by Pamela Clare
She sipped, then felt like she’d slipped into some kind of surreal dream when he pulled out the guns and began to check them. They looked at home in his big hands—hands that had killed. “If you commit another murder, they’ll go for the death penalty.”
He didn’t even glance up. “I don’t plan on killing anyone unless I have to.”
When he was finished, he tucked the guns in the waistband of his jeans, then reached toward the table for something that looked like a GPS receiver. He was getting her position, she realized. When he’d taken the reading, he tossed the receiver aside, then dug out a few energy bars and set them on the bed beside her, together with bottled water.
“I’ll get help to you as fast as I can.” He pulled out the handcuffs.
“Please don’t!” She was too exhausted to do more than protest.
She might as well have saved her breath.
He took the coffee from her right hand, put it in her left, then gently cuffed her right wrist to the bedpost, leaving it loose. “I don’t want the cops to get the wrong idea and accuse you of aiding me in any way.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t thought of that.
He ducked down, brushed his lips over hers, his green eyes filled with some emotion that might have been regret. “Take care of yourself, sprite.”
Her throat suddenly tight, she looked away. There was so much she needed to say to him, so much she needed to ask, so much she wanted to know. She fought to keep her voice steady. “If you find Megan, tell her how sad I am that she didn’t make it.”
He put on his parka, shouldered the backpack, and walked to the door. There, he stopped, seemed to hesitate, then looked back at her. “I’m sorry, Sophie. I never wanted to hurt you.”
Then he walked out of the cabin and into the Rocky Mountain winter.
THE CABIN DOOR flew back on its hinges, hit the wall with a crack, the suddenness of it making Sophie scream.
“Freeze! Police!”
They’d gotten here faster than she’d imagined they would, streaming through the door with a burst of frigid air, guns drawn, a familiar face in the lead.
Relief surged through her, strong and warm. “Julian!”
Dressed head to toe in SWAT team black, his Kevlar jacket emblazoned with yellow letters that spelled POLICE, Julian Darcangelo swept the room with his gaze, making eye contact with her for the briefest moment as he and the rest of the team secured the cabin.
“I promise I’ll come quietly.” Sophie managed a smile, wiped the tears from her face with her free hand.
“Get medical in here!” Julian holstered his pistol and reached her in two strides, sitting beside her on the bed and pulling something from his pocket—a silver key. He uncuffed her, took her wrist in his hand, and rubbed it, his expression turning dark when he saw her bruises. “It’s going to be all right, Sophie. The paramedics are right behind us.”
Sophie sank into the hug he offered—and burst into tears.
She couldn’t say why she was crying, exactly. Her emotions were so jumbled she couldn’t sort through them. Shock. Adrenaline overwhelm. Sheer exhaustion.
Heartbreak. Rage. Grief.
She buried her face in Julian’s shoulder, unable to hold back her sobs, the weight of all that had happened crashing in on her.
“It’s going to be all right.” He held her tight, his Kevlar vest hard as steel, his voice soothing. “I’m going to stay with you till we get you to the ER. You’re not alone anymore.”
She soaked in the warmth of his friendship, felt him pull the sleeping bag more tightly around her, heard him issue a handful of orders, his voice quiet as if he were afraid of disturbing or upsetting her.
“Taylor, get out there and break trail so the Band-Aid boys can get through. And shut the door behind you. We need to keep her warm. Wu, you’re stepping on evidence. King, you’re in charge. I’m taking myself off duty as of this moment—oh-three-twenty hours.”
And suddenly she felt silly.
She drew back, sniffed back her tears. “I-I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to apologize for, Sophie. None of this is your fault.” He brushed his thumb over the bruise on her cheek, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “No matter what happened, no matter what he did to you, we’re going to help you through it.”
And then she saw the situation through his eyes—her crying, the handcuffs, her bruises, her clothes lying wet and torn on the floor.
“He didn’t hurt me, Julian. I’m okay, really.”
