by W. L. Dyson
Praise for
Shepherd's Fall
“W. L. Dyson's remarkable storytelling ability and knowledge of the treacherous world of bounty hunting pours across every page of Shepherd's Fall. Suspense, intrigue, and redemption dominate this exceptional storyline. A highly recommended read!”
—MARK MYNHEIR, homicide detective and author of The Night Watchman
“The story of a family of bounty hunters, Shepherd's Fall held me captive way past my bedtime. However, it was worth every sleepless moment to join W. L. Dyson's beautifully flawed characters not only in the recovery of a fugitive, but in finding God in the journey. So this is how all those kids feel while awaiting the next book in a gripping series…”
—TAMARA LEIGH, author of Splitting Harriet and Faking Grace
“Gut-tightening, palm-dampening, jaw-dropping suspense as only W. L. Dyson can do. Shepherd's Fall delivers. In spades.”
—JOHN ROBINSON, speaker, teacher, and author of Until the Last Dog Dies, When Skylarks Fall, and To Skin a Cat.
“Shepherd's Fall is a great book that leaves its mark after the final page. Tautly written and quickly paced, it offers everything I need for a good read that leaves me thinking about the characters…and about myself.”
—HANNAH ALEXANDER, author of A Killing Frost
“Once again, Dyson delivers a powerful tale that gets better with each heart-pounding turn of the page.”
—CRESTON MAPES, author of Nobody
“Shepherd's Fall is great suspense with wonderful characters. A rip-roaring beginning to a great series.”
—GAYLE ROPER, author of Fatal Deduction
“W. L. Dyson has created page-turning suspense in Shepherd's Fall that keeps the reader guessing to the final pages. A unique blend of characters enriches this well-woven story. I look forward to more in this series.”
—SHARON K. SOUZA, author of Lying on Sunday and Every Good & Perfect Gift
“If you like the breathless pace of the TV series 24, you'll love the action, suspense, plot-twists, and family drama of Shepherd's Fall. I couldn't put it down, and I can't wait for Dyson's next release!”
—LINDA WINDSOR, award-winning author of The Piper Cove Chronicles series and The Fires of Gleannmara series
“Shepherd's Fall captures the reader with vivid characters, a relentless pace, and a heart-pounding conclusion that explodes like an emotional roller coaster.”
—TERRY BRENNAN, author of The Sacred Cipher
“W. L. Dyson's Shepherd's Fall is a fast-paced, suspenseful tale full of twists and turns that will keep readers flipping the pages until the last sentence. Dyson is a master at penning heart-wrenching emotion laced into action, with a strong thread of the Father's redeeming love interwoven into the prose. This is a ‘don't miss’ series. I've fallen in love with the characters at Prodigal Recovery Agency and anxiously await the next installment.”
—ROBIN CAROLL, author of the Bayou Series (Bayou Justice, Bayou Corruption, Bayou Judgment, Bayou Paradox, Bayou Betrayal, and Blackmail)
“Shepherd's Fall will not disappoint anyone looking for action, danger, and suspense. This novel is a true page-turner. Good news: The book was outstanding. Bad news: We have to wait for more.”
—GLENN L. RAMBO, twenty-year police veteran in New Jersey, currently holding the rank of lieutenant
In memory of Daniel Isaac Byrd
September 2, 1990–December 13, 2008
In our hearts and in the Father's embrace
This novel is about siblings, and I want to dedicate it to mine—Buddy Byrd, Jane Warne, Donna Ruel, Lenny Byrd, and Joe Byrd.
And to my brother-in-law Roger Ruel, and sisters-in-law Lois and Liz Byrd.
I love you all and am eternally grateful that, although we were all prodigals, the Lord welcomed us all home.
Prologue
Good news—I have my fugitive cornered. Bad news—I don't have any backup.
The chase had encompassed forty-three hours with no sleep, very little food, and too many cups of cold coffee to count. It had crossed one state and three county lines and twice as many jurisdictions, only to circle back to within three miles of where it all started. And it looked like it was going to end at an abandoned house near Lisbon, Maryland.
