by LENA DIAZ,
Rafe’s heart slammed in his chest so hard it physically hurt. It was agony not to go after Darby, agony to turn his back on her. But he couldn’t ignore these people. He couldn’t put one person’s safety over the lives of everyone else in the park.
No matter how much he wanted to.
He ground his teeth together and banged his fist on the roof of a car to get the driver’s attention. It took a full minute, sixty precious seconds, to get the cars moving smoothly again.
He yanked his phone out of his pocket and called dispatch. “This is Detective Morgan again. Is anyone available yet to direct traffic? And where the hell is the bomb squad I asked for?”
A few moments later, lights flashed from the direction of the park entrance. A state trooper’s car raced down the shoulder. He pulled to a skidding stop just inches behind the Charger, got out and raced over to Rafe.
“I’ve got this, sir.” The trooper stepped into the lanes of traffic and began to unsnarl the bottleneck that had started as soon as rubberneckers had seen the flashing lights on his car.
Rafe clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, man.” He ran to his car and hopped in. The powerful car fishtailed onto the edge of the road, almost hitting another car. Rafe swore and let up on the gas. He took off at a slower pace this time, driving down the shoulder, even though it nearly killed him to go so slow.
When he rounded the curve where Darby had disappeared, there was no sign of her. There was no sign of anyone. This part of the park was deserted.
He steered the car back onto the road and rolled down his window, searching each turnoff as he crept forward, looking for the flash of her bright pink top.
There, up ahead, was the parking lot adjacent to the beach, right by the dunes.
And in the middle of the lot was a dark blue Corolla.
* * *
RAFE GRABBED HIS PHONE and reported what he’d found. He pulled his car to a stop beside Mindy’s abandoned car and jumped out. “What’s the ETA on the bomb squad?” he barked into the phone.
“Six minutes.”
He didn’t have six minutes.
Rafe had to assume Darby had found the car, too. Was the bomber there when she got here? Had he grabbed her and put her with Mindy? Without knowing what had happened, Rafe had to work with the only clue he had. The Corolla.
He shoved the phone into his pocket and looked through the driver’s window. Empty. He dropped to his knees and looked underneath. No obvious trip wires or booby traps, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any.
He jumped up and ran to the trunk.
“Darby? Mindy?” No answer. What if they were in the trunk, unconscious? In this heat, they wouldn’t last long.
He glanced at his watch.
Three minutes until the bomb would explode.
Maybe not even that. The bomber could have set the timer differently on the bomb than on the timer he’d sent in the mail. It wouldn’t be the first time a bomb maker tried to fool a bomb tech, take him out along with the bomb.
Sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He ran back to the driver’s side window. His training told him to wait for backup. His training told him to wait for the bomb squad. His training told him not to touch the car.
To hell with his training.
He tried the driver’s door. Locked. He kicked the window. Nothing. Another kick, harder. The glass cracked into a spiderweb pattern. A third kick, and the window shattered, raining shards of glass all over the inside of the car and pinging across the asphalt underneath.
Rafe reached in to unlock the door. He yanked it open, grabbed the trunk release on the floor. He held his breath and pulled the lever. A dull thump sounded as the trunk popped open.
He began to breathe again, in short, choppy pants as adrenaline kicked in. He tugged his gun out of his holster and raced toward the back of the car. He crouched low, then swung around the side, aiming his gun into the trunk.
Empty. No bomber in hiding.
No Darby. No Mindy.
Where were they?
He checked his watch again.
Two minutes.
Think, think, think. He drew a deep breath of salty air, trying to clear his mind. If he were the bomber, and parked in this parking lot, what would he do? He turned in circles, looking at his surroundings. If he were the bomber, where would he go?
Not back toward the road. He might run into other people.
Not into the trees. There were campsites all over the park. Too many potential witnesses.
Where then?