He frowned. “Like hell you are.”
“The bruises are my fault. I tried to get away and—”
The look on his face told her he wasn’t buying it. “How long ago did he leave you here?”
“About two hours ago, I think.”
Julian passed the info on to his men, then pulled out his cell phone and typed in a quick text message. “I promised Tess I’d let her know when you were safe. She’s waiting this out with the rest of the gang at Reece and Kara’s place.”
The thought of her friends gathered together, worrying about her, made fresh tears sting her eyes. She realized that Julian was here not so much because it was his job—he was vice, not SWAT—but because she was Tessa’s best friend and he cared about her. He’d been willing to risk his life to save hers.
She swallowed her tears. “Thanks, Julian.”
He brushed her thanks aside. “I didn’t do anything. I’m ashamed to say it, but if he hadn’t called to tell us where you were, you’d still be sitting—”
The door opened, and two men stepped inside, one carrying a folded stretcher, the other what looked like a large blue toolbox.
“Finally.” Julian stood and made space for the paramedics, his hand strong and reassuring on her shoulder.
The one carrying the toolbox knelt beside her. “Looks like you’ve had a rough day, but we’re going to take good care of you.”
“I’m fine now, honest.”
But she was the only one who seemed to think so.
The paramedics took her vitals and told her she was still mildly hypothermic. They stuck an IV of warm fluids into the back of her hand, a process that hurt more than she thought it would. Then they lifted her onto the stretcher, covered her from head to toe with heated blankets, and, with Julian’s help and that of another cop, carried her through the snow to the waiting ambulance, despite her protests that she could walk.
“Hush, Sophie.” Julian looked down at her, his expression stern. “This is the part of the adventure where you quit being tough and let other people take care of you.”
In short order, she found herself inside the brightly lit ambulance, Julian beside her, a body-length heating pad beneath her, a ton of blankets on top of her, warm oxygen flowing through a mask into her lungs. It was as if someone had given her a sedative. She couldn’t keep her eyes open.
“Why…am I suddenly…so sleepy?”
“Your body has been fighting to normalize your core temp for hours,” one of the paramedics told her. “Together with everything else you’ve been through today, I’d say you’re exhausted.”
Sophie barely heard him, her eyes drifting shut, her thoughts shifting to Hunt. He was out there somewhere. Out in the cold. Alone. What if they shot him? What if he froze to death?
She willed her eyes to open, sought out Julian. “He’s still out there.”
But Julian misunderstood. He leaned down, gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “He’s not going to hurt you again, Sophie. We’re going to find him. I promise.”
Before she could explain, she was asleep.
COCOONED IN WARMTH, she slept as the ambulance wound its way silently down the canyon, the occasional bit of conversation reaching her, Julian speaking in hushed tones with the paramedics. Some part of her realized they were talking about her, but she couldn’t summon the strength to open her eyes or respond.
“—looks like he hit her across the cheek with a crowbar…”
“—think he raped her?”
“—a man his age in prison for six years…”
“—pretty woman, alone and helpless, would be tempting…”
“—put him in solitary for the next hundred years…”
“—shoot him first…”
It was the siren that finally woke her, startling her from her sleep.
“It’s okay, Sophie.” Julian still held her hand. “We’re trying to get past your colleagues into the hospital parking lot.”
Her colleagues?
“You think they’d show a little more respect for one of their own,” said the driver. “CNN. MSNBC. Fox. Geee-zus!”
A media feeding frenzy.
You’re news, Alton. How do you feel about that?
She felt pretty cruddy, actually.
“Let’s see if I can’t give her some privacy.” Julian pulled out his radio. “Eight-twenty-five.”
A voice crackled back. “Eight-twenty-five, go ahead.”
“Eight-twenty-five, I need a unit on each side of the ambulance to create a barricade and block the windows.”
