Right now, she had two priorities, and she kept focusing on them in her drug-fogged brain. Now, she needed to survive and get home. Everything in her told her to stay fixated on getting back to his side. There would be safety if she was only strong enough to overcome what was coming.
Nat King Cole played over the radio, irritating the shit out of her, as she finally freed her ankles. Reaching up, she waited until the car slowed down to pull the release. When it finally did, she held the trunk lid with sore fingers and peered out into the night.
All she could see were trees.
There were lots of them too.
Someone wasn’t in downtown Vegas anymore.
Well hell!
Gone were the neon signs and the palms and back were the real deal. Okay, so this wasn’t going to be as easy as she hoped. In fact, the insurmountable odds began weighing on her mind, as she scanned the situation further.
Yeah, this wasn’t looking good at all.
She was screwed.
Then, she could feel the change in motion, as the vehicle slowed down. It must be coming to a crossroad or stop sign. It was now or never, and in her mind, she prayed to a higher power that she’d be strong enough to pull it off. The car rolled to a stop, and in that moment, she took the chance that either screamed life or death.
He’d catch her, or she’d be fast enough in her state to stay one-step ahead of him.
Pushing up the trunk lid only far enough to squeeze out, she felt the car begin to move again as she fell from the inside. When she hit the asphalt, her body sang in pure pain, but she didn't care. She was way too busy praying that the music would cover any sounds and offer distraction.
Then, she did what her instinct told her to do.
She ran for her life.
It was important that she stay focused on the path ahead and never look back. If she did, there was the fear that the person who abducted her would be right behind her.
It scared her to know she might be recaptured again.
That he’d take her once more.
If he succeeded, could she get free a second time?
Racing further into the trees, she wished for some protection as the cold air assaulted her body and lungs. He’d taken her clothes and boots, leaving her only with a lacy bra and panties. Obviously, he’d wanted to make it as hard for her as possible to get away from him.
Well, mission accomplished there.
Being half-naked wasn’t exactly how she wanted to be found, but at this point it didn’t matter. Getting away and to safety meant everything at this point.
She had to call him!
He would find her!
It wouldn’t matter where on the planet the abductor took her. He would come. She had to believe that with all her heart and soul. It was all that was pushing her on through the chilly night.
Weaving in and out of the trees, they sliced and whipped at her as she refused to stop or look back. The only sounds that filled the night were that of her footfalls and her rapid breathing.
Tripping over a root, she went down, scraping her knees and palms, but refusing to give up.
She was tougher than this.
This wasn’t the way she was exiting this existence.
NOT HAPPENING!
There was no way in hell that after all she survived in her life that she was going down to this maniac. Up she jumped, all the while pushing on to move closer towards freedom. When she’d run as far as she could, barefoot, she leaned protectively behind a tree to listen and track the possible person chasing her.
There were no sounds.
No one was out there.
Surely, if he was following she’d hear him.
That gave her renewed hope, and then there was the crash of reality. She was in the middle of nowhere, dressed in her underwear, and it was getting later in the evening. If she were in Vegas, she’d know how cold it was going to get but here she had no clue. Was she still in Nevada? He took her early in the day and at this point she could be in another state.
Her first instinct told her to find help, and then if need be shelter from the cold. It was survival mode, and she wasn’t going to panic any more than she already was inside.
Pushing on, she refused to let it break her.
Not yet. There’d be no tears until he came for her. Once she saw him, she’d shatter apart under the exhaustion of it all. For now, there was the need to stay strong and keep believing that she had a snowball’s chance in hell of surviving all this.
Moving through the trees, she knew as long as she kept moving in one direction, it would be okay.
She wasn’t aware of how long it had taken, but there was a clearing up ahead, and it gave her hope. Maybe, it was a rest stop or a police outpost.
When she broke through the tree line, there was indeed a building visible.
Her heart soared as she raced toward it. There were no cars, no lights, or sign of life. If she had to, she’d break the window and find some warmth. Her hopes crashed as she spotted the barred windows. Well shit! Okay, on to plan B.
Reading the sign beside the door, she was never so happy to see words in her life. It was a ranger’s station, and the location was the national park right outside of Vegas. She wasn’t that far from home after all.
She pounded on the door and peeked in the windows, hoping that someone was working late.
No one was there.
Damn!
And then, she saw the phone booth. Immediately, she knew what needed to be done. Racing towards it on damaged feet, she pushed the pain out of her mind. This would be her one shot at salvation.
“Please work,” she muttered as she slammed the door to the rickety old booth and picked up the handset.
There was a tone and her heart began to rejoice.
She dialed nine-one-one and prayed for help.
“What’s your emergency?” came the monotone woman’s voice.
She almost wanted to weep in joy at just that sound alone. “I’ve been abducted. I escaped the man’s car, and I think I know where I am.” She read her the sign above the ranger’s station door and waited for the woman to say something, anything.
“You’ve been abducted?” Immediately, the woman’s tone changed from boredom to urgency.
