A flashlight beam pierced the darkness. It swung left, then right, searching for her. She scampered backward out of the pit and away from the hunter. The light swept over her face.
Mia screamed to wake the dead.
Everything came at once: a flash of light, a panicked scream, a slight shift in the shadows. Ric raised his gun and fired, purely on instinct. Something howled in agony, and the flashlight hit the ground.
“Mia, get down!”
To his side, movement. Ric dropped to a knee, pivoted, and raised his gun again. He got a shot off just as a bullet zinged so close it made his ears ring. Her attacker was wounded, not dead. Ric lunged sideways, crashing into something hard. A tree. He yelled out, trying to draw attention away from Mia. Another shot rang out, this one hitting the tree trunk just inches from his head.
Mia snatched up the flashlight and pointed it toward the noise. The beam landed on a patch of mud where the rifle had fallen.
The rifle!
She realized she’d betrayed her location the same instant another shot sounded. Swaying with fear, she switched off the flashlight. This was crazy! Everyone shooting in the dark! Mia dropped to her knees and groped around until her hands found the rifle butt. She picked it up and looked around in a panic. Now what? She couldn’t see to aim it.
A sudden oomph, followed by a thud. Then grunts and snarls, like a pair of wolves wrestling on the ground. Mia tucked the rifle under her arm and fumbled for the flashlight. She aimed it at the noise, illuminating the man in black—Burleson—fighting viciously for control of a gun. Ric was beneath him, a knee pinned to his chest, his own pistol out of reach at his feet. The gun pointed up, toward the sky, but Burleson was locked in a mortal struggle to point it down toward Ric’s head. The ski mask was gone now. Mia shone the light straight in the man’s eyes, hoping to break his concentration, but he didn’t blink.
“Mia … gun,” Ric ground out.
She lifted the rifle, and the flashlight beam wobbled.
“Stop right there, or I’ll shoot!” The threat sounded pitifully weak, which it was, because the thought of firing a bullet so close to Ric’s head made her dizzy. Instead, she set the flashlight on the ground so she could see by the glow, then rushed to Burleson’s side and, with all her might, jabbed the rifle butt at his head. Pain reverberated up her arms. He slumped sideways, and Ric leaped on top of him. In an instant, Ric had him flipped onto his stomach, with a knee in his back and a pistol jammed into his neck.
Blood oozed from the man’s temple. He’d gone limp.
“Oh my God,” she croaked. “Did I kill him?”
“No.” Ric held the gun at his neck, chest heaving, and in the glow of the flashlight, she saw the battle raging in his eyes.
“Ric, don’t do it.”
But he wasn’t listening.
With shaking hands, she lowered the rifle to the ground and stepped toward him. “It’s over, Ric. You can’t just execute him.”
He groaned painfully, still at war with himself. She watched his chest heave, his jaw clench, the beads of sweat slide down his temples. And in a flash, she saw all of her dreams for a future together being destroyed by a single unchecked impulse.
She put her hand on his shoulder. “Ric,” she whispered. “I’m okay. It’s over.”
Something flickered in his eyes. He reached a hand around and dug a pair of cuffs from his back pocket. He wrenched the two arms backward, eliciting a moan from the man beneath him as he slapped on the cuffs.
Ric got to his feet and stared down at him. If she’d ever wondered what pure hatred looked like, it was right there in front of her, etched on Ric’s face. He still held the gun in his hand, and Mia took his sleeve and tugged him away as the sound of sirens drifted toward them over the treetops. The sound grew louder and louder as she stood there watching him.
He turned to face her and seemed to be seeing her for the first time. He tucked the gun into the back of his jeans and cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs stroked her cheeks, and he stared down at her with so much intensity she couldn’t speak.
“Are you all right?”
She nodded.
“You sure?”
She nodded again. And then she buried her head against his chest and held on tight.
“We got a call from our spotter at the airport,” Rey said. “Kurt Lane just climbed aboard his dad’s plane.”