Sophie listened, fighting to clear the cobwebs from her brain, as Julian spoke in police code, using his position as one of the city’s top cops to shield her. Touched by his thoughtfulness, she gave his hand a squeeze. “Thanks.”
“Figured you didn’t feel much like giving interviews right now.”
The ambulance rolled to a stop. The door at Sophie’s feet opened, cold air rushing in. And suddenly she was moving, the gurney sliding feetfirst out the door.
She gasped, grabbed the rail, the sensation more than a little strange as the paramedics pulled her over the edge and the wheels beneath her dropped to the ground with a loud clunk.
“Easy, Sophie.” Julian leaned over the gurney and placed a hand on each side of her face, blocking her from view. “We’re almost inside.”
How unreal it all seemed. The blazing fluorescent lights of the ambulance bay. The bright white flashes from a hundred clicking cameras. The burst of shouted questions.
“What’s her condition?”
“Is it true the perpetrator called in her location himself?”
“Is Marc Hunter in police custody?”
The question jolted her, made her pulse jump.
Had they caught him?
Then she realized it was only a question. It didn’t mean anything. The reporter was just fishing for information.
You’re not worried about him, are you, Alton?
Yes, she was. Despite everything he’d done, she was.
Be careful, Hunt.
Even as the words formed in her mind, she drifted off again.
CHAPTER 7
MARC TOOK A sip of coffee—his first real coffee in almost seven years—and tried not to moan. It was black and strong and perfect.
He took another sip, his mouth watering from the mingled breakfast scents that drifted through the small café. He’d ordered the special—ranch eggs, home fries, bacon, and toast—and the anticipation was killing him, his fatigue dissolving at the prospect of a meal cooked by someone whose skill with knives came from culinary school and not street fights.
“More coffee?” The waitress—a pretty middle-aged woman dressed in jeans and a T-shirt emblazoned with a marijuana leaf—held up a glass coffeepot, and smiled.
He set down his mug, then remembered his manners. “Please.”
It felt strange to have someone ask him what he wanted, to smile at him, to take an interest in him. He’d almost forgotten people could be kind without being paid or having an ulterior motive.
She refilled his mug, the unmistakable glint of female interest in her eyes. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around.”
“Oh, I’ve passed through a few times. I come for the hunting. Bagged a couple of elk south of here.”
“Staying at the Sundance? Need someone to show you around?”
How he wished he could take her up on the offer. God knows he could use a quick fuck. It had been almost seven years, after all. And although she was probably a good twenty years older than he, she was one flower child who hadn’t completely lost her bloom. But he didn’t have the time. Besides, his senses were still too filled with Sophie.
He shook his head. “Checked out this morning.”
She covered her disappointment with another smile, topped off his cup, and sauntered back toward the counter, humming to a tune on the radio.
It had been a long eleven miles to Nederland. After calling in Sophie’s location, he’d found Highway 119 and followed it north, keeping to the cover of the trees, the terrain, poor visibility, and deep snow at times slowing him to a near crawl despite his snowshoes. Yet, as rough as it had been, he’d savored every minute of it—the sweat, the strain, the burn in his lungs. He’d felt himself coming alive again, his senses awakened from six years of deprivation by the fresh air, the smell of snow and pine, the wide-open vastness, and deep silence of the mountains.
And for a short time, he’d been forced to think about his immediate situation, and not the wreckage of his life or Megan’s—or the damage he’d just done to Sophie’s.
He’d removed his snowshoes on the edge of town, dropping them in a Dumpster. Then he’d slipped into the bathroom at the Kwik Mart, where the clerk was distracted by a broken snowblower, and had shaved off his beard and pulled his hair back in a ponytail. By the time he’d reached the Pioneer Inn he’d looked like just another mountain hippie.
That’s why he’d chosen Nederland. It was hard for anyone to stand out in a town where the biggest annual event was a festival called Frozen Dead Guy Days—a celebration that honored one man’s decision to keep his deceased grandfather on dry ice in his Tuff Shed.
