Tennessee Takedown

Tennessee Takedown Lena Diaz A SWAT officer in small-town Tennessee will do anything to protect the innocent beauty whose life has been put on the line in Lena Diaz’s Tennesse Takedown It can’t be a coincidence that in the past twenty-four hours, three different thugs have tried to kill or abduct Ashley Parrish. Sexy SWAT team leader Dillon Gray saved her, but now he wonders why someone would want to murder the beautiful accountantand why he finds her so infuriatingly attractive. Then the FBI comes after Ashley for embezzlement, and Dillon knows he must protect her from a killer and prove she’s being framed. Taking her on a hair-raising run through dangerous terrain barely fazes him. But wanting her for more than just one night scares the hell out of him. “You’re cold.” He shoved his gun in the holster and started to unstrap his Kevlar vest as if to wrap it around her. She placed her hand on his, stopping him. “No. That’s all you have to keep yourself warm. You already gave up your shirt for me. I’ll not have you freeze to death by giving me your vest.” He nodded. “At least this cave is dry. I’d start a fire but it would be a beacon to the gunmen. Come on. Sit and we’ll huddle together to get warm.” The images that conjured in her mind had her feeling warm all over. “I promise I’ll behave,” he added, as if he thought she might be worried about his intentions. Ashley snorted. “Don’t expect me to make the same promise.” He chuckled and pulled her closer. “Are you always this shy, or am I special for some reason?” Oh, he was definitely special, but no way was she saying that. Tennessee Takedown Lena Diaz www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk) LENA DIAZ was born in Kentucky and has also lived in California, Louisiana and Florida, where she now resides with her husband and two children. Before becoming a romantic suspense author, she was a computer programmer. A former Romance Writers of America Golden Heart finalist, she has won a prestigious Daphne du Maurier award for excellence in mystery and suspense. She loves to watch action movies, garden and hike in the beautiful Tennessee Smoky Mountains. To get the latest news about Lena, please visit her website, www.lenadiaz.com. Thank you, Allison Lyons and Nalini Akolekar. This one is for Sean and Jennifer, and the fun memories of horseback riding and white-water rafting in Tennessee. Exploring the Smoky Mountains with you was a true joy. Looking forward to many more years of happy memories to look back on. Am so very proud of both of you. Love you. Contents Chapter One (#u5fe27394-e4c2-50b1-ac8f-6d7675ac5d4b) Chapter Two (#u326e127a-d90a-561b-902b-15f88a224411) Chapter Three (#ubae5e1fc-29d6-5425-b46f-a74b7f88a106) Chapter Four (#ua46e580e-c9f5-5e21-a83b-90131aed699b) Chapter Five (#u1607ce71-830a-527c-9778-3def82050b24) Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo) Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter One Ashley edged farther under the desktop in the cubicle, her fingers clutching the phone to her ear, her knees scraping against the coarse commercial carpet. Breathe...in, out, in, out. Focus, listen. Where is he? Her breaths wheezed between her teeth, making a sharp whistling sound. Calm down. He’ll hear you if you don’t calm down. “Why don’t I hear any sirens yet?” she whispered to the nine-one-one operator. “They’re on the way, ma’am. Is the shooter still in the building?” “I’m not sure. I think so.” “Stay where you are. Stay on the line. The police will be there soon.” Her fingers tightened around the phone. That’s the same thing the operator had told her ten minutes ago—after the shooter killed Stanley Gibson. They’d both been standing by the copier, chatting about nothing in particular while the machine spit out reports for their next meeting. A soft pfft sound whooshed through the air. A bright red circle bloomed on Stanley’s forehead. His eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the floor. Ashley had stood frozen, too horrified to acknowledge what her subconscious already knew—someone had just shot one of her coworkers. That’s when the screams began. She’d whirled around. The shooter stood in the main aisle, his silver hair forming spikes across his head like porcupine quills. His dark gaze locked on her. And then he smiled. Ashley’s fight-or-flight instincts had kicked in. She ran. Around the corner, past the glass-enclosed offices the managers used. Empty. Thank God. At least half the company was out to lunch. But the rest were here, like her, trapped between the shooter and the only exit. She kept running, to the other side of the building, to another maze of cubicles. She dove into the nearest one and grabbed the phone from the top of the desk. That was when she’d called nine-one-one. A terrified scream echoed through the room. Ashley’s pulse sputtered. “He’s still here,” she whispered. “Help is on the way.” The operator’s calm, matter-of-fact tone had Ashley clenching her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Didn’t the operator realize people were dying? Had the woman even called the police? Leaning as far out of the cubicle as she dared, she risked a glance down the main aisle. The shooter’s progress through the offices of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services was marked by screams and shouts coming from the other side of the building. The mournful wail of police sirens erupted outside the windows. Thank you, thank you, thank you! “I hear sirens,” she whispered. “They’re close.” “Yes, ma’am. Are you still in the same location?” “I haven’t moved.” “I’ve notified the police where you are. They’ll be there soon.” Ashley was really starting to hate the word soon. And she also sorely regretted taking the auditing contract in Destiny, Tennessee. If she were in her home office in Nashville right now, she wouldn’t be cowering in a cubicle with a crazed shooter on the loose. One of the young temps stuck her head out of another cubicle several aisles away. What was her name? Karen? Kristen? Ashley had only met her once and couldn’t remember. The girl’s face was ghostly pale, her eyes wide with terror as she silently begged Ashley for help. Ashley’s stomach jumped as if she’d plunged down a steep drop on a roller coaster. The girl couldn’t be more than nineteen. Ashley had to help her. But how? Which cubicle was safer? Should she run to the girl, or have the girl run to her? She sucked in a breath. Oh, no. Spiky gray hair showed above a row of cubicles down a side aisle. The shooter. And he was heading straight toward the temp. Ashley frantically motioned for the girl to hide. The girl’s brow furrowed and she raised her hands in the air, not understanding what Ashley was trying to tell her. In a few more steps, the gunman would be able to see them both. “Go back,” Ashley mouthed, desperately pointing at the approaching shooter. He rounded the corner. Ashley ducked back behind the partitioned wall. A high-pitched scream echoed through the room, then abruptly stopped. She clamped her hand over her mouth. No, no, no. A shoe scraped across the carpet. Ashley froze. A swishing sound whispered through the air, as if someone had brushed up against one of the fabric-covered cubicle walls. Close. Too close. “Ma’am, the police are evaluating the situation,” the operator said through the phone in her monotone voice. Ashley quickly covered the receiver. Her pulse slammed in her ears as she waited, listened. Was the shooter the one who’d made that swishing noise? Had he heard the operator? Her hand shook as she gingerly hung up the phone. She couldn’t wait for the police anymore. If she didn’t do something, right now, she’d be as dead as Stanley Gibson. * * * DILLON GRAYCROUCHEDbeneaththe window, cradling his assault rifle. He and the rest of his six-man SWAT team waited for the green light to begin the rescue operation in the one-story office building of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services. Beside him, his friend since childhood, Chris Downing, watched the screen on his wristband, showing surveillance from the tiny scope he’d raised up to the window. “Casualties at three and five o’clock,” he whispered into the tiny mic attached to his helmet. “One more at eleven o’clock. No sign of a shooter.” Dillon’s earpiece crackled and his boss’s voice came on the line. “Witnesses indicate there could be two shooters. Descriptions inconsistent. Shooters are dressed in black body armor. Kill shot will be a headshot. They’re using handguns. No long guns or explosives reported.” “Do we have the go ahead to move in?” Dillon asked, inching closer to the door. “Negative. Still gathering intel. Hold your position.” His team looked to him for direction, their faces taut with frustration. They wanted to go in as badly as he did. “Do we have a count yet on how many civilians are inside?” Dillon asked his boss. “Negative,” Thornton replied. “Workers are still pulling into the parking lot after lunch. Impossible to know how many escaped and how many remain.” Meaning there could be dozens or more inside. Defenseless. Hiding under desks, in conference rooms, in closets, waiting, praying someone would help them. What chance did an unarmed office worker have against men with guns, picking them off like targets at a gun range? The stock of his rifle dug into Dillon’s clenched fist. The Destiny, Tennessee, police department was small and more accustomed to patrolling acres of farmland and gravel roads than suiting up in flak jackets and storming buildings. His SWAT team consisted of beat cops, desk jockeys and other detectives like him, but they’d all been hunting and shooting since they could walk. And they trained regularly, and hard, for this type of situation. What was the point of that training if they cowered and did nothing? How many civilians had died in the few minutes his team had been crouching beneath the windows? How many of those civilians were their own friends and neighbors? “The team is ready and willing to go. Strongly requesting permission to enter, sir.” “Negative,” Thornton replied. “Stand down, Detective Gray. Await further instructions.” Dillon cursed. Chris tapped his shoulder. “Movement on the east corner,” he whispered. “Appears to be a civilian. Belly crawling toward the exit.” His tortured gaze shot to Dillon. “Heavy blood trail.” Dillon closed his fist around the mic so his boss wouldn’t hear him as he addressed his team. “Chief Thornton ordered us to sit tight and wait. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of if you follow orders. Some of you have families to support. I don’t. If he fires me, so be it. But I’m not waiting one more minute while people die inside. I’m going in.” Every one of his teammates raised their thumbs, letting him know they were all in. He glanced at the only woman on the team, Donna Waters. “Don’t even say it,” she warned. “You’ve never been sexist before. Don’t start now. I’m not waiting outside while the guys get all the fun.” Dillon ruefully shook his head and held his fingers in the air. “We go in five, four—” “Gray, what are you doing?” Thornton demanded. “I told you to stand down. That’s an order.” “—one.” Dillon waved his hand in a forward rolling motion. Donna yanked the door open. Dillon ran inside, first as always, crouching down, swinging his rifle left to right, covering his team as they rushed in behind him. “Clear,” Dillon whispered, thankful his boss had shut up, leaving the airway free for communication among the team. When this was over, Thornton would give him hell, or fire him. But for now, the chief knew to butt out. Dillon pointed to the injured civilian trying to crawl to the door. The two closest men grabbed the injured man and carried him outside. Dillon gave Donna a signal to wait for the two men to return before beginning her search on the west side of the building, while he and the two men with him headed to the east side. The building formed a rectangle, with rows of six-foot-high cubicle walls divided in the middle by a line of glassed-in offices, bathrooms and conference rooms. Solid walls acted as firebreaks every twenty feet. The two teams would have to search and clear each section in a grid pattern before moving to the next. When he reached the first body, Dillon sucked in a quick breath. The man was only a casual acquaintance, but Dillon had shared math classes with him in high school. The shooter, or shooters, had gone for a head shot. The vic never had a chance. They continued on, finding two more casualties. A scratching sound whispered from the next aisle. Dillon crouched down and signaled his men to approach in a flanking maneuver from each end of the aisle. When they were in position, he held up five fingers, counting down. Four. Three. He rushed into the cubicle in front of him, silently continuing the countdown, as he knew his men would do. He climbed onto the countertop that formed a desk in the cubicle. When the count reached zero, he jumped to his feet and aimed his rifle over the top of the wall. At the same time, his men rushed into the ends of the aisle to prevent escape. The scratching stopped. A young woman lay half in and half out of a cubicle, her face an ashen-gray color, with blood running down the side of her head. Her fingernails dug into the carpet, probably the scratching sound they’d heard. Dillon stood guard over the top of the wall. Chris hoisted the young woman in his arms while the other man covered him. Together they retreated toward the exit, with Dillon watching over them until they were safely out the door. Two civilians rescued. How many more were still hiding? And where the hell was the shooter? A soft pfft sound had Dillon diving to the floor and rolling into the aisle. The cubicle wall near where he’d been standing seconds ago now boasted a small round hole. A bullet hole. “This is Gray,” he whispered into his mic. “I’ve got gunfire on the east side, fifty feet in. Shooter’s weapon is silenced.” He jumped to his feet and hurried to the end of the aisle. “Affirmative.” Donna’s voice came through his earpiece. “West side clear so far. Do you need backup?” “Negative.” He peeked around the wall. “Witnesses reported two shooters. Continue search and rescue on the west side. I’ve got this.” “You sure about that, country boy?” A gun muzzle pressed against Dillon’s back. Chapter Two The shooter was playing a deadly game of hide-and-seek with Ashley, searching every aisle, every cubicle. So far she’d managed to stay one step ahead of him. Barely. She rounded the end of another aisle. Her breath caught in her throat. The shooter’s profile was silhouetted against the wall of windows. And his gun was pointing at a SWAT officer’s back. Ducking into the adjacent aisle, Ashley struggled to keep her breathing shallow, quiet, so the shooter wouldn’t hear her. Gathering her courage, she risked another quick peek around the wall. The officer said something to the shooter. The shooter shook his head and gave him a gruff command. The officer tossed his rifle to the floor. Dang it. The exit door was only thirty feet away now. If Ashley was quiet, she might make it. But what would happen to the SWAT guy? He’d risked his life to rescue her and the others. Could she abandon him and leave him here to die? No, she couldn’t. Cursing her conscience, she ducked back and grabbed one of the heavy, old-fashioned phones from a cubicle desktop. After unplugging the cord, she crept down a parallel aisle, hoping to sneak up behind the shooter. She offered up a quick prayer that he hadn’t moved or turned around as she rounded the end of the row. Yes. His back was still facing her. But the SWAT guy was now facing the shooter, and Ashley, his hands raised. Ashley crept forward, biting her lip, holding the phone in the air. She was pretty sure SWAT guy had seen her. He hadn’t looked directly at her, but his body tensed, and the lines around his eyes tightened. “Too bad your buddies left you by yourself,” the shooter said. “Looks like they’ll be carting one of their own out the door next.” He raised his gun toward the officer’s face just as Ashley swung the phone with both hands at the shooter’s head. But instead of hitting him, she hit empty air, spinning in a circle then falling against the wall beside her. It took her a moment to realize SWAT guy had lunged for the shooter right when she’d swung the phone. He’d grabbed the shooter’s gun and swept his legs out from beneath him. Now both men were rolling on the floor, wrestling for control of the gun. “Get out of here,” SWAT guy yelled. Ashley realized he was yelling at her. The two men rolled into the side aisle, grappling for control. Leaving SWAT guy’s rifle lying on the floor. “Go, go, go,” the officer yelled again. “Get out of here, run!” SWAT guy was heavily muscled and tall, but the shooter was on top of him and must have outweighed him by at least forty pounds. The pistol was slowly, inexorably moving up toward the officer’s face, the only part of his body not covered in armor. Ashley made her choice. She dropped the phone and grabbed for the rifle. The shooter twisted toward her and slammed his foot against her calf. She screamed and fell to the floor. Before she could scramble away, he grabbed her long hair and yanked her in front of him like a human shield. SWAT guy crouched in the aisle a few feet away, glaring at Ashley before focusing on the shooter. The wicked-looking hunting knife in the officer’s hand, along with his glare, had Ashley groaning inside. Instead of helping, she’d gotten in the way and messed everything up. She hadn’t realized the policeman had a knife, and that he’d apparently been about to use it when she’d interfered. “Let her go,” the officer ordered. “You’re surrounded.” Ashley glanced around, stunned to see he wasn’t bluffing. She hadn’t heard or seen the other SWAT officers come in, but there were two on her left, another one on the far side of the shooter and, as she watched, a fourth officer entered the aisle behind SWAT guy, who was now crouched in front of the shooter, still holding his knife. Surrounded was putting it mildly. “Let her go,” SWAT guy repeated. The shooter scooted back, pulling Ashley with him, keeping his gun trained on SWAT guy. Ashley struggled against his hold, but he squeezed hard, crushing her in a painful grip against his chest. He scooted back until he was pressed against the wall and couldn’t move any farther. “I’ll kill her.” He yanked her hair. Ashley sucked in a sharp breath at the fiery pain. It felt as though he was yanking half her hair out by the roots. “Back off or she’s dead. You can’t shoot me without hitting her. Back. Off.” Ashley struggled to draw air into her lungs. She could barely breathe with her head twisted back so hard and tight. Swat guy clutched his knife and motioned to the two SWAT officers on Ashley’s left side. “He’s right. Lower your weapons and back away. Give him room.” The shooter turned his head to the side, watching the officers lower their rifles. He suddenly jerked against Ashley, a guttural moan wheezing out of his throat. SWAT guy lunged forward, grabbing the shooter’s gun and tossing it away. He chopped his hand down on the shooter’s arm, breaking his hold on Ashley before yanking her away from him. She twisted in the officer’s arms, looking back toward the shooter. The gunman lay on the floor, convulsing, the haft of a knife sticking out of his neck. Blood bubbled out of the wound. She clutched the officer’s arm where it circled her waist. “You—you threw your knife, while he was holding me?” she squeaked. He gently grasped her chin, forcing her to turn away from the shooter. “Look at me,” he ordered, his voice gruff but laced with concern. She dragged her gaze up his armor-covered chest to stare into a pair of stormy blue-gray eyes. “Are you injured? Did he hurt you?” he demanded. She swallowed and shook her head. “No. No, he didn’t... I don’t think...” She shuddered. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.” “How many are there? Did you see any other gunmen?” “He’s the only one I saw.” He lifted her away from him. “Get her out of here.” A pair of strong arms grasped her waist and pulled her away. Another officer hauled SWAT guy to his feet. “Sit rep on the shooter?” he asked one of the others. “Deceased.” SWAT guy, obviously the leader, motioned to the man holding Ashley’s arm and another officer standing by the window. “Stay alert. Assume a second shooter is still in here. Get her out while we clear the rest of the building.” * * * YELLOWCRIME-SCENEtape fluttered in the early-summer breeze, bringing with it the smell of impending rain. Ashley sat on one of the folding chairs the police had set up in the parking lot. Most of her coworkers had already been interviewed and had been allowed to leave. Ashley had been interviewed, too, but the detective who’d spoken to her had asked her to wait. She wasn’t sure why. The dead—eight in all—were still inside the building as crime scene technicians took pictures of the carnage and documented what had happened. The wounded—only three had been shot and survived—had been taken to the hospital. The company’s owner, Ron Gibson, stood talking with a couple of detectives about twenty feet away. The grief on his face reminded Ashley that he’d lost his only son today—Stanley. But Gibson was apparently a hero. He’d dragged one of the wounded out the exit before the police arrived, and he was going to be okay. The temp, whose name Ashley still couldn’t remember, was also going to recover. The bullet had only grazed her head. Another gust of wind blew through, swirling Ashley’s hair. She pushed it out of her face and wished she had a ponytail holder with her. A shadow fell over her and she glanced up to see the SWAT officer who’d rescued her by throwing his knife at the shooter. He’d shed the heavy body armor and vest with the big white letters on it marking him as SWAT. In dark blue dress pants and a white dress shirt, he could have been one of her coworkers, except that none of her coworkers were quite as muscular and fit-looking as this man. Then again, if he made his living wearing all that heavy equipment, she supposed the muscles were honestly earned. He smiled and shook his head. “You didn’t hear anything I said, did you, Miss Parrish?” “I’m sorry, no. I was...thinking. What did you say?” He pulled another folding chair over and sat across from her. He held out his hand and she automatically took it. “I’m Detective Dillon Gray. I know you’ve already been interviewed, but I wanted to ask you a few more questions. Are you up to it?” She shook his hand, but when he mentioned asking questions, all she could think about was the knife sticking out of the shooter’s throat. She clutched his hand instead of letting go. He didn’t seem to mind. He held her hand and simply scooted his chair closer, resting his forearm across his knees. “How long have you worked at Gibson and Gibson?” She shook her head. “I don’t work here. I mean, not for the company. I’m an independent consultant, an auditor. I work short-term contracts. I came here three weeks ago—no, four. Tomorrow...tomorrow would have been my last day.” She shivered. A look of interest lit his blue-gray eyes. “Were you brought in because of a problem? Did you find anything that concerned you when you performed the audit?” “No, on both counts. Mr. Gibson—” she nodded toward the owner, who was being escorted to his car by one of the policemen “—he applied for a substantial loan to expand the business. The bank hired me to perform a routine audit before granting the loan. Everything checked out. I was going to recommend the loan move forward. I was supposed to finish the formal report today.” A coroner’s van pulled up to the front of the building. Bile rose in Ashley’s throat. “Ignore them. Focus on me.” Gray’s deep voice was low and soothing, but it had the bite of authority. She looked away from the van and met his gaze. “I’m almost done,” he said, his voice gentle. “Then you can go.” She nodded. When she heard the squeaky wheels of the coroner’s gurney rolling toward the front door, she clutched his hand harder, using him as her anchor. Another gust of wind, stronger than the rest, slapped the detective’s pants against his legs. He looked up at the sky, which was casting a dark pall over the parking lot. “Looks like the weatherman was right. We’re in for a heck of a storm.” He smiled at her again, and somehow the tension squeezing her chest eased, if only a little. “I’ll make this quick,” he said. “You said your time here was temporary. Where’s home?” “Nashville. I’ve got an apartment there.” “Made any enemies in Nashville that might have come here looking for you?” She blinked in surprise. “Me? You think the shooter was after me, specifically?” “Routine questions. Just exploring all the possibilities.” The panic that had started inside her faded beneath his matter-of-fact tone. “The answer is no. I don’t have any enemies. Not that I know of.” “You didn’t recognize the shooter, correct?” he asked. “I’ve never seen him before.” “Did he speak to you, call you by name?” “No. He just...smiled, this really creepy, spooky smile.” His brows lowered. “What do you mean?” “I was at the copier, with Stanley Gibson. The shooter shot Stanley, and when I turned around, he looked directly at me and...smiled. That’s when I ran. I hid and kept going from aisle to aisle as he went through the room. I tried to stay a step ahead, but he caught up to me. He was on my aisle, but he was crouching down. I climbed over the wall to the next aisle before he reached my cubicle.” She shivered and tugged her hand out of his grasp. The wind was colder now, making her shiver. She wrapped her arms around her middle. Detective Gray motioned to one of the uniformed policemen nearby. “Get Miss Parrish a jacket, please.” “That’s not necessary,” she said. “If someone could please...get my purse...out of my cubicle inside, so I can get my car keys, I’ll just go home. If you’re finished with your questions?” “By the time the officer retrieves your purse, I will be.” Ashley told the policeman where her purse was. He headed back toward the building. “Does the name Todd Dunlop mean anything to you?” he asked. “No. Was that the shooter’s name?” “I can’t officially confirm that at this time.” “I understand. No, I’ve never heard that name before.” He asked her several more questions about her routine and whether she’d seen anything out of the ordinary when she got to work this morning. He asked her about any recent firings, but she wasn’t aware of any. “I’m sorry, Detective. But other than the officers of the company, I haven’t even spoken to most of the people who work here. I’ve been stuck in a conference room most of the time, poring over years of financial reports. I wish I had better answers for you.” “You’re doing fine, Miss Parrish.” His white teeth flashed in a reassuring smile. The policeman returned with her purse. She thanked him and he hurried away. “May I go home now?” she asked the detective. “Of course. I’ve got your address and your phone number. If I think of more questions, I’ll stop by or give you a call. When are you leaving town?” “The end of the week.” He walked her to her car. She tried to unlock the car three times, but her hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t get the key in the lock. He gently took the keys from her and unlocked the door. “The clicker’s broken, I assume?” He held up the electronic key fob attached to her key chain before handing back her keys. “I think it’s the battery. I keep forgetting to replace it.” She slid into the driver’s seat. “You should get that fixed as soon as possible, as a security precaution,” he said. She nodded, in full agreement. After today, she was suddenly hyperaware of how dangerous the world could be. Fumbling for her keys when a simple click of a button could unlock her door didn’t strike her as smart. “Detective Gray?” He crouched down beside her door, giving her that same kind smile he’d given her earlier. “Yes?” “I’m sorry that I interfered, back inside. I thought I was helping, but I realize now that I could have gotten you hurt—” she swallowed hard “—or killed.” “You were very brave. You have nothing to apologize for. Everything worked out.” She offered him a shaky smile. “You saved my life. I don’t know how to pay someone back for something like that.” “Fix that clicker. That’s payback enough. Then I won’t have to worry about you fumbling with your keys.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else you want to tell me about what happened, anything that can help us sort through this mess and figure out why this guy picked Gibson and Gibson, give me a call.” * * * DILLONWATCHEDTHEsurprisingly brave, pretty little auditor drive away in her aging dark blue Chevy Lumina. