Striking Distance

by Debra Webb

  “We need to know how he got his information,” Lucas said on a sigh, well aware that he was preaching to the choir. “With Leberman dead I guess we have no choice but to wait it out. See if Jim knows something. With the brainwashing technique Leberman used he could know all sorts of things and be completely oblivious to the information. Like the identity of the other man involved in his kidnapping eighteen years ago.” Not to mention certain aspects of his neurological programming could be in sleep mode. God only knew what Leberman may have programmed him to do at some unknown future date. Just another reason why he needed Tasha by his side. But Casey was already well aware of those possibilities. He’d sought out an expert to work with Jim, but there were no guarantees he would learn anything.

  “I agree. I’ll keep you up to date,” Casey assured him before ending the call.

  Lucas dropped the phone back into his pocket and looked out over the water. Although there were still outstanding questions and concerns where Leberman was concerned, most especially with regards to the Colby Agency, life was good.

  Scratch that, he amended, life was excellent.

  “I’m ready, Lucas.”

  He turned in time to see his lovely bride exit the bedroom wearing the sexiest, most beautiful white silk negligee he’d ever laid eyes on.

  The only thing he could imagine being more beautiful was her out of it.

  “So am I,” he murmured as he moved toward the woman he loved and their future together. So am I.

  * * * * *

  “Debra Webb is a master storyteller.”

  —Allison Brennan, New York Times bestselling author

  If you enjoyed Striking Distance, make sure to delve into the page-turning prequel to Debra Webb’s new Shades of Death series:

  The Blackest Crimson

  Detective Bobbie Gentry’s hunt for a heinous serial killer is interrupted by the sadistic Storyteller finding her first; and he’s determined to make her his fifteenth victim. Tortured, violated and trapped in the cold, wintry shadows of a rustic prison, Bobbie must make a choice between ending the torture with surrender…or fight like hell for survival.

  Order your copy today!

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  Can Nick Shade protect Detective Bobbie Gentry from the killer they both pursue – and from herself?

  Read on for a sneak preview of

  NO DARKER PLACE

  the first in the brand new series

  SHADES OF DEATH by USA TODAY bestselling author

  Debra Webb!

  Vaughn Road, Montgomery, Alabama

  Friday, August 26, 10:30 a.m.

  Detective Bobbie Gentry wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. Despite the early hour she was melting right here on the sidewalk like a forgotten ice-cream cone. The weather forecast called for a high of 101 today—the same kind of record-breaking temps the capital city had been experiencing for fifteen grueling days in a row.

  The line of thunderstorms that had swept through about the same time her phone rang that morning hadn’t helped one bit. Steam rose from the simmering asphalt, disappearing into the underbellies of the blue-and-white Montgomery PD cruisers lining the sidewalk. The meteorologist who’d insisted milder temps were on the way had seriously overestimated the cool front accompanying this morning’s storm. The rain had done nothing but ramp up the suffocating humidity.

  She’d been a cop for ten years, a detective for seven of those, and she’d learned the hard way that relentless heat made people crazy. Like the father of four currently holed up in the modest ranch-style home across the street.

  Carl Evans had no criminal record whatsoever—not even a parking ticket. According to his wife, the checkup he’d had three months ago showed him to be in good health. Their middle daughter had been diagnosed with a form of childhood leukemia a year ago, and they’d gone through a serious financial crisis a couple of months back, but both issues were under control now. The husband had no problems at work as far as his wife knew.

  And yet he’d arrived home at two this morning with no explanation for where he’d been and with no desire to discuss his uncharacteristic behavior. At seven, he’d climbed out of bed, promptly corralled all four of his children into one bedroom and told his wife to call the police.

  Bobbie’s radio crackled. “No go. I’m coming out,” vibrated across the airwaves.

  “Son of a bitch,” she muttered as crisis negotiator Sergeant Paul York exited the house and double-timed it to her side of the police barrier. York was a small, wiry man of five-eight or so, the same height as her. His less intimidating size and kind, calming presence made him damned good at his job as a facilitator of nonviolent resolutions. Those same traits, however, belied his unquestionable ability to take charge of a situation and physically contain the threat when the need arose.

  “What happened?” she demanded, bracing her hands on her hips. She was not going to have a hostage die on her watch. The fear she refused to allow a foothold kept reminding her that these hostages were children.

  This wouldn’t be the first time you allowed a child to die.

  Not going to happen today.

  “He won’t talk to me.” York tugged at his black tie, his gray shirt still crisp despite the rising humidity and immeasurable frustration. “His wife refuses to leave the house as long as the kids are in there.”

  “Who can blame her?” Bobbie exhaled a blast of exasperation. Before York had arrived on the scene, she’d spoken to Mrs. Evans by phone. Anna Evans insisted she had no idea what had set off her husband. To her knowledge, he had never owned a weapon, much less used one. He was a CPA at Latimer, Latimer and Burton, for Christ’s sake. He’d worked there since he graduated Vanderbilt two decades ago. His wife was completely stunned by his actions.