Now fugitive recovery agent Nick Shepherd just had to decide whether to wait until his team arrived, or go in after Richie Carver on his own.
The old house looked as if it hadn't been occupied for years. The whole structure was leaning on its foundation, the roof had holes in it, all the glass in the windows had been broken out, and weeds tangled across the yard nearly waist-high, hiding anything from old tires to snakes and groundhog holes.
He'd have to go in low and slow.
Glancing over at the front porch, he discounted it immediately. Half the boards were gone; the rest didn't look like they were too far behind. One wrong step and he'd be risking a broken leg or worse. His best bet was to enter one of the windows along the side of the house—the same way Richie had gone in—and to pray that Richie wasn't standing there ready to shoot him as he climbed through.
When a fugitive jumps bail and disappears, fugitive recovery agents suit up and go hunting. They are experts at tracking and pursuing and have powers even local police don't have. Relentless and more than a little fearless, they sometimes have to run a fugitive into the ground. But a cornered animal can be far more dangerous than one on the run.
Richie Carver was as nasty as they came. He and his brother, Jon, were known for drugs, prostitutes, illegal gambling, and who knew what else. If it was illegal and lucrative, they probably had their hands on it. Jon was the brains of the operation, preferring to stay close to the office and the money. Richie, on the other hand, was the brawn. His job was to make sure that no one crossed Jon. The problem was, Richie had gone beyond breaking legs and busting heads to straight-up murder. And after he jumped bail, he became Nick's problem. Nick and the rest of the Prodigal Fugitive Recovery agents.
Nick glanced at his watch again. It had been nearly seven minutes since Richie had disappeared through that window. He knew better than most that the worst thing a bounty hunter could do was run into a situation like this without backup, but sometimes he had to break the rules.
He keyed the radio on his shoulder. “Conner. Come in.”
It took a couple of seconds, but he heard his second-in-command's voice crackle through in his earpiece. “Here, Boss. What's going down?”
“Richie's run into an abandoned house. Where are you?”
“Rafe and I are ten, maybe fifteen out, Boss. Hold them horses.”
“No can do, Conn.”
“Wait for us, Boss. We're close.”
“He's been in there almost ten minutes. Can't take a chance on him getting away.”
“Don't do it, Boss. I've got my foot to the floor. Hang on.”
Nick stared at the house. He figured the best and worst that could happen and then keyed the radio again. “Just make sure you're here before it turns ugly.”
He had just pulled the slide on his Glock when his cell phone vibrated. Assuming it was one of the members of his team, he flipped it open. “Yeah?”
“Daddy?”
“Krys? Honey, I'm right in the middle of something. Can I call you back?”
“Sure. I was just calling to say I love you and also to find out if maybe you want to go out for pizza tonight. Mom's working late.”
“Sure, baby. I'll give you a call in a couple hours.”
“Okay. Love you, bye.”
“Love you, bye.” He used his thigh to close the phone and then shoved it down inside his shirt pocket, protected inside his Kevlar vest.
He checked his Taser to make sure it was fully charged and put it back in his thigh
holster, then eased up to a low crouch and began to make his way from the edge of the woods to the house. He nearly tripped twice but managed to avoid twisting his ankle on the pile of lumber hidden in the weeds and the gopher hole on the other side of it.
He thought he might have seen a black snake slithering off near an old wheelbarrow, but he didn't look too closely. He wasn't exactly fond of snakes, so he resorted to the childhood philosophy that if he didn't see it, maybe it didn't see him.
Easing up along the side of the house, he glanced furtively into the window. Living room. White plaster walls yellowed to beige and cracked with age. Light fixtures pulled from the ceiling. Wires dangling. Wood floors. And dust thick enough to leave footprints heading toward the back of the house.
Tucking his gun down in the holster, he prayed that Richie was somewhere else in the house and would stay there long enough for Nick to get through the window and pull his gun back out. He was halfway through the window when he saw the other footprints. Two pair, small, sneakers or athletic shoes. Kids. Probably teenagers. Were they here now? Or were they remnants from a previous night? Nick moved a little faster, scrambling through the broken window, snagging his shirt.