In front of him, white, bleached sand dunes jutted up into the skyline. Even though he couldn’t see the ocean, he could hear it. Waves crashing, miles of water stretching toward the horizon. No fences, no roads, nothing to stop a man who’d already proven he was comfortable around boats. Maybe the bomber’s plan all along had been to escape into the ocean. Maybe he had a boat anchored just past the waves, waiting.
Rafe took off in a sprint. When he reached the edge of the parking lot, he ran down the wooden planked sidewalk that led toward the beach. His shoes made a hollow sound, broadcasting his location.
Every move he was making felt wrong. Everything he was doing was wrong. He was breaking standard operating procedure, charging forward without backup, making noise when he should have been going slow and quiet, playing it safe.
He didn’t have a choice. He couldn’t wait for backup. He couldn’t play it safe.
There wasn’t enough time.
A high-pitched scream galvanized him forward. He pumped his arms and legs faster, leaving the boardwalk, topping the nearest dune just as another scream sounded out, followed by a name. Mindy. Someone was crying her name.
Darby.
The wind snatched the sound of her screams before he could tell which direction they were coming from. When he reached the top of the next dune, the dark blue ocean spread out before him. A hundred yards away, a man and a woman struggled in the surf. He shoved her head under the water. The flash of the woman’s pink top had Rafe’s heart wrenching in his chest.
He held his gun out in front of him and sprinted forward. “Police, stop!”
The man didn’t seem to notice or hear him over the wind and surf.
Rafe felt as though he was running in place, getting nowhere. The sand kept shifting under his feet, slowing him down. He took aim at the man in the water. Could he get a clear shot without hitting Darby? The man’s head turned his way. He yanked Darby up out of the water and held her in front of him like a shield.
She flailed wildly in his arms, coughing, sputtering, desperately trying to get away. She kept trying to throw herself back into the water.
What was she doing?
“Police, stop!” Rafe yelled again as he followed the direction of Darby’s gaze. She was staring at a body. Facedown. Floating in the surf. Mindy.
Darby’s desperate screams tore at Rafe’s heart.
The bomber held Darby in front of him, his thick arm pressed against her throat, his other hand buried in her hair, yanking her head back.
“Let her go!” Rafe stopped ten feet away. The face of the man from the boat stood staring back at him.
“Drop the gun or I’ll crush her windpipe.”
“Help Mindy.” Darby clawed at the hand against her throat, her eyes pleading with Rafe. “Help Mindy!”
Rafe threw his gun onto the sand, out of reach from the man holding Darby, and away from the water.
The bomber heaved Darby into the ocean and took off running toward the dunes.
Rafe hesitated, not sure whether to go after Darby or the bomber. Darby made the decision for him. She dove into the water, streaking away from him with powerful strokes, completely in her element as she swam toward Mindy.
Rafe ran for his gun, lunging, coming up in a crouch and aiming at the fleeing man. “Stop, or I’ll shoot!” The man didn’t stop. Rafe squeezed the trigger.
The man cried out and stumbled, clutching his shoulder. He lurched forward, and disa
ppeared over a dune into the twisted sand oaks beyond.
Rafe cursed and threw his gun back on the sand to keep it dry. He tossed his phone beside the gun, then waded into the surf. When he reached Darby, she was trying to give Mindy CPR with the waves buffeting both of them. He plucked Mindy out of the surf and grabbed Darby’s hand.
He slogged through the water back to the beach. Dropping to his knees, he laid Mindy flat on her back. He put his ear next to her mouth, listening for breath sounds. Nothing. He pressed his finger to her neck, checking for a pulse. Again, nothing.
He put his hands in the center of her chest and started compressions.
Darby crumpled to the sand across from him, wringing her hands and staring in horror at her friend.
“Where’s the bomb?” Rafe asked. He pinched Mindy’s nose closed and blew two quick breaths into her lungs before starting chest compressions again. “Darby.” His voice was louder this time, to break through her panic. “Did he tell you where he hid the bomb?”