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one of those cars on the road. Obviously Ashley Parrish wasn’t making a fortune in her chosen occupation, which made any obvious financial motive for the shooter to target her seem unlikely. “Did she tell you anything useful about the shooter?” Dillon turned at the sound of Chris Downing’s voice behind him. “No. But she’s pretty shaken. She might think of something later.” He glanced past his friend. His boss was standing with the rest of the SWAT team, his face animated—not in a good way—as he spoke to them. “Let me guess. Thornton sent you to get me.” “Yep. He’s riled up like a preacher on Easter Sunday, all fire and brimstone raining down on our heads for going in against orders.” Dillon let out a deep sigh and started toward his boss, with Chris at his side. He wasn’t in the mood to take a tongue-lashing right now, but he’d have to endure it to try to keep his job, and to keep his men from being blamed for what had essentially been a mutiny. Regardless of the consequences, he had no regrets. The three wounded survivors they’d pulled out had lost a lot of blood and wouldn’t have lasted much longer if they’d waited. And he didn’t know what would have happened to Ashley Parrish. She wasn’t the only survivor they’d rescued, but she was the only one the shooter had essentially stalked through the building. Maybe he’d stop by her house on the way home tonight, to make sure she was okay and see if she’d thought of anything else that might help with the investigation. Their initial inquiries hadn’t yielded any connections between the shooter and Gibson and Gibson. If the shooter had never worked there, and had never conducted any business with the company, why would he choose this particular office complex? It was isolated, a few miles out of town, which might have made the shooter think he could shoot the place up and escape before the cops got there. But if he’d wanted to kill a lot of random people, there was a mall five minutes away that would have yielded plenty more potential victims. So why had he chosen Gibson and Gibson? Dillon would lay odds it was something personal, and he’d bet his ten years as a detective that the personal part was somehow related to the woman who’d just driven off in a beat-up old Chevy with a key fob that didn’t work. * * * ASHLEYCLUTCHEDHERcell phone to her ear and peered out the front window. Lightning flashed, illuminating the acres of green grass and long gravel driveway that formed the front yard of her rental house. In the distance, the Smoky Mountains loomed dark and menacing. She’d never wanted to live this far from the conveniences in town, but her options were limited, since most people insisted on a long lease. Still, she hadn’t minded living here temporarily. But with this morning’s shooting fresh in her memory, the isolation was making her feel uneasy, and vulnerable. Thunder boomed overhead. “What was that?” Lauren asked over the phone. “Thunder. The weathermen have been predicting a big storm all week. Looks like it’s finally here. It’s pitch-black outside even though it’s only six o’clock. And the rain’s been coming down like a monsoon for the past couple of hours. After all the rain we had last week, we sure don’t need this. The river’s already near flood stage.” “Should you get out of there?” “I’ll be fine. The house is on high ground and the river’s several miles from here. Plus, I’ve stocked up on essentials in case the road gets washed out again.” Lauren droned on about poor road maintenance and the crumbling infrastructure in the country while Ashley looked through the curtains again. She would have loved to leave Destiny far behind after the horrific shooting this morning, but she’d promised Detective Gray she’d stay through the end of the week. Even if she hadn’t made that promise, it would be a real pain to try to change her schedule at the last minute. She’d already planned the walk-through with her landlord so she could get her deposit back and turn in her keys. When Lauren had called, Ashley confessed some of the general information about the shooting, but she’d kept most of the details to herself. Lauren was on a week-long cruise she’d planned for well over a year. Ashley didn’t want to upset her friend and ruin her fun. She also didn’t want Lauren to call Ashley’s family about the shooting and get them upset. There’d be plenty of time to tell them what happened after she got back home to Nashville. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Lauren asked. “You’re even quieter than usual. Maybe I should cut my vacation short and go there to be with you.” “Don’t you dare. You’ve had this trip planned forever and I doubt they’d refund your money. Besides, by the time you got off the ship, hopped a plane, then drove forever through the boonies to get way out here, I’ll be back home.” She forced a note of cheerfulness she didn’t feel into her voice. “Now tell me, which tropical island are you touring right now?” Lauren hesitated, as if she was going to argue, but she finally let out a long breath. “All right, you win. I’ll quit bugging you, for now. Today the cruise ship took us to a little place right outside Jamaica.” “Nice.” Lightning flashed again, much closer this time. Ashley jumped and let out a little squeak. “Oh, yeah, you sound fine to me,” Lauren accused. “Don’t you want to talk about what happened?” “Sure. Let’s talk about the SWAT detective guy who rescued me. He was really hot.” “Not-so-subtle way of avoiding the topic, but I’ll bite. How hot was he? Scale of one to ten.” Ashley plopped down on the couch and tucked her legs beneath her. Lauren would probably drool over Detective Dillon Gray’s broad shoulders and trim waist. She’d love his dark, wavy hair that seemed a bit too long and untamed for a cop. And she’d probably squeal over what Ashley thought of as sexy stubble that formed a barely there goatee, mustache and dark shadow that ran up his jawline. He looked the way she imagined a man might look after lounging in bed with his lover for days without taking time to shave. As enticing as all that was, Ashley knew her friend wouldn’t appreciate what Ashley thought of as Dillon’s best feature—his kind smile—and the gentle way he’d held her hand when she’d desperately needed the warmth and contact of another human being who wasn’t trying to kill her. He’d given her the strength to hold herself together. Without the kindness and patience he’d showed to a stranger, she probably would have lost it and imploded into a mass of nerves. Somehow, with him there, focusing those thickly lashed blue-gray eyes on her, she’d managed to keep her composure. “Ash, come on. Scale of one to ten. Rank him.” She idly traced little circles on the arm of the couch with her fingertips as she debated her answer. If she ranked Dillon too high, Lauren would probably pester her to call him and try to wheedle a date out of him. So instead of saying “ten,” which was spot-on, she lowered the number. “A six, I suppose. It was kind of hard to tell with all that body armor on.” She didn’t bother to mention she’d seen him later without the armor. “Maybe a seven. Yeah, I could stretch it to a seven.” “Seven? That’s not hot. That’s lukewarm,” Lauren scoffed. “What’s his name?” “Dillon Gray.” “Hmm. Dillon’s good. Not too keen on Gray, though. Sounds kind of morose, depressing. Maybe I’ll change his name when I embellish the story to my cruise ship friends at dinner.” Ashley laughed. “You do that. Oh, darn it.” She jumped up from the couch and headed into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?” She dug into the cabinet under the sink until she found a large metal mixing bowl. “Looks like that roof repair last week didn’t hold. There’s a healthy drip coming through the living room ceiling again.” “Dang, girl. I told you to argue with the landlord about using cheap roofers.” “I know, but I’m leaving in a few days, so what does it matter?” “It doesn’t, as long as the roof doesn’t come down on you.” “Maybe it’s not the roofer’s fault.” She placed the bowl under the leak and peered up at the plaster ceiling. “As hard as it’s been raining, even a good roof might leak right now.” “You are way too nice, as always. If it were up to me, I’d call the landlord and...” “And what?” Ashley repositioned the bowl. The drips were coming faster now. Getting some sleep tonight wasn’t looking like a good prospect, not if she had to keep emptying out the water and listening to the pinging sound of the constant drips. She crossed back to the couch but paused when she realized her friend still hadn’t answered. “Lauren, are you still there?” Silence. She pulled the phone away and looked at the screen. Great. The call had been dropped. She plopped down on the couch and dialed Lauren’s number. No ringing. Nothing. Maybe Lauren’s phone wasn’t the problem. She tried to get a dial tone, but it was like the phone was...dead. Weird, that had never happened here before. The storm must have shorted something out, or maybe knocked down the nearest cell tower. She tossed the phone down and grabbed the TV remote off the coffee table. Casting a disparaging glance at the drips rapidly filling the bowl across the room, she yanked the blanket from the back of the couch and wrapped it around her. Thunder boomed again, this time sounding more as if it was from the back of the house than from overhead. She paused with her finger on the remote’s power button. Wait. There hadn’t been any lightning that time. She slowly lowered her hand. Another sound came from behind her, down the hall. Someone was inside the house. Chapter Three Dillon wrestled the steering wheel to keep his Jeep on the road. The last time he’d seen a storm this bad, the bridge over Little River washed out, stranding an entire Cub Scout troop on Cooper’s Bluff, the mile-long, uninhabited