small boat, making her fall to the floor, scraping her knees against the nonskid fiberglass. Ignoring the flash of pain, she scrambled back to her feet and lunged toward the side to jump in the water and escape.
“Oh, no, you don’t.” The man grabbed her ankle and yanked hard, making her fall back to the bottom of the boat again.
He crouched over her, pressing the knife against her side. “Try that again and you’re dead.”
A violent shiver shook Darby. Her breath caught in her throat. The man’s eyes were concealed behind a pair of dark sunglasses, and his hair was covered by a Jacksonville Suns baseball cap. But she didn’t need to see his eyes to know he wasn’t bluffing.
The sharp pain in her side and the warm blood seeping through her clothes told her that.
She nodded, letting him know she understood.
He waved the knife in front of her face in warning, before straightening and grabbing the steering wheel. A quick turn of the key and the engine started. With the practiced ease of someone familiar with boats, he unhooked the nylon lines tying the boat in place. The sound of footsteps pounding against the wooden planks of the dock had him jerking his head up.
Rafe Morgan was sprinting toward them, his arms and legs pumping like an Olympic runner. He was holding a large, black gun in his hand. Far behind him a uniformed police officer was running hard to catch up.
“Police, stop,” Rafe yelled. He raised his gun, but didn’t shoot.
The man with the knife cursed and moved some levers next to the steering wheel, making the engine whine as the boat pulled away.
Without slowing, Rafe launched himself off the end of the dock, landing in the boat on top of the other man,
knocking him back against the bench seat in front of the steering wheel.
Darby barely managed to scramble out of the way before the men fell to the floor on the far side of the bench, wedged between the seat and the side of the boat. They grappled for control of the knife. Darby prayed the blood on the blade was hers, not Rafe’s.
Where was his gun? Had he dropped it? No—there it was, tucked into the holster at his waist. He must have shoved it there just as he leaped off the dock. He’d probably been too worried about hitting her to take a shot.
A sudden rocking motion had Darby staggering back, then slamming into the metal railing at the rear of the boat. She grabbed the railing just before her momentum would have carried her into the water, into the engine’s propellers. She shuddered and jerked back, her lungs heaving and her pulse pounding in her ears. She clutched the railing as the boat bumped up and down across the wake of other boats, racing out into the middle of the Intracoastal.
With no one at the wheel.
The two men were locked in a deadly struggle, still wedged between the seat and the side of the boat. Rafe’s arm muscles bulged as he tried to wrestle the knife from the other man. Darby wanted to help but she didn’t know what to do. The dock was so far away now it was a tiny speck in the distance. And the boat was rocking wildly from side to side, making it impossible to stand.
She crawled forward on her hands and knees toward the other side of the bench. Rafe knocked the knife out of the other man’s hand. It flipped over the bench and rattled across the floor of the boat in front of Darby, just as she brought her knee down.
A sharp, burning pain had her jerking back and biting her lip to keep from crying out. Bright red blood smeared the bottom of the boat beneath her, making it slippery. She fell again, banging her head so hard it brought tears to her eyes. A buzzing noise sounded in her ears, followed by a loud horn.
A loud horn?
She raised her head and her mouth dropped open. A much larger boat was bearing down on them, blasting its horn in warning as its driver turned to avoid them.
“Darby, turn the boat, turn the boat! Hard to port!” Rafe yelled, just before the man he was fighting threw a punch that cracked the detective’s head against the side of the boat.
Darby winced and edged around the bench, gasping against the fiery pain in her knee and the throbbing in her side. She reached up for the steering wheel. She had no clue what port meant, but she went on instinct, yanking the steering wheel hard left. They turned sharply, missing the other boat by a few feet.
The wake violently rocked the smaller boat and sloshed brackish water over the side, drenching her and the men. Unguided, the boat swerved into one of the dozens of narrow channels leading into the surrounding marsh.
Looking over at the two men, Darby was relieved to see that Rafe’s larger size and strength had finally won the fight. The detective pinned the other man facedown and handcuffed his hands behind his back.
Darby turned back around to try to stand so she could steer the boat. She gasped in horror and lunged for the steering wheel.
Too late.
The shallow marsh rushed up to meet them. The hull of the boat hit the muddy ground with a sickening crunch and stuck, tossing the back of the boat skyward. The force of the impact catapulted Darby, Rafe and the other man into the air. Darby screamed and threw her hands out, bracing for impact. She landed with a squishy thud, her momentum rolling her over onto her back. Her head hit the ground so hard she thought she heard her teeth rattle.
She lay for what felt like hours, but was probably only a few minutes, blinking up at the light blue sky above her. A gray-and-white seagull flew overhead, giving a sharp cry as if it were mocking her. Every bone and muscle in Darby’s body hurt, from the bottom of her feet to the top of her head. But she took that as a good sign. If she could feel this much pain, at least that meant she was still alive.
The rotten smell of the mud and long brownish-green marsh grass filled her nostrils, making her shiver with revulsion. She gingerly tried to move her arms. Not broken, or at least, she could still move them. She tried to sit up, but the foul-smelling mud was like glue, holding her in place. With a great shove, she pushed herself sideways. The mud made a sucking noise, reluctantly releasing its hold. She rolled onto her stomach, gathered her knees beneath her, and tried to push herself up.