She blinked, staring up at him. Some of the wildness left her eyes. “There is no bomb. He was laughing about the police wasting their time trying to find one, even though there wasn’t one.”
No bomb.
Relief swept through him. Then he met Darby’s gaze. Her eyes were filled with hurt, and something else. Accusation? Hell. She probably blamed him for what had happened to Mindy. She probably thought he’d wasted his time evacuating the park.
“Grab my phone.” He motioned with his head toward the dry sand where his phone and gun lay side by side.
Darby scrambled across the sand and grabbed the phone.
“Call 9-1-1 and tell them Officer Morgan needs assistance, and an ambulance. Tell them to proceed with caution, suspect possibly armed, extremely dangerous. Can you do that?”
More chest compressions.
Darby’s face was pale and drawn, but she made the call.
Two quick breaths. Rafe didn’t think Mindy had a chance, but he couldn’t stop CPR, not with Darby watching his every move. Not when her face was so strained, her eyes haunted and miserable.
She looked toward the dunes. When she looked back at him, she shoved the phone into his shirt pocket. “I’ll take care of her. Go, find the man who did this. Go.”
She shoved his hands away, pinched Mindy’s nose and puffed two deep breaths into her mouth. She sat back and began pumping Mindy’s chest, just as proficient at CPR as she was at swimming.
Rafe hesitated, desperately wanting to go after the bomber, but not wanting to leave Darby unprotected. A shout had him looking back up the beach. A uniformed cop topped the sand dune from near the parking lot and started running toward them.
Rafe waved his badge and pointed at Darby. The officer gave him a thumbs-up and ran toward the two women. Rafe grabbed his gun and took off after the bomber.
* * *
LARGE RED SPLOTCHES of blood marred the sand’s pristine surface, leading Rafe over the dune, into the scrub brush and sand oaks. The trail was harder to follow here, on the hard-packed soil.
He settled in for the hunt, falling back on his training. He didn’t want to rush in and end up clocked over the head like after the boat accident. Twenty feet into the scrub, a small snap—like a twig being stepped on—sounded off to his right. He froze and waited. Another snap. There, in the trees fifty yards away, the outline of a man, hunched over. When the man started moving again, Rafe crept through the scrub after him.
He eased behind the same tree where the man he’d seen had paused a few moments earlier. The bomber was twenty feet in front of him, in a clearing. Rafe stepped into the open. “Police. Freeze. Put your hands up!”
The bomber stiffened and whirled around.
A shot rang out. Rafe dove to the sand, rolling until he reached the cover of another tree. He peeked around the trunk to see if he could get a better line on where the bomber was. But the man standing in the clearing wasn’t the bomber.
He was Jake Young.
The bomber was lying on the ground at his feet, his eyes closed, a wet, red stain spreading across the sand beneath him.
Jake squatted beside the body. He pressed his fingers against the carotid artery, checking for a pulse.
Rafe stepped out from behind the tree, aiming his gun at his former friend. “Drop the gun, Jake.”
Jake cursed and pitched his gun on the dirt. “I was trying to save your life, you ass.”
“The only gun I see on the ground is yours.”
“That’s because the dead guy didn’t have a gun.” Jake let out a wry, humorless laugh and held up a ring of keys. “This is what he was holding. I saw the flash of metal and thought he was going to shoot you. I can only guess he was making his way back to his car, and that’s why he had his keys out. Idiot.”
“Funny how you keep showing up wherever the bomber is, supposedly wanting to protect me.”
Jake’s mouth twisted into a sneer. Whatever he was about to say was cut off when a pale, weak-looking Captain Buresh stepped into the clearing, along with a group of uniformed officers.
Buresh took one look at Rafe and Jake, and his face turned a mottled shade of red. “Holster your weapon, Detective Morgan. Whatever’s going on between you two can wait. Right now I want someone to tell me why I have a half-drowned secretary on her way to the hospital, a psychologist yelling about someone needing backup, and a dead suspect who looks like he’s been shot in the back.” He narrowed his eyes. “Whose gun is on the ground?”