island smack-dab in the middle of the river. Thankfully the mayor had learned his lesson from that fiasco. This time he’d paid attention to the weather reports and Cooper’s Bluff had been evacuated earlier this afternoon, the bridge closed until the weather broke. Since the storm wasn’t expected to ease until tomorrow morning, the entire police department was on standby for storm-related emergencies. Which was why Dillon was out in the middle of the blasted thing. This was a hell of a way to spend his evening after facing off with a crazed shooter earlier today and spending the next hour listening to his boss’s tirade about chain of command and following orders. Dillon had been on the verge of telling his boss to take a hike and walking out when Thornton received his first call from the weather station, warning him the storm was going to be worse than originally thought. Thornton had immediately called for all hands on deck. Everyone had to be ready to go if and when a call for help came in. Dillon would have rather stayed at the station and worked on the workplace-shooting investigation. But he had a four-wheel drive with a winch, which meant he was in high demand to help stranded motorists escape rapidly rising water on some of the more isolated, two-lane roads. He’d spent the past six hours pulling half a dozen vehicles out of swollen ditches. Now his shoulders and back ached and all he wanted to do was pop the top on an ice-cold beer, lie down in his recliner and sleep. The squawk of his cell phone had him clenching the steering wheel even harder. He ignored the first ring, irrationally hoping whoever was calling would call someone else instead, preferably someone who hadn’t been working solid since sunup and was bone weary. But when the phone rang again, his shoulders slumped and he answered, “Gray.” “Detective Gray, this is Nancy, nine-one-one operator. I have Lauren Wilkes on the line. She specifically asked to speak to you. Something about her friend possibly being in trouble. Should I patch her through?” Dillon let out a long sigh. That cold beer would have to wait a little bit longer. “Go ahead, Nancy. Thanks.” “Pleasure.” The line clicked twice. “Miss Wilkes, Detective Gray is on the line,” the operator said. “Go ahead with your emergency.” “Emergency? Well, ah, yes. Thank you.” The young woman’s voice sounded nervous. “Detective Gray? Are you there?” “I’m here. How can I help you?” “I feel a little silly. I’m not sure anything is really wrong, but after what happened this morning I’m kind of nervous. I mean, there’s the storm and all and maybe phones do that sometimes but I remember she told me your name and so when—” “Miss Wilkes,” Dillon interrupted. “Take a breath.” “What? Oh, yes. Okay.” “Tell me why you called.” He pulled the Jeep to the side of the road. It was too dangerous trying to talk on the phone and fight the wheel in this wind and rain. “It’s my friend. I was talking to her and the phone went dead. I tried calling her back, over and over, but the call doesn’t go through. I was wondering if you could check on her. I’m, ah, not close by, so it’s not like I can hop in the car and go over there.” Dillon thumped his forehead on the steering wheel. “Ma’am, if the Smoky Mountains were by the ocean I’d call the storm we’re in right now a hurricane. Storms this bad always knock landlines down.” “Oh, well, it’s not a landline. It’s her cell phone. Do storms knock those out, too?” He straightened in his seat. “Not usually, no. I suppose something could have happened to a cell tower.” Although he couldn’t remember that ever happening around here before. He grabbed the notebook and pen lying in the console. “What’s your friend’s name and address? I’ll do a wellness check for you.” “Oh, would you, please? That would be awesome. And if you’ll call me back and let me know she’s okay, I’d really appreciate it. I mean, we’ve been friends forever. I kind of get worried—” “Ma’am, the name and address?” “Oh, right. Sorry. She’s renting a house at 1010 Little River Road. Her name is Ashley Parrish.” Dillon stiffened. Every cell in his body went on alert. Cell phone towers could go out, he supposed, but it was a hell of a coincidence for that to happen to the woman who’d survived a workplace shooting just this morning. He tossed the notebook and pen in the console and whipped the Jeep back onto the road. “Tell me everything that happened,” he said, fighting to keep the vehicle straight as he jostled the phone and headed back toward Little River Road. Ashley’s house was only five minutes away. “Don’t leave anything out.” In the rough weather, it took six minutes instead of the normal five to reach the right road, and another two minutes to reach the long, winding driveway that led to Ashley’s house. A few inches of water covered most of the gravel, but his four-wheel drive clung to the road like a billy goat. He parked next to the front porch steps, figuring he’d save himself some soggy boots by avoiding the puddles in the yard. He shook the raindrops from the last outing into the storm off his ball cap, shoved it on his head and threw the car door open. He slammed it shut behind him and jogged up the steps. Lights were on inside. He rapped on the front door. A few seconds later he rapped again, and rang the doorbell. Nothing. “Miss Parrish?” he called out. “It’s Detective Gray. We met this morning. I need to speak to you.” Another knock, but again, no sound or movement from inside. The mild alarm he’d felt after talking to Lauren Wilkes was giving way to genuine concern. The little hairs on his neck were standing up. He drew his gun and held it down by his side as he stepped to the front window. He could glimpse the room through a slit in the curtains, but not enough to really tell him anything. His boots echoed hollowly on the wood as he strode across the porch. At the corner of the house, he leaned around, looking toward the backyard. Pitch-dark. The landlord needed to get some lights out here, especially since the house was so isolated without any neighbors close by. He headed back to the steps to get a flashlight from his Jeep so he could walk the perimeter of the property. The sound of a powerful engine had him jerking around. Headlights flashed and a truck roared from the side yard. It raced past him, its tires throwing up huge sprays of water that splashed onto the porch. There were two people in the truck. The passenger turned and looked right at him, her eyes wide, her face pale as her hands flailed ineffectually against the glass. Ashley Parrish. She definitely wasn’t in that truck because she wanted to be. Dillon crouched on the porch and fired off two quick shots at the truck’s tires, hoping to disable it before it gained much speed. The truck jerked to the side but kept going. Damn this rain and wind. He wouldn’t normally miss a shot like that. Taking the stairs two at a time, he hopped into his car, wheeled it around and floored the accelerator. The Jeep fishtailed on the wet gravel. Dillon cursed and let up on the gas, then took off at a slower speed. The headlights from the truck bounced crazily as it turned at the end of the drive. West, it was heading west. He grabbed his phone and pressed the button for dispatch as he barreled down the driveway. Nothing. He held the phone up. The light was on and he’d pressed the right button, but the call hadn’t gone through. Must be the bad cell tower, as he’d thought earlier. After making the turn at the end of the drive onto the paved road, he floored the gas again. The truck’s taillights were barely visible up ahead in the pouring rain. There weren’t any streetlights out on this old rural two-lane. But he didn’t need more than his headlights to tell him what he already knew. The road up ahead was full of dangerous, sharp S-curves. If the driver of that truck kept his current speed, on this slick, wet road, he’d likely end up in a ditch or plow headfirst into a tree. * * * ASHLEYCLUNGTOthe armrest and braced her other hand against the dashboard. The rain was falling so hard the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up. The truck’s tires kept slipping on the wet road, making the bottom drop out of her stomach. “Please slow down,” she pleaded. “It’s too dangerous to drive this fast in these conditions.” The driver raised his gun and pointed it at her without taking his gaze from the road. She swallowed and held her hands up in a placating gesture. He shoved the gun between his legs and put both hands back on the wheel, the veins in his forearms bulging from the effort it took to keep the truck on the road. Ashley glanced in the side mirror. The lights from Dillon Gray’s Jeep were barely visible in the distance, but he was steadily gaining on them. She didn’t have a clue why he’d gone to her house, but he was the answer to her prayers. If he could catch up and somehow manage to get this eerily calm stranger to stop the truck... She let out a yelp as the truck slid toward the ditch on their right. Her captor let up on the gas. The wheels caught and spit the truck back toward the middle of the road. * * * DILLON’SHEARTPLUMMETEDas the black pickup carrying Ashley Parrish slid dangerously close to the edge of the road for the second time since he’d started pursuit. At the last second, the truck straightened out and shot back toward the centerline. He let out a pent-up breath and pushed his Jeep even harder, the engine whining as it struggled to catch up. His four-wheel drive was built for power, not speed, which was why he didn’t normally use it when on the job. And it wasn’t aerodynamic enough to make the curves without greatly reducing his speed. Neither was the truck up