“You need to call this number. It’s the direct line to the head of the FBI in Las Vegas. His name is Director Greyson Croft. You need to call him,” she demanded. “Do it now! I don’t know how much time I have!”
“Okay, calm down,” the woman said, taking the number that she repeated over and over.
“I can’t! I escaped, and he may be coming back for me! Call the damn number! He’ll verify that this isn’t a prank!”
The operator kept her on the line and did what she asked. When the call was picked up on the third ring, she spoke to the man.
“Is this Greyson Croft?”
“Yes,” he replied, sounding frazzled and very irritated.
“I have a woman on the line, and she gave me this number. She’s saying that she has been abducted.”
There was hope beginning to blossom in him.
“Where’s she at?” he demanded, motioning to everyone in the room to follow him.
The operator told him what she’d relayed and gave him the story.
“Do you have her on the line?” He practically shouted into the phone.
“Yes, sir.”
He knew what he needed to do.
“I need her name.” There was always the slim chance that this was a prank. “And then tell her to hide! We’re on our way.”
The operator switched over to the woman. “Ma’am, are you still with me?”
“Yes, but hurry. It’s cold out. He took my clothes.” Her teeth chattered as she scanned the area to assure he wasn’t coming for her.
“Director Croft needs me to get your name. Who are you?”
She wanted to weep at the mere mention of his name.
“I’m his wife. I’m Detective Emma Croft.”
Chapter One
Wednesday
Twelve Hours Earlier
Greyson Croft sat in his office at the FBI building, watching the chaos explode all around him. He was scheduled for a press conference on the ‘Naughty and Nice’ killer, and he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it.
Could anyone blame him?
Christmas was in a couple of days, and he really wanted to be shopping for presents for his wife, to kick off their first holiday together, and instead he was trapped in hell.
It had all broken loose around him and threatened to suck him down. People were worried and scared that the FBI was at a loss as to who was committing the crimes.
Something about this time of the year had apparently made people completely crazy and nuttier than his mother’s fruitcake. His wife was having the same problem at her job too. What he desperately needed was to get a reign on it, and soon. If he had any chance of surviving this afternoon and getting some down time with Emma, he had to get this press conference done and put away for the day.
At the moment, it was all he could be focused on. There could be no slipups or releasing of any pertinent information to the media vultures. If he even showed an ounce of worry, concern, or fatigue, there’d be a news firestorm.
Who knew what the headlines would read next?
Nothing pissed him off more than the killer calling them out to play into his sick little games. Granted, it wasn’t he, per say, but the FBI in general. Giving the sicko even an ounce of media attention went against everything in him, but what choice did he have at this point? All he could do was put two of his best agents on this and pray that they could pull it off.
It irritated him to no end that he was being drawn into the mire of it all too. It wasn’t as if he didn't have a million other things to worry about. He had an office to run and over one hundred agents who he needed to focus on daily.
Now, he had more added to the weight on his shoulders, and it didn't make him all holly and jolly, that’s for damn sure.
Because of the approaching holiday, a great deal of staff were out on down time, and he had to pick up some of the slack. He wasn’t in the field, but he was dealing with the media and all the paperwork tied to the assignment.
It was Christmas Armageddon, and he was standing in the middle of it all, as he prayed for it just to be over.
If there were any days that he missed just being a senior agent, it was today. He almost wanted to ask himself if it could possibly get any worse. He knew the moment he said the words, the shit would hit the fan and there’d be one hell of a mess to clean up.
In fact, there’d be a bad case of ‘Croft jinx’.
In his past, he had noticed that whenever he spoke or, for that matter, thought about things like that, he screwed himself over. So now, he was solely focused on the job at hand and not what could possibly make it worse.
The killer had left them two dead women with bright red bows around their necks and a card for the FBI. He was claiming this was their early Christmas present.
The man was one sick asshole. To make it even more perverse, he was signing it Kris Kringle to taunt them further.
Who did this kind of shit?
A lunatic, that’s who.
Apparently, Vegas attracted them like tourists to the bright shiny lights. If there was going to be a crazy train wreck, of course it had to be FBI worthy and land in his lap. It was ‘Croft’s law of Shittastic outcome’.
If everything was destined to go down, it would happen when it was least convenient for him. Looking at his watch, he knew it would be that exact moment.
Now, he had to hope and pray that there were no more women turning up before the holiday, or before they had time to find the sick bastard.
His secretary buzzed him. “Five minutes to the press conference, Director. Agents Brass and Archer are on their way out there. You can’t be late. You’re the star of the three ring circus,” stated Linda.
Didn't he know it? There was nothing more irritating than the press, and now he had to face them down. There’d be stupid questions about the killer that would give him exactly what he wanted.
All the glory of the media spotlight.
If he had his way, there’d be a blackout. Unfortunately, his profiler believed if they didn't play into his sickness, there’d be far more killing that ended up escalating. So, he had no choice. It was play to the sicko’s ego, or show up at more scenes to find gift wrapped bodies.
He despised being backed into a corner.