Then he heard a scream. Female. Young. And in terror.
Yanking his shirt away from the glass, he pulled his gun, gripping it tightly as he followed the tracks through the house. At the kitchen door, he flattened against the wall before tilting his head to do a quick look into the room. Empty. He stepped into the kitchen, sweeping his gun out in front of him as he noted the bare walls, the missing countertops, the cabinets hanging lopsided on each side of the window. Then he spotted the basement door.
This is as close to Russian roulette as you can get.
Crouching down, he descended the dark stairway. He could smell the dust, decay, and mold mixed with something far more familiar— sweat and fear.
The wood creaked beneath his feet, and he knew then that there would be no element of surprise. Best just to go charging in and hope for the best.
The girl was whimpering now, like a wounded animal. Nick tried to narrow in on the sound of her voice. He reached the bottom of the stairs and took a deep breath before stepping out and turning, gun firmly in both hands and straight out in front him.
There was a small window at ground level, and the sun, low in the sky, was slipping through the window, guiding Nick to Richie and the girl. She was even younger than he had imagined; maybe fourteen, fifteen tops. Her long, dark hair had been pulled back in a ponytail, but now most of it had come loose and was falling across her face. Richie was standing directly behind her, a grin on his face and a knife to her throat.
Bad news—there's a hostage. Good news—Richie doesn't have a gun.
And then he realized that she looked far too familiar. His stomach twisted. Lisa Jewell. His daughter's best friend since first grade. What in heaven's name was Lisa doing here?
A flood of memories came over him. He remembered her and Krystal, swinging in the backyard, dressing and undressing their Barbie dolls, running through the house, their pigtails flying. There was one birthday party… He couldn't recall which, but Lisa had cried through most of it. Nick's wife, Jessica, had finally noticed and, after taking Lisa aside and talking to her, found out that Lisa had never experienced the joy of a big party to celebrate her birthday. Jessica then went to great lengths to plan a huge surprise party for Lisa on her next birthday. Lisa's parents hadn't even bothered to show up. From then on, the girl had practically become their second daughter.
Stay focused, man. Stay focused on the moment. Forget it's Lisa. Forget you know her. Just get her out alive the way you would any hostage.
“Knew you'd be coming for me, bounty hunter.”
“Managed to get one thing right, Richie. Now drop the knife and make it two in a row.”
“Can't do that.” Richie pulled the girl up tighter against his body. “Can't go to jail. I'll die there.”
“You'll die here if you don't let her go.” A quick glance at the floor next to Richie and Nick saw a boy, sprawled in the dust, eyes open and unseeing, blood pooling around his head.
A young life gone. Ended. Why? Because he and his girl were probably just looking for a place to hang out. Maybe to sit and talk about their dreams and their futures. To hold hands and sneak a shy kiss from time to time. Nick clenched his teeth, pointed to the boy's body, and looked Richie in the eye. “That was a mistake, Carver. A big mistake.”
“Nah. Just one less problem for me. Drop the gun, bounty hunter, or I'll kill her now.”
Lisa emitted a high-pitched wail as Richie dragged her sideways, attempting to skirt around Nick and reach the stairs. “No, please. Don't. Don't let him kill me!”
Without a doubt, if Richie made it to the top of those stairs, that girl was dead.
Nick raised his hands slowly, holding the gun out and away from Richie. “Let her go, Richie. She doesn't have to get hurt in all this. It's between you and me.”
Richie shook his head as sweat rolled down his face, putting a sheen on days of beard growth. Nick could smell the man's body odor, pungent, as it soaked his clothes. “Can't do that. You stay back and I'll let her go as soon as I get away.”
Nick slowly set his gun down on a bench. “Not alive, you won't. I know you well enough, Richie. We've been through this dance before, haven't we? You're not a man who keeps his word.”