ahead. The ditches along this road might as well be cliffs, as steep as they were. And with all this rain, they were full of water, a death trap if the truck slid into one of them. He tried his phone again, but it was no use. He no longer believed a failed cell tower was to blame. He’d gone too far from Ashley’s house for that to be the case. The driver of the truck had to have a powerful cell phone jammer. That would explain why Ashley’s call dropped when she was talking to her friend, and why Dillon couldn’t get a call through as he followed behind. His mouth tightened. Jammers weren’t cheap, and they were hard to come by. The man who’d taken Ashley had gone to a lot of trouble, and expense, to do it. This wasn’t a random abduction. He debated pulling off the road to call dispatch for backup. But if he let enough distance pass between him and the truck to unblock his phone, he might lose their trail. He couldn’t risk it. The road curved ahead, but no matter how hard Dillon pressed his Jeep on the straightaway, he couldn’t catch up before the pickup disappeared around the curve. When he rounded the bend, he slammed his fist against the steering wheel. The fool. The truck’s lights were visible up ahead, but not on the two-lane it had been on. Instead, the driver had turned down the side road that led to Cooper’s Bluff. And he was heading toward the low wooden bridge over Little River—the bridge the mayor had closed because the river was expected to top it. Ignoring every sense of self-preservation he had, he pushed the accelerator all the way to the floor. The tires slipped. He cursed and let up on the gas, even though it nearly killed him to slow down. The bridge was around the next curve, so he slowed the Jeep even more. Taillights gleamed up ahead at a crazy angle. Dillon’s eyes widened and he slammed the brakes, bringing his car to a skidding halt at the edge of the roadway. The last twenty feet of asphalt had washed away. The bridge was completely underwater, its support beams sticking up out of the angry, roiling waves like the skeleton of some prehistoric water beast. The truck had slid off the collapsed roadway, narrowly missing the bridge’s first support beam and sliding half into the river. Dillon grabbed his flashlight and hopped out. He sprinted to what was now little more than a cliff, a fifteen-foot drop down to the strip of mud at the water’s edge. The front of the truck was submerged beneath the water, all the way up to the doors. The bed of the truck stuck up in the air, and even as Dillon watched, the truck slipped a few more inches into the water. He took off, racing parallel to the shore until he found a break where he could climb down. His boots slipped and slid in the muddy, rain-soaked ground. In the beam of his flashlight he saw Ashley frantically tugging at her seat belt, her frightened eyes pleading with him for help as the water sucked and pulled at the truck. Dillon waded waist deep into the churning water to get to her door. The window was still rolled up, probably electric and stuck. He looked past her. The driver appeared to be passed out over the wheel. A rivulet of blood ran down the side of his face. Ashley managed to get her seat belt off and yanked the door handle, but it wouldn’t open against the current. She pounded the flats of her hands against the window. “Turn away from the glass,” Dillon yelled. When Ashley moved back, Dillon used the hard case of his flashlight like a hammer against the window. It bounced and thudded against the glass. He tried again and again but the glass still held. The truck slid deeper into the water. Ashley screamed. The driver stirred beside her. Dillon shoved the flashlight under his arm and pulled out his gun. “I have to shoot the window out,” he yelled. She nodded, letting him know she understood. She pulled her legs up onto the seat, squeezing back from the window. Dillon aimed toward the corner, so his bullet would go into the dashboard, and squeezed the trigger. The safety glass shattered but held. He slammed the butt of his gun against the window. This time it collapsed in a shower of tiny glass pieces. He started to shove his gun into his holster but Ashley dove at him in the window opening, knocking both the flashlight and the pistol into the boiling, raging water. He grabbed her beneath her arms and pulled. She screamed. He froze, horrified that he might have cut her on the glass. “Let me go. Let me go,” she screamed again. But she wasn’t talking to him. Dillon looked past her into the steady, dark eyes of the driver. He had a hold of Ashley’s waist and was playing a deadly game of tug-of-war. “Let her go,” Dillon yelled. “I’ll pull her out, then come back for you. The truck’s back wheels aren’t going to hold much longer.” “We’ll take our chances in the river.” The man’s voice was deadly calm, as if he wasn’t the least bit concerned. He heaved backward, pulling Ashley farther into the truck, slamming Dillon against the door. His grip slipped. Ashley frantically flailed her arms. He reached for her and grabbed her hands. The wheels made a great big sucking noise as they popped free from the mud. Ashley’s hands were yanked out of Dillon’s wet grasp. The truck went twisting and floating down the rain-swollen river, with Ashley’s terrified screams echoing back, tearing at Dillon’s heart. The normally calm river was now a dangerous cauldron of rapids and swirling currents. The truck wouldn’t stay afloat for long. Even if Ashley made it out and into the water, she wouldn’t survive. No one could swim in that current. Only a fool would go into the river now. He cursed and tore off his jacket. Apparently, he was a fool. He dove into the river. Chapter Four Another wave crashed over Dillon’s head, shoving him back under like a waterlogged towel tossed in a giant washing machine. His lungs burned. His muscles ached from fighting against the current. He kicked his legs and clawed his way toward the barely discernible sliver of moonlight that told him which direction was up. He burst to the surface, gulping air into his lungs. Lightning flashed in the sky, followed by a boom of thunder so loud it hurt his ears. The rain pummeled his skin like hundreds of tiny icy needles. Another wave crashed down. Again he went under. Again he fought his way back up for another precious lungful of air. He’d lost sight of the truck. And he wasn’t trying to swim in any particular direction anymore. He was just trying to survive. It was too dark to see more than a few feet in front of him. He didn’t know where he was, or even if he was within reach of land. His muscles screamed for relief, cried out for rest. He couldn’t keep fighting much longer. Moonlight glinted off the whitecap of another wall of water rushing toward him. He inhaled deeply just as the wave slammed into him. Like a spear in his chest, the water pushed him down, down, down until he bumped against the muddy bottom of the river. The pressure pinned him against a rock. He latched onto it, fire lancing through his lungs as he waited for the current to shift. His vision blurred. The irony that he might actually drown suddenly struck him as funny. A laugh erupted from him, sending a froth of bubbles up toward the surface. His lungs protested the loss of desperately needed oxygen. He pictured the fireplace mantel in his parents’ farmhouse, still filled with his decade-old swim trophies from high school, like open wounds that had never healed. What would his mother do when she heard her swim-champion son had drowned? Would she throw away the trophies that had made her so proud? Would she hate him for giving up? He clenched the rock harder. Tired, so tired. All he had to do was open his mouth and take a deep gulp of water and it would be over. He wouldn’t have to fight anymore. His eyes drifted closed. The last of his air bubbled out of his nose. He sank deeper against the rock. The image of his mother’s face drifted through his thoughts, surprising him with the anger in her faded blue eyes. She reached out, but instead of hugging him goodbye, she grabbed his shoulders and shook him. She needs you. Help her. His mother’s face faded, replaced by Ashley Parrish’s wide-eyed stare, her scream of terror as the truck went into the river. Dillon’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t give up. Not yet. He had to try. One more time. He let the rock go and pushed toward the moonlight again. Up, up, up. He broke the surface, inhaling deeply. The rush of air into his starved lungs was painful, like the rush of blood into a circulation-starved limb. He ducked beneath the next wave and came right back up this time. He was used to swimming in pools or the pond on his parents’ farm, not this roiling nightmare that pounded at him and made his muscles shake with exhaustion. Maybe that was the problem. He was fighting too hard. He thought back to the basics, something his first swim coach had taught him, something he’d never had use for. Until now. Dead man float. He dodged the next wave, gulped in a deep breath, another. Then he stopped fighting. Lying facedown in the water, he held his hands out in front of him to protect his head from any debris. He held his breath, no longer struggling against a monster he couldn’t defeat, and let the current take him wherever it wanted as the freezing rain beat down on his back. He jerked his head out of the water, took another breath, relaxed again. Over and over he repeated the routine—breathe, relax, float, breathe, relax, float. His arm banged against something hard and unyielding. The current shoved him against a solid object—the truck, tangled up in a downed tree at the edge of the river. The