A menacing noise had her stomach clenching with dread. She slowly lifted her head, already knowing what she would see. A dull vibrating roar, like a lion, but more ominous and deep, sounded again. Fifteen feet away, directly in front of her, its jaws opened wide as it hissed, was the biggest alligator she’d ever seen.
* * *
RAFE ARMY-CRAWLED through the mud and grabbed Darby before she could jerk back and make the gator charge at her. He lay half on top of her, his head pressed next to hers, his left hand clamped over her mouth. Without taking his gaze off the enormous reptile hissing across from them, he whispered, “Don’t move.”
She gave her head a tiny jerk in what he thought was a nod.
He lowered his hand.
“What do we do?” she whispered.
The fear in her voice had him looking at her face. She was deathly pale beneath the splotches of mud smeared across her skin, but she wasn’t falling apart in a sea of tears as he would have expected. She was tougher than she looked.
“I’ll have to shoot it,” he whispered back, already hating what he had to do. They were both in this gator’s territory and she was probably just as scared as Darby.
He snaked his right arm beneath him in the mud to his holster. Empty. He swore. “My gun’s gone.” He could only hope it was lost in the marsh, not in the hands of the man he’d handcuffed seconds before the crash.
“Can you call for help?” Darby whispered, her terrified gaze locked on the gator.
“My phone’s waterlogged. Already tried. How bad are you hurt?”
“I think I can run, if that’s your real question.”
“Then I guess we’re going to run. Not straight, though. That gator is faster than we are, but only in a straight line. We’ll have to zigzag to have any chance at outrunning her.”
“Her?”
“Most likely. That mound of mud she’s on looks like a nest. She’s protecting her young.”
The gator hissed again, and swished her massive tail as if preparing to charge. Rafe circled his left arm around Darby’s waist and braced his right hand beneath him. The gator was too close to give them time to stand and run. This was going to be close, very close.
“We’re going to roll to the right on the count of three. No matter what we hit or roll through, keep rolling until I stop you, understand?”
She cringed as the hissing got louder. “Okay,” she squeaked, her voice so low he barely heard her.
“One, two, three!” He jerked her out of the mud, rolling her body with his out of the gator’s path.
The alligator charged, its snapping jaws narrowly missing Darby. She screamed again and clung to Rafe. He rolled over and over with her clasped to his body until they were a good twenty feet from the gator. He jumped to his feet, lifting her out of the mud and grabbing her hand. The gator turned and came at them again. Rafe yanked Darby’s hand and they zigzagged out of the gator’s path.
Another hiss and a splash sounded behind them.
Rafe looked back but didn’t see the gator anymore. He pulled Darby to the left, just in case, keeping up their zigzagging pattern as they ran through the marsh into the surrounding cover of trees.
“I think we lost her.” He slowed since Darby was gasping for breath and struggling to keep up, stumbling every few steps.
She immediately stopped and collapsed onto the ground. “I can’t run anymore,” she gasped, her chest heaving. “My feet, my...everything.” She closed her eyes, drawing in deep, shaky breaths.
Rafe drew a few choppy breaths himself, adrenaline surging through his body. He took a good look around, feeling naked without his gun. He cou
ldn’t see the water now. They were deep in the marsh, with spindly oaks and palms surrounding them. But they were still in gator territory, not to mention water moccasin territory. This time of year snakes were in abundance, and could be hiding just about anywhere for an unwary foot to find.
Even more of a worry was the man he’d handcuffed. A determined man might be able to contort himself enough to work his cuffed hands over his rear and his legs to get his hands in front of him, which meant he’d be able to use that gun if he found it. Rafe had looked for him right after the crash, but he’d abandoned his search when he heard the gator hissing and realized Darby was in trouble.
He glanced around one more time before crouching next to Darby. She’d mentioned her feet hurt, and he could see why. The high heels she’d been wearing earlier were long gone and the bottoms of her feet were scraped and bleeding. No telling what she’d stepped on while fleeing across the marsh. The mud could hide anything from oyster shells to broken beer bottles. At the very least, she probably needed a tetanus shot.
“I’ll carry you. There should be some houses close by.” He put an arm around her waist, but she grimaced in pain.
He immediately let her go and gently lifted her suit jacket, frowning at the splotches of blood darkening her side. His hands tightened around the fabric when he saw the straight, deliberate cuts in her white shirt. “That’s not from the crash.”
Her teeth bit into her bottom lip. “He...cut me, at the warehouse, to get me to move. And again, in the boat.”
God help the bomber if Rafe got his hands on him before someone else did. Purposely hurting a woman was at the top of his list of unforgivable sins. He gently pulled the edge of Darby’s blouse up to see how badly she was hurt. “The cuts aren’t that deep. You’ll need a handful of stitches, though.”
“I shouldn’t have left my office.” She winced as he tugged her blouse and jacket back into place. “I should have stayed there like you told me.”