by Irene Hannon
As soon as he was within hearing distance, Mitch spoke. “Can you get a line of sight on him?”
The man studied the scene, narrowing his eyes as he peered at the two people on the bridge, faintly illuminated by Mitch’s headlights. “The way he’s twitching and twisting back and forth, it could be dicey.”
All of a sudden, a spotlight pinned the two figures in a megawatt glare. Mitch issued one clipped instruction to the sniper as he grabbed the PA mike in the patrol car. “Do the best you can. If he doesn’t let her go, and you get a shot, take it.”
With a curt nod, the sniper melted into the night as Mitch flipped on the PA system.
“This is Detective Mitch Morgan.” He said that more for Alison’s benefit than her kidnapper’s. He wanted her to know he was close by. “We have people on both sides of the river, Daryl. There’s no way off that bridge. Don’t add murder to your list of charges. Just drop your weapon and let Alison walk away.” It was a struggle to maintain a calm, neutral tone when his pulse was edging into the danger zone. “Things will go a lot easier for you if you do. No one will hurt you, and—”
The distant whistle of a train sounded in the night air, cutting off his air supply midsentence.
No!
Panic clawed at his gut, and he struggled to fill his lungs.
“Get me some binoculars. Now! And someone see if we can make contact with that train.”
Fifteen seconds later, the patrol officer thrust a pair of binoculars into his hands and grabbed his radio to call dispatch.
Mitch fitted the binoculars to his eyes and scrutinized the trestle, trying to ignore Alison’s battered face and fear-filled eyes. He focused instead on the three-foot-wide walkway on either side of the tracks.
“Is there room to stand there while a train goes by?” Cole’s question came out tight and tense from behind him.
“Yes. If you have nerves of steel.”
They both knew a guy who’d been tweaking didn’t.
Mitch thrust the mike into his colleague’s hand. “Keep trying to talk him into giving up.”
“Where are you going?”
“Down there.” He gestured to the base of the wooded hill, on the far side of the trestle. “If Alison goes over the edge, instruct the helicopter to follow her with the spotlight. And tell them not to lose her!”
Without waiting for a response, Mitch crouched and sprinted across the tracks. At the edge of the woods, he charged down the hill and through the underbrush. Toward the rain-swollen river.
Praying he wouldn’t have to put his SEAL training into practice.
His perfect plan had failed.
As Daryl clutched Alison in front of him, changing position constantly so none of the cops could get a shot at him, the whistle sounded again. Louder this time.
He tried to breathe. Tried to rein in his fear. But it was hard not to panic. He was well out onto the trestle. The river was far below. A train was approaching. And cops had guns trained on him. Waiting to kill him. Or send him back to prison.
Neither option was acceptable.
A faint vibration in the rails told him the train was getting close.
He had to make a decision.
Now.
Keeping a tight grip on Alison, he eased to the edge of the platform and looked over.
His stomach lurched.
The river was a long way down.
But it was his only chance of escape. Under cover of darkness, he might be able to ride the current downstream, swim ashore, and slip away.
It was a long shot, though, and the odds had never worked in his favor. But what choice did he have?
The vibration in the trestle intensified.
Daryl tightened his grip on Alison and tucked the gun against her rib cage. She stiffened. Perfect. He needed her close and upright for another few seconds. She was his cover.
But just before he hit the water, he’d do what he came to do.
Finish her off.
And he wouldn’t even have to see the blood. The river would wash it away.
“Time for a swim, honey.” His heart began to thump, and he took a deep breath.
She tried to twist away, but he jerked her closer.
Then he stepped to the edge.
He was going to jump.
Mitch couldn’t see what was happening above him, but he could hear Cole’s voice over the PA. His colleague’s urgent tone clearly communicated the desperate situation.
“Don’t try it, Daryl. It’s too far down. Just walk over here, and you’ll be safe.”
As the train whistle blew again, Mitch stripped off his gun and phone and kicked free of his shoes, his gaze never leaving the arc of light spilling over the bridge. With each passing second, the rumble in the trestle grew louder, echoing in his ears as he stood poised at the edge of the river, every nerve vibrating, every muscle taut.
It was possible Daryl would try to wait out the passing train on the edge of the trestle, but he doubted he’d be able to hold on. Not in his hyper state. And Daryl probably knew that too. Chances were he’d ditch and take his human shield with him—all the way down.
As the silence following Cole’s plea lengthened, Mitch called out, loud enough to be heard on the trestle. “Take a deep breath, Alison.”
In the next instant, two bodies plummeted toward the river on the other side of the bridge, upstream.
A heartbeat later, he was in the water, moving toward the center of the river as fast as the current allowed.
Swimming as he’d never swum before.
As Alison fell, the only thing that kept total panic at bay was the knowledge that Mitch was waiting for her. His voice had come from below, by the river.
And her fate couldn’t be in better hands.
If a Navy SEAL couldn’t save her, no one could.
So she did what he’d said to do. She took a deep breath. She also kicked out at Daryl. His grip had loosened as he’d pulled her over the edge, and the gun was no longer pressed against her side.