powerful current tugged at him, trying to pull him back out. His wet hands flailed against the slippery metal. He kicked hard and slammed into the bumper. Latching on, he stubbornly refused to let go. Hand over hand, using the bumper like a towline, he carefully inched his way down the end of the truck. His kicking feet struck bottom. He pushed, his calf muscles burning from exertion as he fought his way to the driver’s door. Waves pummeled his back. He coughed up a lungful of water and kept pushing, one step at a time. The rain wouldn’t let up, and as more and more of Dillon’s body rose up out of the water, he began to shiver. His teeth chattered so hard he wondered they didn’t chip or break. When he finally reached the door, he saw what he’d already suspected. The cab was empty. Had Ashley made it out alive? What about the man who’d abducted her? That thought drove him harder, through the shallows toward land. He wanted to curse and rail at the storm mercilessly pounding against him, and the sucking current trying to pull him away from shore. Every inch, every step, was a hard-fought victory. But he didn’t say the foul words he wanted to say. He made as little noise as he could, because he didn’t know if the man who’d taken Ashley was within earshot, perhaps waiting in the trees up ahead. Hoping the dark, nearly moonless night would help conceal him, he struggled on. Past the truck now, clinging to the branches of the tree that had snared the vehicle. He pulled himself out of the water and collapsed on the muddy bank. If the kidnapper found him now, Dillon didn’t think he could do anything to defend himself. He was limp and spent. Shivering in the mud, he lay there, gasping in precious air, trying to gather his strength. It was the icy rain, painfully stabbing the skin on his exposed arms, that finally made him move. He crawled forward, forcing one knee in front of the other until he reached the cover of trees. Using the low-hanging branch of a pine tree for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet. Where was he? He couldn’t seem to get his bearings. A flash of lightning lit the sky, making everything as bright as daylight for a split second, just long enough for him to see his Jeep parked at the drop-off where the bridge used to be. On the other side of the river. He was on Cooper’s Bluff, with no weapons, no phone and no way off the island—presumably with an armed man holding a woman hostage. Some days it didn’t pay to even put his boots on in the morning. He shoved off the tree and trudged deeper into the forest, his weary legs shaking beneath him. It was damned embarrassing how much the freezing water had taken out of him. Thankfully, none of his men were there to see his sorry state. A muted yell sounded from somewhere deep in the woods. Dillon stiffened and tried to pinpoint the direction the sound had come from. A scream jolted him into action. His misery and exhaustion forgotten, he plunged into the trees at a full-out run. * * * ASHLEYHELDHERhand to her aching jaw and warily eyed the man who’d knocked her to the ground. Biting his arm wasn’t the smartest decision she’d ever made. He towered over her, but it wasn’t his height or his brawny build that held her attention. It was the gun in his hand, the business end pointing straight at her head. She’d wondered why he hadn’t immediately chased her when the truck snagged in the tree and she dove out the window. Now she knew. He’d fished out the gun from the floorboard where it had fallen when the truck first went into the water. Would it fire now that it was wet? The way her luck had gone today, she was betting it would. He squatted down in front of her, the gun never wavering. Cold rain dripped through the thick foliage overhead, splashing onto his forearms. But he didn’t seem to notice. If he had yelled at her, it would have been far less frightening than the emotionless, dead look in his eyes. She mentally dubbed him Iceman, because he was so cold, as if he had no soul. “Miss Parrish, bite me again and the next time I hit you you’ll be missing half your teeth.” He motioned toward her feet. “Take off your shoes.” She frowned down at her sneakers. The idea of walking through the cold, soggy, rock-strewn forest without protection on her feet didn’t appeal to her in the least. “My shoes?” “I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.” “I don’t understand. Why do you want—” He backhanded her, sending her sprawling onto the ground. A yelp of pain escaped between her clenched teeth. He grabbed one of her feet and yanked off her shoe. Before she could get away from him, he yanked off her other shoe. When he let her go, she scrambled back like a crab on all fours. She cast a furtive glance around, looking for some kind of weapon. All she saw were small, round river rocks. Pelting him with those would be like poking an angry bull with a toy spear. Iceman jerked at the laces on her confiscated shoes, yanking them out of the eyelets. A feeling of dread swept through Ashley. There was only one reason she could think of that he’d want those laces. To tie her up. She scrambled to her feet to run into the trees behind her. “I need you alive,” his voice echoed, freezing her in place. “But you don’t need kneecaps to live. Sit your butt back down.” She sucked in a sharp breath and plopped on the ground. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?” “Hold out your hands.” He squatted down in front of her again with one of the shoelaces. It was so tempting to take advantage of his vulnerable position and turn him into a soprano, but without shoes she wasn’t sure she could kick him hard enough to risk another swing of his fist. She was also rather fond of her kneecaps. She grudgingly held out her hands. The wet lace bit into her left wrist as he yanked it tight. He was just as rough with her right wrist, painfully tightening the shoelace against her skin, jerking it to ensure it wouldn’t slip off. He knotted the two laces together, forcing her to lock her fingers in a two-handed fist to relieve the pressure. “Police,” a voice yelled behind him. “Put your hands above your head and lie facedown on the ground.” She sucked in a breath and stared past her captor. The silhouette of another man was visible about ten feet away. Lightning briefly lit the clearing, revealing his identity—Detective Dillon Gray. His wet hair was plastered to his scalp and his Kevlar vest formed a dark shadow beneath his equally wet shirt. Her mouth dropped open. Did he actually swim across the swollen, raging river to rescue her? Shock and gratitude warred with disbelief. But any relief she felt turned to worry when she realized one thing—he didn’t have a weapon. Iceman wrapped his fingers around the gun shoved in his belt. Did he know the police officer behind him was bluffing? Ashley stared into his dark eyes. They were no longer cold and dead. Instead, they shined with an unholy gleam and his mouth tilted in anticipation. He knew. He knew Dillon didn’t have a gun. He must have seen it fall into the river when Dillon was trying to pull Ashley out the truck window. “Move away from her and lie on the ground. Now,” the detective repeated, his deep voice authoritative and confident. The cord of muscles in Iceman’s thick neck pulsed, reminding her of a snake coiling to strike. She whipped a glance at the detective, trying to warn him with her eyes. But it was so dark. He probably couldn’t see her eyes any better than she could see his. A vile curse flashed through her mind, the kind of curse that would have had her mama looking for the biggest, thickest switch she could find, if she ever actually heard Ashley say it—regardless of how old Ashley was. The detective was a big man, tall and thick with muscles, but just like at the Gibson and Gibson office building, the thug he was facing was even bigger. Dillon had come out the winner in the earlier confrontation, but he’d had a weapon, and a team of officers to distract the bad guy. The man crouching in front of Ashley had the only advantage that mattered right now. A gun. One little bullet was all it would take to end this standoff. Even if the vest protected Dillon, the force of the bullet would probably knock him flat on his back. Then all the gunman had to do was calmly stand over Dillon and shoot him in the head. She needed to do something. But what? The last time she’d interfered with this same police officer she’d nearly gotten him killed. Suddenly the gunman whirled around. As if anticipating the move, Dillon lunged to the side. He rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet. Bam, bam— Iceman fired off two quick shots, flames shooting out of the muzzle like a warning flare. Dillon grunted and fell to the ground. His body jerked, then lay still. Ashley’s nails bit into the backs of her tied fists. She silently urged Dillon to move, to run, but he lay facedown on the ground—stunned, or worse. The gunman stalked toward him. Ashley frantically looked around. There had to be something she could use as a weapon. But even though the icy rain was still dripping through the heavy canopy overhead, and the wind clacked the branches against each other, there wasn’t even a large twig on the ground anywhere within reach. Thunder sounded. Lightning lit up the clearing, illuminating Dillon. He still wasn’t moving. Oh, dear God, no. Ashley jumped to her feet. If nothing else, she could swing her tied fists at the gunman and try to knock his gun out of his hand before he could shoot Dillon again. She charged forward. The gunman stopped beside Dillon and raised his gun. Ashley pulled her tied hands back like a bat to swing at him. Dillon