As he stood and placed his tie around his neck, there was a knock at his door.
Now what? There wasn’t much more he could handle at this point. If someone was coming to give him more bad news, they’d better be ready for the nuclear fallout.
“Come in,” he replied brusquely.
“Hey, babe. You look handsome in your suit.”
When he looked over at the sound of her voice, there stood a smiling Emma in his doorway. He at first wondered why she was there, and then it hit him.
Shit, he promised to have lunch with her today.
Damn it!
“I brought us something to eat, Grey,” she said, walking into his office with a warm smile on her face.
“I don’t have time,” he answered as he grabbed the files on his desk. “I’ll have to see you later,” he stated, moving around his desk towards the door. “I have a press conference in three minutes.”
Then, he was gone.
Emma stood there, caught completely off guard and very unsure what to do. His brisk dismissal threw her for a loop.
This was a definite first in their marriage. Her husband didn't even take the time to throw in a ‘hi’, ‘I love you’ or a kiss on the cheek as he stormed past. She was fighting hard to not be upset, but it did sting a little. A sentence wouldn’t have taken that much time, or he could have asked her to walk him down, instead of leaving her in his wake.
Letting it go, she knew he was buried under the stress. Emma placed their lunch on his desk and quickly left him a note.
Suddenly, she wasn’t feeling hungry anymore. Emma would skip eating and just have coffee on her way back to work. Leaving his office, she stopped at his secretary’s desk. “Linda, I left his lunch in there for him. Can you make sure he eats it when he gets back? He’s running himself into the ground lately, and I don’t want him binging on cherry danish out of vending machine.”
If anything, Emma knew her husband. He was like a moth to the processed food flame. It would suck him in and clog each and every one of his arteries.
The woman smiled warmly at her. She genuinely liked the boss’s wife and how she always catered to her husband. She wasn’t rude or pushy, and she always spoke to her as if she was a person and not a fixture. “I absolutely will, Mrs. Croft.”
She grinned. “Emma is fine. If I don’t see you before Christmas, Linda, you have a really great holiday.”
“You too, Emma. I’ll make sure he gets some food and stays away from the caffeine high too.”
That gave her a little reassurance that she had a partner in crime to monitor her husband’s food choices. It wasn’t about his weight. Greyson Croft took pride in his physique. He worked out every day in the gym, ran, and treated his body like a temple, except for his two weaknesses. An occasional cigar and the toxic garbage found in vending machines. Emma had taken it upon herself to stop the food insanity from ending his life sooner. Greyson wasn’t decrepit in the least, but at forty-one, she wanted to assure she’d have fifty more years, at least, with the man.
She wanted to grow old with him, and that meant no pizza, danishes and crap from the downstairs cafeteria either. Focusing on his food helped alleviate some of the sting of her husband rushing past her as if she was invisible. At least it put a Band-Aid over the wound that his dismissal caused.
Now, it was all about letting it go, since it was par for the course. Her husband was the head of the FBI in Vegas. This was the nature of the beast, as were t
he parties to mingle, the calls at all hours of the night and the occasional blow offs. If she was going to take the good, like the holiday party coming up on Christmas Eve, then she had to accommodate the business aspect too.
Even when it hurt her heart.
Since coming to Vegas almost three months ago as newlyweds, it had been fairly interesting, for a lack of a better term.
After their last joint endeavor in finding the ‘Showgirl Killer’, there had been a media firestorm. They had the press clippings saved in a book, much like a family album. Croft and Croft had been almost as big as a Vegas show. Media called them ‘The New Vegas Royalty’, ‘The King and Queen of Law Enforcement’, and ‘The Croft-y Crime Stoppers’. At first, it had been annoying, but over the following months, it had slowed down, making everything a bit quieter on the home front. Now, it was business as usual, except for her husband being embroiled in a case that was making him bat shit insane.
Now she was worried about his blood pressure too. Being called out by the killer was an affront to everything he stood for in life.
Her husband was definitely born in the wrong era. He was a throwback to another time. Greyson was stubborn, a man’s man and tough. If anything, he belonged in classy old Vegas, when crime was king, and there were a few bad ass G-men to stop it. Better yet, he could have been a bad guy. With the scar slashing across his cheek, a gift from another killer, he would fit right in with the gangster-like types.
Just thinking about it got her heart pounding. Vegas fit them both perfectly. Where he was king, she didn't mind at all being his queen.
Yeah, she was a throwback too. Emma liked old dresses that screamed elegance, traditions that held meaning, and everything that endured for years that had passed. There was simply something about those bygone days that drew her in. There was nothing sexier than her husband playing the role and Emma being at his side.
Maybe, it would turn off today’s women, but she had this overwhelming desire to be who she was inside. When they came together, Emma found her role of being Greyson Croft’s wife alluring and a big turn on. Even though she wouldn’t admit it, when he took her places and had a cigar with the men while talking business, there was a welling up of immense pride.
Christmas is Killing (A Croft & Croft Romance Adventure Book 3) Page 2