She heard a shot. But she had no time to focus on that. Because as she hit the water, a blunt shock wave ricocheted through her, so intense she almost sucked in a fatal mouthful of water.
At least the force of hitting the water had broken Daryl’s hold on her.
But with her arms tied behind her, she couldn’t use them to push herself back to the surface. And her bad leg wouldn’t be much help either.
Her plunge into the depths of the river seemed to go on forever, but when at last it slowed, she kicked as hard as she could, trying her best to propel herself upward.
The powerful current worked against her, however, foiling her efforts to make any headway.
Though she had excellent breath control and had been a strong swimmer before the accident, Alison knew the situation would have been desperate even if she was in top form.
In her present condition, it was deadly.
She held her breath as long as she could. Kicking. Metering out tiny puffs of air. Praying she’d suddenly feel Mitch’s strong arms pulling her to the surface. To safety.
But as the seconds ticked by and her lungs began to deflate, she knew time was running out.
In less than a dozen heartbeats, her life would be over.
With the swift, relentless current tugging him downstream, Mitch surfaced to find himself mere yards from the spotlighted section of river.
Alison must be close.
But a quick sweep revealed only a piece of driftwood floating under the glare.
Arms slicing through the water, Mitch propelled himself toward the center of the light, then treaded water, letting the current carry him downstream. If Alison was below the surface, the river would be carrying her along at the same pace.
All at once, a head bobbed up six feet upstream.
The wrong one.
Daryl flailed when their gazes met, his eyes widening in panic.
But Mitch had no interest in the man at the moment. His total focus was on findin
g Alison.
Since the two had fallen into the river at the same spot, Mitch assumed she was nearby and trying her best to reach the surface. But as she’d told him a few weeks ago, she hadn’t been able to keep her swimming skills in top form, thanks to the accident. And with bound arms and a bad leg, the odds were stacked against her.
Time was also running out. Fast. Even if she’d been able to take a deep breath, even if she had strong lungs, she had to be reaching the end of her air supply.
Mitch scanned the river again. Despite the spotlight, visibility in the murky water would be close to zero. Searching below the surface would have to be done by feel rather than sight. The chances for success weren’t just small. They were miniscule.
But he had no choice. That was his only hope.
Filling his lungs with air, he sent two words heavenward: Guide me!
Then he dove.
Daryl watched the other man disappear under the water and struck out as fast as he could downriver, fear driving him forward. If the guy was aiming for his legs, he wasn’t going to make it easy for him.
Arms splashing in the current, he pushed himself as hard as he could. It had been years since he’d gone swimming, but the skill came back to him, like riding a bicycle. He’d been a strong swimmer, once upon a time. His gym teacher in high school had even approached him on several occasions about trying out for the swim team.
He might have, if he hadn’t decided to drop out.
Casting a look behind him, he saw nothing but empty river. Best of all, he’d floated out of the range of that spotlight now too. The cops must be more interested in finding the social worker than nabbing him.
Good luck on that. She was probably already fish bait, and—
His hand connected with a solid surface, and he lifted his head. It was dark here, but he seemed to have met up with a dead tree bobbing along in the water. Convenient. He could cling to it for a few minutes, get his breath.
Grabbing hold of the stump of a branch, he smiled. Maybe his luck was about to change, after all. If he could float along for a mile or two, he’d—
All at once, the tree swept sideways, across the current, then jolted to a stop as if one end had gotten wedged against something and was stuck. Daryl let go of the branch and kicked away from it, but the current was stronger now, the rushing water funneling along the edge of the obstacle in its path. It sucked him in and slammed him against the solid wood, knocking the breath from his lungs.
Gasping, he found himself being propelled along next to the trunk, toward the center of the river.
Okay. No problem. Once this vortex of rushing water pushed him back into the main channel, he’d be able to drift along again. He’d be fine. In another few seconds he’d be clear and—
Something grabbed his ankles and held fast.
The rest of his body kept moving.
Suddenly Daryl found himself facedown in the water, his legs locked in place, as the relentless water swept over yet another obstacle.
His body.
Panic clawed at him, but he tried to think past it. His legs must have gotten tangled up in some branches. Yeah. That had to be it. Maybe he could kick himself free.
He tried. Frantically. But the tree refused to relinquish its grip.
Summoning up all his strength, he attempted to reach back and use his hands to free himself. Except the current kept pulling his upper body forward. Away from his ankles. And the resistance was too strong to overcome.
His lungs began to burn.
He clutched at the trunk, trying to raise his head above the rushing water so he could suck in some air.
But the smooth, slippery surface offered no handholds.
With desperation providing one final spurt of adrenaline, he made one last attempt to fight the current and reach back for his ankles.
Failed.
The water closed over him, dragging him down. And as he succumbed to the dark abyss, one final thought echoed in his mind.
He’d just played his last game of chicken.
And lost.
24
Six seconds after diving beneath the murky water, Mitch’s fingers made contact with a leg.