suddenly jerked to the side and kicked Iceman’s legs, knocking him to the ground. Ashley yelped and scrambled out of the way. The two men grappled with each other, locked in combat. The storm was getting worse. Sheets of rain pelted them through the gaps in the trees. Ashley shoved her wet hair out of her face. Lightning cracked overhead in short bursts, a strobe light revealing the men’s movements every few seconds, like a projector showing every other frame in a movie. They rolled back and forth, grunting, twisting as they each strained for the advantage over the other. One of them got his arm free and swung his fist with massive force against the other man’s jaw. A loud crack echoed in the clearing. His opponent screamed and fell to the side, clutching his face, shaking his head as if in a daze. The victor climbed to his feet. Moonlight glinted off the gun in his hand. Ashley pressed her hand to her throat. Who was lying on the ground? And who was holding the gun? Lightning flashed again, revealing the face of the man who was standing. Ashley’s shoulders slumped with relief. “I’m Detective Dillon Gray. You’re under arrest,” he gasped between deep breaths. His chest heaved from exertion, but the gun never wavered in his grip. “What’s your name?” The other man shook his head again, as if trying to get his bearings. He rubbed his jaw and glared up at Dillon while climbing to his feet. He staggered at first and then straightened to his full height, several inches taller than Dillon. Thunder boomed, startling Ashley, but Dillon didn’t even flinch. “Your name,” he demanded again, but the other man remained mute. “Miss Parrish,” Dillon said. “Get behind me. Make a wide berth around this gentleman, please.” Staying well away from her abductor, she hurried to the other side of the clearing. Iceman’s head swiveled, following her every move, like the sights on a rifle. She thanked God it was too dark for her to see the look in those creepy dead eyes. She stopped beside Dillon, but he shoved her behind him. “Facedown, on the ground,” he ordered the other man. Ashley peeked around Dillon’s broad shoulders. Her abductor wasn’t cooperating. Instead of getting down, he braced his feet wide apart. “Ah, hell,” Dillon said. Ashley clutched the back of his shirt. “Can’t you just...shoot him?” “I’d certainly like to, but my boss frowns on shooting unarmed civilians.” Iceman grinned, his teeth flashing in the moonlight like a wolf baring its fangs. “That doesn’t mean I won’t,” Dillon warned him. “If you take a single step, I’ll shoot. I’m too exhausted for another boxing round and I’m freezing. Not to mention I have a civilian to protect. I will shoot if you force my hand. Get down on the ground. Now.” The man’s grin faded. Ashley couldn’t see well enough to identify the expression on his face, but judging by the way his shoulders stiffened, she’d bet he was considering charging the detective. If she had a gun, she wouldn’t wait for the bad guy to make a decision. She’d shoot, right now. This man had already attacked both of them. If he got another chance, she had no doubt he’d do it again. “Who are you?” Dillon repeated. “Why are you after Miss Parrish?” “He said he needed me alive,” Ashley said. Dillon digested that for a moment. “Have you ever fired a gun?” “Me?” she squeaked. He sighed. “I guess that’s a no. There’s no safety. All you do is point and squeeze. I want you to point my gun directly at our guest while I handcuff him. If he moves, squeeze the trigger. Can you do that?” “I’d have no trouble shooting this jerk. He stole my shoes,” she said. His mouth twitched, as if he was trying not to laugh. “If I didn’t have to keep this gun trained on this fellow I’d cut those laces with my pocketknife. But I don’t want to risk cutting you. Hold your hands up and I’ll untie them.” She held her clasped hands on his left side while he kept his gun trained on the quiet, deadly stranger with his right hand. He plucked at the laces, mostly by feel, and soon they were loose enough so she could unclasp her hands. “I can get it the rest of the way.” She worked the laces free and dropped them to the forest floor. Rubbing her aching wrists, she glared at the man responsible. Her glare was probably wasted since it was so dark, but it made her feel better. “Okay, I’m ready,” she said. Dillon kept his gun trained on the other man while he pulled out a set of handcuffs from a holder on his belt. “Mister, I strongly suggest you cooperate. If you lie still while I put the cuffs on, you won’t get shot. But if you try anything, Miss Parrish seems quite anxious to repay you for her ill use tonight.” The man hesitated, then got down on his knees and lowered himself to the ground. He lay with his head to the side, watching both of them as he put his arms behind his back. Dillon cursed softly beneath his breath. “What’s wrong?” Ashley whispered. “That was way too easy.” “You think he’s planning something?” “I think he plans to fight me again. He’s assuming you won’t shoot.” “But I will. I promise.” His mouth twitched again. “Actually, I’d prefer you don’t, since you’ve never fired a gun before,” he whispered. “I don’t want to get shot again. I’m already a walking bruise. We’ll bluff, but don’t shoot unless your own life is in danger. I repeat, do not shoot when I’m anywhere near him.” He handed her the gun, keeping it pointed at the other man. She tightened her fingers around the grip. It was heavier than she’d expected. Her hands dipped beneath the weight. He grabbed her wrists and steadied the gun. “Like this.” He adjusted her hold, making the gun more balanced. She nodded to let him know she had it this time. “Only shoot as a last resort,” he whispered again. “To save yourself.” “All right,” she assured him. But she had no intention of doing nothing if Iceman tried something. If it came down to it, she would shoot, but she didn’t tell Dillon that. He seemed too worried she’d shoot him. It was a bit insulting, really. How hard could it be to aim and pull a trigger from ten feet away? He moved forward, keeping well clear of the other man’s legs. He suddenly dropped down with his knee in the small of the man’s back. At the same time he twisted the man’s arms up between his shoulder blades. Iceman let out a low roar of rage. Whatever he’d planned to do was a moot point now. Dillon had immobilized him before he could even move. Ashley was thoroughly impressed. Dillon snapped the cuff around one of the man’s massive wrists. A loud boom echoed through the trees. Dillon stiffened and fell to the side, landing hard on the ground with a pained grunt. A bald-headed man ran out of the woods holding a gun. Iceman jumped up from the ground, the handcuffs dangling from his left wrist. Ashley aimed at Baldy and squeezed the trigger. The gun boomed and jerked in her hands. She fell back on her butt in the mud. Dang it. She twisted to the side and scrambled to her feet, expecting to feel the bite of Baldy’s bullet any second. But Baldy didn’t have his gun anymore. Iceman had it. Somehow her shot, instead of hitting the bald man, had hit Iceman in the shoulder. Blood ran down his arm and dripped from his limp fingers. He must have taken the gun from his partner, because he glared at Ashley and started to raise his other hand, the one now holding the gun. She braced her legs so she wouldn’t fall back this time and squeezed the trigger again and again and again. Both men shouted and dove to the ground. They took off running into the woods. An arm snaked around her waist and the gun was plucked from her hands. She jerked against her captor and tried to twist in his arms to get the gun back. “Stop fighting me.” Dillon’s harsh command sounded near her ear. She hadn’t even seen him get up off the ground. She blew out a relieved breath and stopped struggling. He let her go and she turned to face him. “I did really good! I scared them both away.” “You scared all of us the way your bullets were ricocheting around the clearing. I told you not to shoot.” “You’re welcome,” she grumbled. The least the man could do was be grateful since she’d probably saved his life. Her gaze dipped to his chest and she gasped at the sight of two bullet holes in his shirt. “That man shot you.” She ran her hands over the fabric, feeling the vest beneath. “Did the vest stop the bullets? Did the other guy shoot you, too? Are you okay?” She trailed her fingers to his sides and then down his arms. He sucked in a breath and plucked her hands off him. “I’m okay.” His eyes widened and he stared past her across the dark clearing. “We can’t catch a break, can we? I hear them. They’re coming back. How much do you want to bet they probably both have guns this time?” He grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the trees behind him. One of her bare feet came down on a hard rock. She yelped and tugged her hand out of his grasp. “My shoes. I need my shoes. They’re back over—” The wood exploded on the tree by her right leg and a deafening boom echoed through the clearing. Ashley took off running, leaving Dillon to chase after her. Chapter Five “Why are we stopping?” Ashley tried to say, but it came out more like “wwwwhy are wwweee stoppppiiinng” between her chattering, clenched teeth. The cold wouldn’t have bothered her so much if she wasn’t cold and wet. And she had a stitch in her side from running so long and so hard over rough terrain. She clutched the nearest tree for support and drew deep, gasping breaths while trying to will away the painful ache in her side. Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/lena-diaz/tennessee-takedown/?lfrom=688855901) на ЛитРес. Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.