Richie licked his lips, his eyes darting from the stairs to Nick and back to the stairs. Nick could almost hear Richie figuring out how many steps, how much time, could he make it? Would Nick reach him first? Weighing the odds. Working the angles.
“You can't make it, Richie.”
For two days, Nick and his men had been running Richie into the ground, keeping him moving, never letting him stop to sleep or eat or rest. Nick had learned the technique from his days riding horses. If you had a horse that didn't want to get caught, you ran it until it begged you to catch it. It sometimes worked with fugitives too. And the ones that didn't beg to get caught usually slowed down enough to get cornered, whether they wanted to or not.
Richie tightened the knife against Lisa's throat, and her whimpering stopped as she held her breath. A tiny trickle of blood eased down away from the knife. Nick shifted his stance, widening his arms to distract Richie from noticing that he was also moving his feet a little farther apart.
“Come on, Richie. You're in deep enough without making things worse.”
The man choked, but Nick wasn't sure if it was the dust in the air or his frustration with the situation. “Can't get no worse, bounty hunter. If I go down, what's it matter if it's one body or two? Or three? Death row is death row, ain't it?”
“The more bodies, the less chance of life without parole.”
“Like I'm interested in that.” Richie stepped back. Lisa was up on her toes now, her feet stretching against her little white sneakers, her eyes begging him to save her.
Boom!
The sound of wood on wood crashing upstairs had Richie jumping. The blade sliced against Lisa's throat, and her scream gurgled. Richie realized what he'd done and, in one wild moment of irrational thought, shoved her at Nick and ran for the stairs.
Nick caught Lisa with one arm and pulled her up against his body as he pivoted on his left leg and spun out with his right leg, clipping Richie across the calves, knocking him off his feet. Richie's head hit the concrete with a sickening thunk. He groaned and rolled, slowly trying to get up. Nick would have loved to inflict a few more kicks and punches to knock Richie out, but there was no time. He whipped out his Taser and zapped him. Richie jerked and then sprawled, shaking and trembling as the voltage racked through him.
“And don't move.”
Slowly, Nick lowered Lisa to the ground. Her eyes locked with his, and he knew time was running out fast. He hit the radio on his shoulder. “Conn? I'm in the basement of the house. Richie is down. Got a girl hurt bad. Knife to the throat. Bring the medical kit and call for an ambulan
ce.”
“On it.”
Nick quickly unbuttoned his shirt and yanked it off, then folded and pressed it against the girl's wound. “You just hang in there, sweetheart. Help is on the way.”
She reached up and touched his hand, her lips quivering. He could see her trying to say his name.
He wrapped his fingers around hers, squeezing lightly, hoping to give her the strength to stay with him until the ambulance arrived. “I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner, Lisa.”
Her tears spilled over, and it wrenched his heart. “I'm so sorry. But you're safe now. No one can hurt you anymore. I promise.”
She squeezed his hand again, but this time, it was so slight he almost wondered if he'd imagined it.
It couldn't have been more than a few minutes before Nick heard Rafe and Conner's heavy-booted thuds coming down the stairs, but it seemed like an hour.
“’Bout time,” he said.
Conner dropped down next to him and opened the medical kit. Rafe stood over the fugitive. “Richie's stirring.”
Nick grabbed the gauze pads from Conner and used them to replace the shirt. “Cuff'im. And if he complains, stun him again.”
By the time the ambulance crew arrived, Nick's hands were covered with the girl's blood, but she was still alive. He saw the gratitude in her eyes. And the sadness. She may have been a sweet, innocent girl an hour ago, but since then, she'd seen her boyfriend murdered, had been assaulted by an escaped convict, and had her throat cut. Nick knew that even if she survived, the sadness in her eyes would deepen into a haunted echo of memories she would never be able to outrun fast enough or bury deep enough.
Richie glared at Nick as two police officers led him, handcuffed, to a squad car. “I'm going to beat this, bounty hunter. I'm going to get out, and the first thing I'm going to do is hurt you. And you know how?”
One of the officers shoved Richie in the center of his back. “Shut up and get in, Richie.”