Yes!
Working his way up Alison’s body, he slid his arms under hers, pulled her close, and propelled both of them to the surface with several powerful kicks.
She came without offering any resistance—or assistance.
Meaning she was unconscious.
But assuming she hadn’t blacked out on impact . . . assuming she’d held her breath as long as possible . . . assuming her airway was still sealed from the reflexive laryngospasm that always kicked in for drowning victims . . . she’d make it.
He wasn’t even going to think about the possibility that some of his assumptions could be wrong.
As they surfaced, her head lolled to one side, her cheek against his chest. Keeping her face above water, he eased her onto her back, locked his arm under her chin, and began towing her toward the bank, using the combat sidestroke he’d mastered in SEAL training. The spotlight followed them as he fought the current, swimming as fast as he could. Every second counted if she’d stopped breathing.
When he hit bottom, he slipped his arms under her knees and shoulders, then struggled to his feet in the swirling water.
Cradling her against his chest, he waded to shore and scrambled up a few large, slippery rocks to a level area. As he laid her on the ground, he gave her a swift sweep while he dug out the pocketknife he’d carried since his Boy Scout days. The spotlight from the helicopter wasn’t as effective here, thanks to the dense woods. But enough illumination got through for him to conclude she’d been through hell—even before she’d plunged into the water.
As his unsteady fingers eased the blade of the knife under the sodden cloth around her mouth and he disposed of the gag, he did his best to ignore her multiple abrasions. None of that would matter if she wasn’t breathing.
And a quick check told him she wasn’t.
On the plus side, the pulse in her carotid artery was steady, if weak, under his fingertips.
The paramedics would be on their way, but the dense woods would slow their progress down to the river from where the road dead-ended.
It was up to him to convince Alison’s lungs to reengage.
Mitch hadn’t had to use much of his water-based rescue training for several years, but the knowledge was ingrained, allowing him to switch to autopilot.
Tilting her head back, he pinched her nose, took a deep breath, and covered her mouth with his. Then he blew. Long and hard. Praying she’d ingested most of the water into her stomach rather than her lungs. Laryngospasm should have constricted her throat and sealed her air tube. Only after she’d been unconscious for a while would the muscles relax and allow water into her lungs.
He hoped there hadn’t been time for that.
Removing his mouth from hers, he waited five seconds.
Breathe, Alison! Breathe!
Nothing.
Once more he covered her mouth with his, trying not to panic. Trying to remain optimistic. In such a high-stress situation, she’d have been hyperventilating. That would have flushed carbon dioxide out of her blood and suppressed her breathing reflex, buying her some time before nature kicked in and forced her to take a breath. Though it wasn’t recommended, some of his SEAL buddies had hyperventilated on purpose before drown-proofing exercises so they could hold their breath longer.
Mitch backed off again, waiting for Alison’s chest to rise on its own.
It didn’t.
Leaning down, he tried again, a desperate plea echoing in his heart.
God, please let her live!
He backed off. Waited.
Still nothing.
Just as he prepared to repeat the procedure, he heard a small, sharp intake of breath. Then her chest rose, her eyes flickered open, and she began to cough.
It was the most beautiful sound he’d ever heard.
“You’r
e okay, Alison. You’re okay.” Hardly recognizing the shaky voice as his own, he rolled her onto her side. Fingers trembling, he inserted the blade of the pocketknife under the rope that bound her wrists and cut through it with a gentle, careful sawing motion.
She coughed up some water, and he stroked her back, murmuring encouraging words. Trying to reassure her. And himself.
In the distance, he could hear thrashing in the underbrush. Help was getting closer.
Alison continued to cough and regurgitate water. She also began to shake. Badly.
So did he.
When her coughing subsided, she gasped for air and groped for his hand, clinging to it as if she never wanted to let go.
And that was fine with him. He didn’t want her to.
As the voices of the approaching paramedics drifted through the woods, she looked up at him. “Thank you.”
Her teeth were chattering, and the words came out raspy. Wobbly. Barely there. But the emotion in her eyes was strong. Solid. And far deeper than mere gratitude.
It was the same emotion that filled his heart.
Leaning close, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and stroked her temple.
“Stay with me?” Her question whispered against his neck.
“Count on it.”
And as the paramedics pushed through the brush with Cole on their heels, Mitch vowed to keep that promise.
For a lot longer than just tonight.
Two hours later, as Mitch paced in the ER waiting room and Cole nursed his third cup of coffee, the outside door whooshed open to admit Jake, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
Scanning the otherwise empty room, he was beside them in a few long strides. “Any news since I called from the airport?”
Mitch doubted Cole was up to an interrogation. But he waited, giving the other man a chance to respond. When he didn’t, Mitch spoke.
“She’s stable, but we haven’t seen her for a while. We came out here after they took her to X-ray. The doctor hasn’t given us a prognosis yet.”
A frown darkened Jake’s stubbled face and his jaw hardened. No telling when he’d last slept. Given the smudges under his eyes, Mitch assumed it had been awhile.