“Which airport? Where?”
“Marble Falls. It’s a private runway out near the golf course.” He exchanged some more info over the phone with Singh. “They’re sending a team over there, ETA four minutes.”
Jonah floored it, hoping against hope that they weren’t too late.
“Did the spotter see—”
“He’s traveling alone.”
Jonah flinched at the words. “Who is this spotter?”
“We put an agent there two days ago. Family’s got access to a private plane, so we’ve been treating everyone like a flight risk.”
Rey navigated, and the twelve minutes it took to reach the airport felt like an eternity. Jonah ignored the “Authorized Vehicles Only” signs and drove straight onto the tarmac, where a SWAT team was standing in the sleet, surrounding a small Cessna. Jonah pulled over next to an unmarked unit and jumped out.
Rey jogged over to Delmonico, who was on the sidelines watching the takedown. Maybe it was a hostage situation, with the pilot caught in the middle.
Jonah scanned the area, hungry for any sign of Sophie. On the other side of the chain-link fence surrounding the tarmac was a lot filled with pickups, SUVs, and several nice sports cars but no black Audi. How had Lane gotten there?
And then he saw it. Parked at the very far end of the lot was a black sedan. He didn’t realize he’d started running until he was halfway across the lot with his gun in his hand. He halted just feet from the car, and dread gripped him as he read the bumper sticker. This was the vehicle. Everything he knew about crime-scene protocol went out the window as he yanked open the door. Not even locked. His gut tightened as he looked inside. A roll of duct tape sat in the cup holder. On the backseat was a heavy-duty Maglite and a woman’s purse, the contents strewn across the floor.
His gaze landed on the trunk-release button beside the driver’s seat. He popped the trunk and rushed to the back of the car.
“Oh, Jesus.”
She was curled in a fetal position, her hair matted with dried blood. Jonah reached inside, and his knees nearly buckled when his fingertips met with warm skin. He couldn’t find a pulse for the life of him, but she was warm.
“Jonah?”
He looked over his shoulder as Rey hustled over.
“Call an ambulance! Now!”
He scooped her into his arms and lowered her to the ground, looking for any more signs of life.
“Sophie, talk to me. Come on!”
Her wrists were bound, her ankles, too. He bent over to start CPR, and her eyelids fluttered. She looked up groggily before her eyes drifted shut again.
“You’re safe now. We got you.”
She blinked up at him. “Jonah?” Her voice was raspy, almost a whisper, but it sounded like music.
“I’m right here.”
She turned her head right, then left. She pushed against him and tried to sit up. “Where the hell am I?”
CHAPTER 29
It was nearly four A.M. by the time Ric pulled into Mia’s driveway. She looked dazed from fatigue. Hours of briefings and debriefings and never-ending questions had left her totally whipped, pushed way beyond any normal point of exhaustion. She needed food and sleep, but all Ric could think about—all he’d been able to think about for the past six hours—was how long he had to wait to get his hands on her.
Ric cut the engine and went around to her door. She slid out of the truck, and he caught her arm as she swayed on her feet.
“You okay?”
In the faint glow of the porch light, he could see that she hadn’t registered the question.
&nb
sp; “Time for bed,” he said, wrapping an arm around her waist.
She leaned against him as they mounted the three wooden stairs to her door, and he took her purse and rummaged for keys. He came across her phone, and the smudge of blood on it smacked him with so much force he took a step back. Her blood. Hers. She’d bitten a hole in her tongue falling into that pit, and just thinking of the man who’d stalked her there and almost killed her made it hard for Ric to breathe.
Mia closed her eyes now and slumped against the door frame as he took out her keys.
“The silver one,” she mumbled.
He unlocked the door, pulled her against him, and got her inside. He disabled the alarm and forced himself to think practically. She needed food. She probably wanted a hot bath or at least a shower. And then she’d need about twelve hours of sleep before she’d be functional enough to handle anything even resembling what was on his mind right now.
