Shadow Fall (Tracers Series Book 9)

by Laura Griffin

  She lay there, gasping. She felt like she’d been body-slammed against a brick wall. Slowly, she reached her hand up to touch it. The rough texture of the bark under her fingertips told her a large tree had broken her fall.

  She kept still, clenching her teeth against the pain as she forced herself to breathe in. And out. And in. And out. Warm, coppery blood filled her mouth. She’d bitten her tongue. Her head swam, and she registered a sharp pain in her elbow, along with a thick throbbing in her skull.

  Something trickled down her cheek. She touched it gingerly, and her fingers came away wet. She didn’t think a bullet had grazed her, but something had, maybe bark from the tree she’d been standing near when the shot landed.

  Just inches from her head.

  Fear spurted through her now, and she commanded herself to think. Someone was shooting at her. And it wasn’t an accident, some stray shot by a confused hunter. It was the middle of the night, for one thing. And no hunter would confuse a wild animal with a human holding a flashlight and standing near a vehicle.

  She rolled onto her side. Her breath came fast now as she realized her situation. She unzipped her jacket and took out her Glock. Gripping it made her feel better, reassured. She checked the magazine. The familiar motion steadied her, and her brain clicked into gear.

  Two shots so far and possibly more coming as the shooter closed in. She tried to place the shot, tried to remember how far away it had sounded. A hundred yards possibly, but it was hard to know when she felt so disoriented.

  She lifted her head. At the top of the ravine she saw the glow of her headlights. Her car was up there, keys in the ignition. She had to get to it. She couldn’t stay here in the dark with some gunman stalking her. She’d lost her flashlight, and she didn’t know the terrain.

  Carefully, she sat up, bracing herself against the earthen slope by pushing against a tree with her foot. She did a quick inventory. Her flashlight was gone. Same for her phone. It had been in her hand when the shots rang out, and she must have dropped it on the way down. The phone case was deep blue, so she didn’t have a chance of finding it in the dark.

  She rolled to her knees and ignored the pain radiating up her legs as she flattened herself against the steep incline. Clutching her gun in her right hand, she used her left to grab hold of limbs and saplings and thorny branches, anything to help pull her up.

  Her knees and feet dug into the mud as she clawed her way up the hillside, closer and closer to the light. She missed a foothold and slid down, down, down, bumping her chin on something sharp. Frustration burned in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. Digging her toes into the mud again and grabbing for a branch, she took a deep breath and inched her way toward the light.

  Don’t lose it.

  She wasn’t sure whether she meant her gun or her sanity, but the words fueled her efforts as she dragged herself up the incline one lurch at a time. Finally, she reached the top and pulled herself over the ridge, where she collapsed against the ground, chest heaving.

  A distant rustle in the woods. She scampered behind a tree, glancing around frantically as she searched for threats. She couldn’t look at the headlights, as much as her gaze was drawn to them. The glare ruined her night vision, so she focused on the shadows, clutching her weapon and envisioning her car parked at an angle on the other side of the gate. Forty feet away, maybe fifty. She could make a run for it, but she’d be out in the open where some sick bastard with a night scope might see her.

  Because that’s what she was up against. She knew it in her gut. And although she was trained in all types of firearms and defensive tactics, at this moment she had no body armor and only a short-range weapon that didn’t do much good when her visibility was crap.

  Cold air bit through her jacket, and she realized she was soaked with sweat despite the temperature. Her pulse raced. She tried to picture the layout. When she’d arrived here, she’d pulled off to the right, close to the tree line. She could use the trees for cover.

  A snap of twigs spurred Tara into action, and she sprinted for her vehicle, staying low, keeping her head down. She crashed into the gate and frantically scrambled over it, landing on her knees on the other side. She lunged for the Explorer, jerked open the passenger door, and dived inside, yanking the door shut and then crawling behind the wheel. Sliding low in the seat, she stashed her gun in the cup holder and fired up the engine.

  The ear-piercing screech rattled her.

  It was running already. She threw it in reverse and rocketed backward, praying she wouldn’t smash into a tree as she executed a lightning-fast three-point turn. She thrust it into drive and hazarded a peek over the steering wheel before stomping on the gas. No people or cars or other predators in the road, and if there had been, she would have mowed them down. She gripped the wheel, shoulders hunched, expecting an explosion of glass any second as she raced down the road, skidding through the turns.

  Almost there, almost there. She glanced at the odometer. Another turn. Tires skidded, the car fishtailed. Almost there.

  She reached the highway and punched the gas.

  LIAM STOPPED BY the bunkhouse on his way in and found several of his men in the rec room watching Ultimate Fighting. Kyle Chapman was standing in front of the TV lifting barbells, and Tony Lopez was at the table cleaning his Beretta.

  Lopez glanced up. “Hey, Chief.” His smile faded as he took in Liam’s suit. “How’d the funeral go?”

  “It sucked.”

  “You just get back?” Chapman asked.

  “Yeah. Where’s Jeremy?”

  “No idea.”

  “In town,” Lopez said. “Think he went to shoot pool.”