“Mine,” Jake said.
“Someone want to tell me why I don’t see a gun in the suspect’s hand?”
Rafe stepped forward, cutting off whatever Jake was about to say. “The suspect had a metallic object in his hand and turned on me in a threatening manner. Detective Young had no way to clearly see whether the object was a gun or not. He made a split-second decision to save another officer’s life. I would have done the same thing, sir.”
“Oh, you would have, would you? And I suppose that’s why you drew your gun on a fellow officer?”
Rafe gritted his teeth together. “A misunderstanding, sir.”
Jake snorted and crossed his arms.
Buresh swore a blue streak. “We’ll get to the bottom of this back in my office. But regardless of what happened here, or why, I need your gun, Jake. And your badge, pending an internal investigation into the shooting. And since you took a life, you have to see the shrink. You don’t come back until you have a piece of paper from the doctor saying you can come back. You got that?”
Jake’s jaw clenched. He unclipped his badge and slapped it into Buresh’s palm. He unloaded his gun, and handed that over, too. “I don’t need to see a head doctor.”
“SOP. No amount of complaining is going to change that. Now go. Both of you. I’ll meet you back at the station. I want every single detail about what happened here.”
Jake stalked off into the trees.
Chapter Ten
Darby tapped her nails on the desk in the squad room, waiting for Rafe to finish his interview with his boss. After giving her statement, she’d wanted to go straight to the hospital to check on Mindy. But Buresh wanted her to wait in case he thought of more questions for her after talking to Rafe and Jake. Since the poor man had been stabbed by the same person who’d been trying to kill her, she didn’t feel she could refuse his request.
“Thanks for not scratching the Charger.”
Darby glanced up in surprise to see Rafe’s brother Nick standing over her.
“When I heard about the shooting,” he continued, “I expected to find a few bullet holes or at least some scratches. But the car is sitting out front, pretty as you please, not a scratch on it. Thanks.”
“Um, you’re welcome?”
He grinned and plopped down in an unoccupied chair at another desk. He rolled over next to her, stretching his long legs out in front of him and crossing his arms behind his head. Unlike the officers milling around the room or sitting at their desks, casting surreptiti
ous glances toward Buresh’s glass-walled office every few minutes, Nick made no attempt to pretend he wasn’t watching every second of the tongue-lashing Jake and Rafe were receiving. “How long have they been in there?”
“About fifteen minutes.”
“Has Buresh been yelling the entire time?”
“Pretty much. He hasn’t given them much of a chance to say anything. I guess it’s a pretty big deal to shoot an unarmed man, regardless of what that man did. Rafe mentioned something about the sheriff’s office conducting an investigation.”
Nick waved his hand in a careless gesture. “That’s normal in this kind of situation. St. Augustine P.D. doesn’t have their own IA unit. Internal Affairs,” he clarified, after apparently seeing the confusion on her face. “They have to bring in someone from the outside to conduct the investigation. From what I heard on the way here, Jake will be exonerated. That’s not why Buresh is yelling.”
“It’s not?”
“Nope. He’s trying to patch things up between Rafe and Jake. They used to be really close, which made them his best investigative team. He’s wasting his breath. You can’t be friends with a guy you blame for your sister’s death.”
“Why does Jake blame him?”
He slid her a sideways glance, and Darby had the impression he was deciding what to tell her. And whether to tell her the truth.
He looked back at Buresh’s office. “Shelby and Jake were adopted. Their adoptive parents died in a car crash right after high school. They didn’t have any other family.”
“I take it they were close?”
“Very.”
“They never found Shelby’s killer?”
“Right.”
Darby nodded, believing she understood Jake’s anger. “Without the killer to blame, Jake is focusing his frustrations on the one who survived. He’s rearranged the facts in his head to give himself an excuse for how he feels. He’s probably genuinely convinced Rafe did something, or didn’t do something, that caused his sister to die.”