He closed the door and locked it, and she fell back against it with a sigh. “Finally,” she murmured, closing her eyes.
Ric couldn’t stop himself. He kissed her. Hard. He pressed her right up against the door and took her mouth with absolutely no finesse, no gentleness, not even caring enough to stop when he tasted blood on her tongue and knew that he’d hurt her. He dug his hands in her hair and squeezed it in his fists, and she made a sound in her throat, and he knew what he was doing, and still he couldn’t stop himself. He couldn’t do a goddamn thing but pin her against that door and kiss the hell out of her until she squirmed and moaned and he was crazy with want. He knew the very last thing he should do right then was to treat her this way, but he still couldn’t stop. He had to touch her and taste her and feel the warmth of her struggling against him and know that she was alive. She made another noise, and finally, finally, he forced himself to pull back, but she wouldn’t let him.
She wouldn’t let him.
Her fingernails dug into his scalp as she pulled his head back down and kissed him just as fiercely as he was kissing her, and he thought he might burst from the joy of it. Then one of her hands disappeared, and he felt it down at his waist, fumbling with his belt, and he wanted to fall to his knees and cry from relief. She knew. Somehow she knew exactly what he needed right then, and she was telling him with her tongue and her teeth and her hands that it was exactly what she needed, too.
The low thump of rap music penetrated the wall beside Sophie’s head as she lay on the sofa and stared at the television. They’d started early today. Yesterday, actually. She was pretty sure every one of the guys who lived on either side of her had ditched class all day, because they’d been drunk since before noon. Earlier that evening, she’d heard them wrestling a keg up the stairs, so she knew she was in for a long night.
And if one more wasted idiot hummed a basketball against the wall beside her head, she was going to call the cops.
A hot tear trickled down her cheek, and she wiped it away angrily. What the hell was wrong with her? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure when she’d become such an intolerant bitch, but she was seconds away from reaching for the phone.
Um, yeah, this is Sophie Barrett—you know, the girl from the news? I willingly rented a cheap apartment about half a mile from campus, and there seem to be a lot of drunken students living around me. Can someone do something about that? No? Okay, just checking.
Sophie sighed. Friday night. Going on night six alone in her apartment. She watched listlessly as some British special-forces guy mashed beetles and locusts into a patty and ate it for breakfast. On the table in front of her, her phone vibrated for the nth time that day, and for the nth time, she ignored it.
Thum-bump.
She shot off the couch and charged across the room. She didn’t have to put up with this. She paid rent here! She had a freaking job like a freaking adult, and she didn’t have to take this shit from anyone, especially not a bunch of spoiled, do-nothing frat boys! She yanked the door open—
And nearly crashed into a giant.
“Hi.”
Jonah Macon stood on her doorstep. He wore a brown leather jacket and jeans. No badge—he looked off duty—but still the sight of him panicked her.
“Can I come in?”
His green eyes were solemn, and she hadn’t seen them since before that night. That night. The only night that mattered anymore. The only night she could think of.
Actually, she had seen them. Jonah’s eyes. She just didn’t remember clearly, because she’d been so out of it. And then so many other detectives and agents and investigators had come and gone that she’d lost track. Everything had blurred together.
He shifted on his feet and looked uncomfortable and she realized that she hadn’t said anything.
“You want to come in?” she asked.
“Is that all right?”
A series of whoops went up from the apartment next door, and he turned to glare.
“Are those guys bothering you?” he asked. “You want, I can go knock some skulls.”
“No, it’s fine. Come in.” She stepped back to let him in and for the first time thought of her appearance. She’d been wearing the same pajamas since Tuesday, which was about how long it had been since she’d had a shower. She put a hand to her tangled hair but somehow couldn’t bring herself to care.
Jonah stood beside her sofa, glancing around. A collection of soft-drink cans and pizza boxes littered the coffee table. She tried to remember if she’d eaten anything that day that wasn’t junk.
“So.” He coughed into his hand. “How’s it going?”