  Liam left them to their entertainment and walked to his house, shrugging out of his suit jacket as he trudged up the stairs. His upper arm hurt like a bitch, which meant the weather was changing. It was his little souvenir from his last tour. After the attack on the Virginia congressman, Liam had lost full use of his rotator cuff but gained the ability to predict the weather.

  Inside his house, Liam flipped the lights on and tossed his coat over a chair. He needed a shower and some comfortable clothes, but first he needed food. He yanked open the fridge and grabbed a beer as a shrill beep came from the control room. He plunked the bottle on the counter, took his phone out, and pulled up the app to see who the hell was at his gate this late at night.

  It was a blue Ford Explorer with Tara Rushing at the wheel.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  He heard her clomping around on the porch and met her out there, frowning down at her as she bent over to untie her boots. The legs of her jeans were coated with mud, and leaves clung to her hair.

  “What happened to you?”

  She glanced up. Dirt and blood streaked her cheeks, and Liam’s heart lurched.

  “Hey.” He reached for her arm and realized she was shaking. “What the hell happened?”

  Instead of answering, she slumped against him.

  He stood there, shocked, and her shoulders quivered as he wrapped his arms around her. “Talk to me.” But she didn’t, and with every passing second his dread increased. “Hey, it’s okay.”

  But it definitely wasn’t okay. Someone had hurt her, and anger took hold of him as he waited for her to speak.

  Abruptly, she pulled away. She yanked off her boots and tossed them by the door.

  “Can I use your sink?” She stepped past him into the house. “Back here?”

  He followed her to the hall bathroom and flipped on the light.

  “Who’s here tonight?” she demanded.

  “Me.” He took her arm. “What’s going on, Tara?”

  She shook off his grip, and the wild look in her eyes made his gut clench.

  “Who else?” she asked.

  “Chapman and Lopez are in the bunkhouse.” He stepped closer. “Tara—”

  “Someone shot at me.”

  He stared at her. “Someone shot at you or—”

  “At me. Yes. As in they n
early took my head off, twice.”

  “Where?”

  “Up at Corrine Timber, just a few miles from here.” She looked out at the hallway. “Are you sure you’re alone?”

  He tipped up her chin to examine her cut.

  “I bit my tongue.” She pulled away.

  “Your neck’s bleeding, too. Jesus, what happened to your hands?”

  He turned the faucet on and pulled her hands under the water. After holding them under the stream for a few seconds, he crouched down and rummaged through the cabinet for some first-aid stuff. All he found was a roll of toilet paper.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, and went into the bedroom.

  He had to get his temper under control. She was rattled, and yelling at her wasn’t going to help. When he came back with the first-aid supplies, her jacket was on the floor of the hallway and she was standing at the sink with her sleeves pushed up.

  “Tell me step by step,” he said. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  He dumped the supplies onto the counter and turned her palms up to look at them. They were shredded, but the bleeding had stopped. Seeing the tremor in her slender hands made him want to punch something, but instead he waited for her to speak.

  She took a deep breath. “You heard about the bodies today.”

  She stated it as a fact, not a question. She’d finally resigned herself to the idea that he was getting intel somewhere.

  “Corrine Timber,” he said, grabbing some ointment. “Scene was cleared two hours ago.”

  He dabbed her palms dry with some tissue, then gently applied the ointment. She didn’t look at him, just stared at her hands as she struggled to get the story out.

  “I was up there combing for evidence, and I found a broken padlock near the gate to the firebreak. Then someone took a shot at me.”

  “Twice, you said.”

  She glanced up at him. Her eyes were calmer now, but still she looked hyped up on adrenaline. And fear. “That’s right, two times.”

  “Pistol shot or rifle?”

  “Rifle. Definitely.”

  Liam swallowed down his anger. She pulled her hands away, then leaned close to the mirror to examine the side of her neck. She grabbed some toilet paper and dabbed the blood away while Liam watched, trying to control his reaction.

  “You’re sure it was a rifle?” he asked.

  She glared at him in the mirror.

  “Did you call the sheriff?”

  “Are you kidding? What the hell would he do?”

  Good point. Ingram was already neck-deep in murder investigations he couldn’t handle.

  She reached for the box of bandages. “Could I have a minute?”

  She looked up, and something twisted in his gut. God damn it, when was she going to trust him?

  “Please?”

  He stepped out. She closed the door behind him, and he stood in his hallway, gritting his teeth. The water went on in the bathroom again. He returned to the kitchen and took a bag of peas from the freezer. He glanced at the bathroom and tossed the ice pack onto the coffee table. He paced the living room for a minute, then built a fire in the fireplace. When he had it going, the water was still running. He walked down the hall and picked up her jacket with the yellow letters FBI stamped on the back. The windbreaker was damp and muddy. The fabric under the sleeve was ripped.

  He shoved open the door, and she jumped. “He fucking hit you?”

  “What? No.”

  “Your goddamn jacket has a bullet hole.” He pulled up her T-shirt to see for himself as she swatted his hands away.

  “Hey!”

  “You’re covered in bruises, Tara.” He ignored her protests and yanked her shirt up to see her abdomen. The entire right side of her torso was a big red welt.