“Here you go.” The waitress set his breakfast down on the table. “Want ketchup or hot sauce for the home fries?”
It was all he could do to keep from stuffing his face. “Hot sauce would be great. Thanks.”
She grabbed two bottles off a nearby table and set them down in front of him. “Take your pick. I’ll be back to warm your coffee.”
He looked at the bottles and, unable to decide, shook both Frank’s RedHot and Cholula onto his potatoes and eggs. Then he grabbed his fork and dug in. And this time he did moan.
“Good, isn’t it?” The waitress smiled, taking an order at the next table.
He nodded, trying not to look like a starving man.
He’d shoveled half the plate into his mouth when something on the radio caught his ear.
“…Reporter taken hostage yesterday afternoon was found alive in the mountains above Black Hawk early this morning and was evacuated by ambulance to University Hospital. The reporter, Sophie Alton of the Denver Independent, was interviewing Marc Hunter, a convicted murderer, when Hunter reportedly became violent, assaulting a guard, taking the guard’s weapon, and using Alton as a human shield.”
The bite Marc had just swallowed stuck in his throat.
The radio announcer droned on.
“According to police reports, Hunter called nine-one-one himself and gave them Alton’s location before abandoning her and disappearing into the mountains. Details about Alton’s injuries or her ordeal are not yet available, but she is listed in good condition.”
At least she was safe.
No thanks to you, dickhead.
“Mountain residents are asked to keep an eye out and report all suspicious persons to the police. Hunter is six foot four with shoulder-length brown hair, a beard, and green eyes. He is armed and considered extremely dangerous.”
Shit.
He forced himself to keep eating, willing himself to go slowly, keeping one eye on his meal and the other on the waitress and her customers.
“I hope they catch that bastard!” the cook shouted from the kitchen. “I saw his mug shot on TV last night. He sure looks mean. Whatever he did to that girl, it can’t have been good.”
It hadn’t been.
Please don’t! I helped your sister!
Sophie’s plea echoed in Marc
’s mind, breakfast sitting like lead in his stomach. He couldn’t ignore it, couldn’t shake it, couldn’t forget it—the image of terror on her pretty face. Now that he was on the outside and it was over, he found it almost impossible to believe he’d put her through that. But he had.
God, she’d been brave! She’d fought him in the hallway, taking on an armed man who outweighed her by an easy eighty pounds, knocking his nuts into his throat. She’d done her best to escape, almost losing her life in her desperate attempt to save herself. And through it all her tongue had been sharp as barbed wire.
So you kill animals, too.
It had been harder than he could ever have imagined to turn his back on her and leave her there, alone, bruised, and still hypothermic. A part of him had wanted to tell her everything, to lay it all at her feet and ask for her forgiveness, but he knew nothing could make up for what he’d done. And so he’d made sure she was safe and comfortable, then he’d taken one last taste of her and walked out the door, ignoring the anguish in her eyes and the fist-sized hole in his own chest, knowing as the door shut behind him that he’d never see her again.
He took another bite, forcing down his growing remorse with a mouthful of spicy home fries. Regret was a luxury he couldn’t afford right now. It was nothing but a waste of time and energy. It wouldn’t save Megan and Emily, and it wouldn’t fix anything for Sophie. The situation was what it was, and he couldn’t change it.
And yet wouldn’t he sell his soul right now if he could do just that?
Yes, he would. He’d give anything to be an ordinary man living an ordinary life. He’d give anything to have bills to pay, a lawn to mow, and a leaky faucet to fix. He’d give anything to be a real brother to Megan, an uncle to Emily, a husband, a father. He’d give anything to be able to look at Sophie and see his future.
Maybe in your next life—if you don’t come back as a cockroach.
The best he could hope for was to find Megan and Emily and make it safely to Mexico, where he’d spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder. And that’s what he ought to be thinking about, not obsessing over a woman he’d fucked one night back in high school.