  “Did he give you any idea what he wants?” Bobbie needed something here. Evans surely had a goal he hoped to attain or a statement to make. How the hell could a purportedly humble CPA cause this damned much trouble?

  “He wouldn’t say a word.” York’s lips flattened as he shook his head. “Not a single word.”

  SWAT Commander Zeke Miller held up his hands as if he’d experienced an epiphany. “We’re wasting time. He could kill those children while we’re standing out here with our thumbs up our asses. It’s time we went in.”

  Bobbie rolled her eyes. What was he thinking? The polar opposite of York, Miller was a big, muscular guy with an ego to match. His reputation for playing hard and fast was well known, but this was her crime scene, and she wasn’t going the guns-blazing route. At least not yet.

  “And get those kids killed for sure?” Bobbie argued, ignoring the fear gnawing at the edge of her bravado. “Evans has them standing around him in a huddle. Your guys can’t get a clear shot at him. A flash bang could freak him out and prompt a shooting spree. And you want to go charging in there?” She folded her arms over her chest and lifted her chin, daring him to challenge her assessment. “Is it just me, or is there something seriously wrong with that scenario?”

  Miller glowered at her, but neither he nor York had a ready response for her assessment. There was no easy way to do this, and everyone present understood that unfortunate fact.

  “Where the hell is Newton?” Miller demanded. “We need a senior detective on the scene. Are you even cleared for a situation like this, Gentry?”

  Despite the fury his words ignited, Bobbie smiled. This chauvinistic
hothead was not going to get the better of her when four children’s lives depended on her staying calm and collected. “My partner’s daughter is getting married this weekend, so he’s not here. You’ve got me, and I’m as fit for duty as you, Miller. Deal with it.”

  His arrogant sneer warned he wasn’t going to let it go so easily.

  “We got movement at the front door!” a uniform shouted.

  Renewed adrenaline rushing through her veins, Bobbie turned toward the house as the front door slowly opened. Please let it be the children coming out. As much as she wanted everyone present to believe she was as strong as she once was and that she had everything under control…doubt nagged at her. What if she failed? What if someone died—again—because of her mistakes?

  No looking back. Focus, Bobbie.

  Barefoot and wearing a white terry-cloth robe, Anna Evans stepped cautiously onto the narrow porch, her hands raised high and her red hair tousled as if she hadn’t combed it since climbing out of bed. Her face was as white as the robe she wore. She was immediately surrounded by Montgomery PD uniforms and ushered across the street.

  “One less potential victim,” Bobbie muttered. What the devil was this guy doing? He’d made no demands. He refused to interact with the negotiator. Any time a perp took a hostage and waved around a weapon, he wanted something.

  The distant ache in her skull that had started the minute she’d received the call expanded into a dull throb. She resisted the urge to yank free the clasp holding her long brown hair off her shoulders so she could massage the pain away. No need to illustrate to all present that her headaches were still around. The whole department already watched her every move to see if she would crack under the stress. No matter that she had been back to work for four weeks without falling down on the job, she was still the detective who had shattered like delicate, handblown glass thrown against a wall seven months ago. The whole damned world knew that a couple of surgeons and shrinks, as well as a good half of the year, had been required to put her back together again.

  Stay sharp, Bobbie. No letting the past intrude.

  Once behind the police barricade, the uniforms released Anna Evans, and she almost collapsed on the pavement before they could catch hold of her again.

  “We need a medic,” Bobbie shouted. She moved toward the woman. “Are you injured, Mrs. Evans?”

  She shook her head, her eyes red and swollen from hours of crying. “Are you Detective Gentry?”

  “Yes, ma’am. We spoke on the phone a little while ago.” The woman appeared unharmed and reasonably composed for a terrified mother. Let this be a good sign.

  Anna Evans drew in a shuddering breath. “He says he’ll let the children go if you—” her pleading gaze latched on to Bobbie’s “—come inside and talk to him.”

  “I can do that.” The sooner those kids were out of harm’s—

  “The hell you say!” Miller roared. “That’s all we need is another hostage in there!”

  “Hold up, Miller.” York turned to Bobbie. “We can do this,” he offered in the modulated tone negotiators were trained to use. “I’ll go in with you.”

  While Miller launched another protest, Anna Evans hugged her arms around her trembling body and moved her head adamantly from side to side. “He said you have to come alone, Detective Gentry. Unarmed and alone.”

  “Not going to happen, Bobbie,” York stated, his voice hard now. “You’re—”

  Bobbie held up a hand for both men to shut up. “Did he say anything else, Mrs. Evans?”

  Fresh tears welled in her puffy eyes. She shook her head. “Just that he…he would let the children go. Please.” She wrung her hands together in front of her as if she intended to pray. “Don’t let my babies get hurt.”

  Bobbie removed her service weapon from its holster at her waist and passed it to York. “I’m going in.”