  “It didn’t break the skin.” She pulled away from him and tugged her shirt down. “Now, do you mind?”

  “Yes, I fucking do mind. Where else?” He turned her around and lifted the shirt to look at her back. The skin there was smooth and pale. “What about your legs?”

  “I’m okay. Could you please just give me a minute?”

  He left her alone then and sat on the edge of his couch, fuming and staring at the fire. Finally, she came out. She’d cleaned the dirt and blood off her face. She picked up her jacket to examine the tear, then folded it neatly and placed it on the arm of the sofa.

  He handed her the ice pack.

  “Thanks.” She pressed it to her temple, where she already had a bump forming.

  She glanced around, as though she still didn’t believe that he was alone, and then sank onto the edge of a leather chair.

  “I was at the firebreak on the north edge of the Corrine Timber property.”

  Liam got up and walked down the hall to the control room. Tara followed him.

  “Holy crap, what’s all this?” She stood in the middle of the room, gaping at all the computer monitors as he sat down at his system and tapped a few keys.

  A few moments later, he had a satellite map of Cypress County pulled up.

  “This is where you monitor your security?” She was still gawking at all the screens.

  “Yes. You were here?” He pointed to the firebreak along the north edge of the Corrine Timber tract.

  She leaned over his shoulder and tapped the screen. “Here.”

  Liam studied the image. He zoomed out to look at a larger area.

  “It sounded like, I don’t know, a hundred yards away? It was hard to tell, though,” she said. “Could have been more.”

  He clenched his teeth, thinking of the tear in her jacket that had been made by a bullet. An inch closer and she’d be dead.

  “Luck could account for the first shot,” he said. “Maybe he aimed for your flashlight. Two close calls, I’d say he had a night scope.”

  “I know.”

  She stared at him, her gaze somber. She’d calmed down some, but she still looked shaken.

  She’d come here, to him. Probably not because she wanted to talk about bullet trajectories.

  He stood up and took her hand and led her back to the living room. He sat her down on the sofa beside the fire and went into the kitchen. A few moments later, he joined her on the couch with a bottle of bourbon and two glasses of ice.

  She immediately picked up the bottle and poured two generous servings. She downed a sip and winced.

  “Thought you liked bourbon.”

  “I do,” she croaked. “I don’t usually drink it straight.”

  He watched her over the rim of his glass, and her second sip went down more easily. Then she turned to look at him, and she seemed to be actually seeing him for the first time.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  “Funeral.”

  By her startled expression, he could tell she’d forgotten. Catalina’s service had been that morning in Corpus Christi, where her family lived.

  Tara sipped again, and he noticed her hands still trembled. He took her glass and set it on the table, then slid an arm around her. She tensed.

  “I’ll get your good clothes dirty.”

  “I don’t give a shit. Come here.” He tucked her head against his chest and pulled her in tight to stop the tremors. She felt both cold and warm at the same time—a weird combination that pissed him off. She was in shock, and he forced himself to lock down his anger.

  What had happened tonight? He couldn’t tell if she was giving him the full story. And why had she been out there by herself? He’d warned her about poking around alone in the woods, but she hadn’t listened because she was so damn headstrong.

  Frustration churned inside him. Frustration with her and with himself. She’d been only a few miles away, and he’d done nothing to protect her.

  The shakes subsided, but still she was a ball of tension, and he could tell she didn’t like being held. Or maybe she didn’t want to like it.

  She pulled away. “So, this new crime scene,” she said matter-of-factly. “We recovered two bodies.”

&n
bsp; “I thought it was bones.”

  “Skeletonized remains. The forensic anthropologist should have an estimate of the time of death by tomorrow. But we’re looking at four victims, and certain factors point to a similar MO.”

  “Such as?”

  She paused.

  “Such as what, Tara? Spit it out.”

  “I can’t discuss the details. But basically, all four victims were discovered within a few miles of here. One you knew personally.”

  Liam bristled. “Are you telling me I’m a suspect?”

  SHE COULD SEE the anger simmering in his eyes. And it wasn’t just about her anymore.

  “You have an alibi for the night of Catalina’s death,” she stated.

  “Then what are you telling me?”

  “I’m telling you, look at these murders. Look at where they happened and the fact that you knew one of the victims intimately.”

  She watched his reaction to the intimately part. She was still certain there was more to his relationship with Catalina, and his defensiveness reinforced her theory.

  “You’re no longer a suspect,” she said, “but you have to admit there’s a common thread here.”

  His gaze narrowed, and she could see he’d figured out where she was going with this topic.

  “You said every man working for you has been through a psych evaluation,” Tara said. “I’d like to see them.”

  “Not happening.”

  “They’re relevant to our investigation.”

  He leaned closer. “I’ll say it again. No.”

  She stood up. “Why are you putting up roadblocks? Someone murdered a friend of yours. Along with three other unidentified women, just a stone’s throw away from where you live. Doesn’t that bother you?”

  He stood, too. “Bothers me a lot, but it wasn’t one of my men.”

  “How can you be sure? Those psych evals could shed light—”