“Fine. How’s it going with you?”
He looked at her, and there was a spark of understanding between them as they both realized how ridiculous they sounded. Suddenly, she had no energy for pleasantries. She walked over to the couch and sank down beside her chenille nap blanket.
“Sit down,” she said.
He glanced around, searching for a spot, and moved a stack of catalogues off her armchair. He sat on the edge of the chair, legs apart, and leaned forward on his elbows.
“I hear you haven’t been at work.”
Tears sprang into her eyes, and she looked away.
“Are you quitting or just taking some time off?”
She looked at her lap. She picked at a loose thread on the blanket, and the dull thud of bass from her neighbor’s stereo surrounded them. She wanted to answer him, but making something up was beyond her.
“How’s the head?”
“It’s better.” She lifted her hand to the bruise there. The swelling had gone down, but it still felt tender to the touch. He’d hit her with a Maglite. One of those heavy ones. He hit all of them with a Maglite, but usually, he waited until after he’d raped and tortured them.
Her phone vibrated on the table again, and Jonah frowned down at it as the caller ID appeared.
“KVUE News?” He looked at her. “They’re still calling you?”
She stared at the phone as the call went to voice mail. She looked at his face and didn’t answer. She didn’t really want to talk about how the press had been hounding her. She didn’t really want to talk about anything. Mainly, she wanted to go to sleep.
“Listen, Sophie.” He cleared his throat. “I was wondering—”
“I saw on the news that Jeff Lane hired some hotshot defense lawyer, and his son’s going to get off. Is that true?” Her voice quivered with anger, and she hardly recognized it.
Jonah looked at her. He seemed to be weighing what to say. If he gave her some bullshit answer, she was going to kick him out of there right now.
“He hired an attorney, yes. But as for getting off, I’d say that’s pretty impossible.”
She stared into his eyes, wanting to believe him, wishing she could. But she didn’t trust anyone anymore. She wondered why she ever had.
“We’ve put together a mountain of evidence,” he continued. “Physical evidence. Irrefutable. I don’t think he’s going anywhere for a very long time. He and his dad and Burleson are all lookin
g at murder charges.”
She’d seen that on the news, but it seemed truer now coming from his lips. Sophie relaxed a little. She looked at her lap again and picked at the blanket.
She felt his gaze on her, but she didn’t look up. She should be thanking him right now for saving her life. And she would. She intended to. But she couldn’t string the words together at the moment. She didn’t know what to say.
He was watching her with concern. God, she must look horrible. She didn’t even want to imagine it. He was probably sorry he’d come over.
Why had he come over?
She tipped her head to the side and looked at him. “You were wondering something?” She took a deep breath. “Sorry, I interrupted you. I’ve been kind of … scattered lately.”
“I was wondering if you had plans tonight.”
She stared at him.
“Because if you don’t, I wanted to see if you would go out with me.”
She kept staring. Then her gazed dropped to her stained, wrinkled, stinky pajamas, and she started laughing. Uncontrollably. She bent forward, clutching her stomach, and laughed until her muscles ached and tears seeped from her eyes.
“You’re asking me on a date? Are you serious?”
He smiled slightly.
“Um, no, I have no plans tonight.” She dabbed at her eyes. “In case you couldn’t tell by my fabulous appearance.” She managed to sober up, because he didn’t seem to think his question was nearly as funny as she did. “I’ve been feeling a little antisocial, I guess you’d say. Why? What did you have in mind?”
“I thought we’d go the Gruene Hall and hear some live music. Do you like Patty Griffin?”
Her mouth dropped open.
“The singer?” he clarified.
“I know who Patty Griffin is. God, she’s a poet. She’s amazing! But we couldn’t possibly get tickets—”
“I’ve got some.” He patted his pocket.
“You have tickets. Right now?”
“I thought, you know, now’s the time. To get back out there.”
She stared at him, suddenly understanding what he was trying to do, what he was trying to give her.
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