  “I’m calling Chief Peterson,” Miller warned. “The rest of the department might believe that you being his college buddy’s daughter and all gives you free rein in this town, but I don’t. You’ll play this by the rules exactly like the rest of us.”

  His accusation made Bobbie want to unleash the volatile emotions simmering just beneath the surface of her carefully schooled facade. Montgomery was the second-largest city in the state, but the department was like a small village. There were few secrets. Eventually everyone got the lowdown on everyone else—especially as it related to the chain of command or any perceived special favors. She’d understood from day one that the time would come when someone would have the balls to say those words to her face.

  Bobbie snatched her cell from her belt and offered it to him. “Go ahead, Miller. Call the chief. He’s in my favorites list under Uncle Teddy.”

  “Enough of that nonsense,” York growled, his fierce gaze focused on Miller.

  Since Miller didn’t take her up on her offer, Bobbie snapped her phone back onto her belt. “I’m going in.”

  “Think about what you’re doing, Bobbie,” York called after her. Next to him, Miller made good on his threat and put through the call on his own cell.

  Bobbie didn’t look back. She headed across the street. If any hope whatsoever existed that Evans would let those children go, she was willing to take the risk. A twinge of pain twisted in her right leg and started to keep time with the throb in her head. She ignored it. She would do some extra stretches tonight before her run.

  Assuming she was still alive. As long as she got those kids out of there little else mattered.

  If you get yourself killed, who’s going to get him then?

  She hushed the nagging voice as she hustled up the sidewalk. At the end of the block, television cameras and the eagle eyes of reporters would be straining to see what Montgomery’s most damaged detective was doing next. Let them gawk. She didn’t care what they wrote about her.

  Shouldering the weight of York, Miller and the rest watching, she opened the front door and slipped into the living room. The interior was as quiet as a tomb. One would never know that half a dozen MPD cruisers, a SWAT van and crisis negotiation vehicle, along with a horde of reporters, were on the street. Not to mention two ambulances prepared to provide medical care if the shit hit the fan.

  As she crossed the living room and entered the hall, she called out to the man responsible for all the excitement this sweltering summer morning. “Mr. Evans, it’s Detective Gentry.”

  She paused at the door to the first bedroom on the left. Oddly, the man had chosen a bedroom at the front of the house, giving SWAT a reasonably clean view between the slats of the partially open blinds. Had he planned on committing suicide by cop and chickened out at the last minute?

  Never take a gun in your hand unless you’ve got the guts to use it. The words of wisdom her father had shared so often after she announced her intent to follow in his career-cop footsteps echoed inside her. If they were all lucky, Evans lacked the courage to use the weapon he’d waved around at his wife. Shielding himself with the children was certainly the act of a coward.

  “I’m here to talk, like you asked,” she reminded him when Evans failed to respond. She wiped her sweating palms against her trousers and braced for his move.

  The doorknob turned, and Bobbie held very still, her breath stalling just shy of her lungs. The steel of the backup piece strapped to her ankle suddenly felt hot as blazes and far too heavy.

  A small face peered up at her from the narrow crack made by the barely open door. Bobbie’s heart fractured as memories of another child she couldn’t bear to think about attempted to intrude. Seeing this little boy’s face sent a jolt of urgency through her. What was this guy doing? How could he risk the lives of his own children?

  Like you have room to talk.

  “Come in,” Evans called, “and I’ll send the children out.”

  The little boy drew the door open wider, and she stepped into the bedroom. She confirmed the four children—three girls and one boy, all still dressed in their pajamas, trembling and red-faced f
rom crying—appeared to be uninjured. Her tension eased marginally. The walls of the room were a soft pink. The twin beds were unmade, cartoon character bedcovers hanging this way and that. Dolls and a plastic tea set littered the floor. In the center of the room, between the two beds, the children stood in that ominous circle around their father. She easily spotted the daughter with the health issue; she was thinner and paler than the others. After numerous rounds of cancer treatments, she’d lost her hair, but it was growing back now and was almost as long as her little brother’s. Poor kid. Evans should be ashamed of himself for putting her through this kind of bullshit.

  Booting aside her anger for the moment, Bobbie lifted the sides of her jacket from her torso. “I’m unarmed just like you requested, Mr. Evans.”

  The small boy, three or four years old maybe, who’d opened the door stood next to the huddle, staring at Bobbie. She purposely kept her attention away from him. Those memories of another little boy, not much younger, kept whispering through her mind.

  Can’t look. Can’t look.

  When Evans said nothing, she gently prompted, “It’s time to make good on your promise and let the children go, Mr. Evans.” It would go a long way in turning this crappy day around if the guy stuck by his word. She might even be able to breathe again, and maybe the world would stop expecting her to fail every time the pressure was on.

  Ten endless seconds passed before he spoke. “First, close the blinds,” he ordered.

  Bobbie walked to the window and did as he asked. Miller would go ballistic and the no-more-negotiations clock would start ticking louder. She hoped like hell Evans understood he was on borrowed time.