Authors: Vicki Hinze
Moving stealthily, Parker crept farther to the left, stop
ping near the center of the house,
still
protected by the tall
grass. The crunching of it under their feet sounded like cannons firing. Caron broke into a cold sweat.
“Stay here,” Parker whispered.
Caron grabbed his sleeve and held on until he looked
back. “What are you going to do?” She inched forward and prayed for her pulse to level out.
“Try to see how many are inside.” Parker patted her knee. “Stay down.”
He stole out of the tall grass onto the lawn. Behind a giant spike-leafed laropia, he sprang from the crouch to a bend and sprinted from bush to bush toward the house.
Flattening himself against the outer wall, he pulled out his
gun.
Sunlight glinted on its shiny barrel.
Caron cringed. He might have to use it. Her pulse was pounding in her ears, and her knees were shaking. Too weak to hold the crouch any longer, she dropped to her knees on the ground—and heard the hiss, and the god-awful rattle she’d so feared hearing.
Not now. Oh, God,
not now!
Slowly she turned her head...and saw the snake. About
three yards from her, it was already raised, poised to strike. The sweat soaking her body became cold chills. Her every instinct warned her to run. Darting her gaze, she looked for
Parker. But he was nowhere in sight.
The snake didn’t move. Neither did Caron. She forced
her breathing to slow to shallow puffs that barely lifted her chest. Her instincts urged, then insisted that she move. She fought them, and stayed put. Sweat trickled down her back, down her neck and pooled at the front clasp of her bra. Her
nerves wire-thin, she stared, terrified. Mesmerized.
The snake dropped down, slithered across a white rock, then on across the bed of mown grass. When Caron saw how large it was, she nearly fainted. Over four feet long.
Something moved to her right. She gasped.
“Shh!” Parker motioned for her to follow.
On hands and knees, they crawled through the prickly brush to the back of the house. Caron saw the shed. The
gray slats were as weathered as the rest of the fishing camp,
with one exception. A new brass lock hung from a clasp on
the door.
A hot rush of tears surged to her eyes. Relief warred with
the fear locked in her heart. It was all she could do not to
run blindly to it and break down the door.
They inched around to the back wall, and Parker stood
up. “Is she in there?”
Caron rose to her feet; her legs were unsteady. Her chest
was heaving as if she’d just run fifty miles. “Yes. I know
she is. But I can’t see her.”
He hiked his arm and wiped the sweat from his face. Dirt
smudged his cheekbone and streaked from his chin to his ear. “There’s only one window, and it’s facing the house. I couldn’t tell how many people were inside.”
Parker lowered his black bag to the ground. “I saw one man cooking something in the kitchen. But the TV was so loud, I couldn’t hear if there was anyone else in
there.”
Caron was coming unstrung; her gaze was wild. If she was thinking about Sarah half as much as he was, she
couldn’t handle any more pressure. Parker didn’t dare to
tell her about the gun the man had set on the counter. Or about the poison the bastard was sprinkling on a plate of
spaghetti.
Until the moment he’d seen that with his own eyes, he hadn’t been sure they’d find Misty in the shed. He honestly hadn’t been sure she’d been abducted and was in danger. He’d believed that Caron believed it, but until that mo
ment, Parker himself hadn’t been one hundred percent sure.
Now he was coldly certain. The man meant to kill Misty.
And if they tried to stop him and gave him half a chance,
he would kill them, too.
Caron gasped for air. Sweat was still rolling down between her breasts. It was muggy-hot, humid. Her lungs protested every indrawn breath as if she were asking them to inhale steam. A heavy-duty adrenaline surge multiplied
the effect. “Can we break the lock?”
“Can’t risk the noise.” Parker wiped at the sheen on his brow. “It’s too thick. I don’t have the right cutting tools for
it, or the hasp. I’d have to bust it, and it faces the house. We’d be caught before—”
“How are we going to get in?” Caron touched the wall of the shed. Her strength seemed to flow right out of her body, and she crumpled to her knees in the dirt. “She’s here.” Breathlessness invaded, that same sensation she’d suffered just after entering the Rue de Bourbon bar. Caron darted a wild
look up at Parker. “We have to hurry.”
“We can’t.” Parker grabbed Caron’s hand, swinging it away from the wall of the shed. “Stopp it, Caron. You’re not going to risk getting killed. The guy inside has a gun. We don’t know yet what we’re up against.”
“But Misty—”
“If we die, who’ll help Misty then?”
Parker was right. Her belly full of frustration, Caron clenched her jaw. “I want to see her.”
“The window faces the house.”
When she showed no signs of relenting, he gave in.
“Okay, I’ll cover you.”
Caron inched to the corner of the shed and scanned the area. A butterfly flew from a potted geranium toward the tall grass. A frog croaked. Nothing else moved, and the back of the house was silent. She inched up the wall, hidden from view from the back door and from all but one
window in the house. At the front corner, she paused again.
Parker’s fingers brushed hers. She looked back, and he
nodded. She made the corner and tiptoed at the dusty window to see over the ledge. It was shadowy inside, streaked with light coming from between the slats. Her heart in her
throat, Caron cupped her hands to shield her eyes and
pressed her nose against the dirty window.
And there, sprawled on the floor, lay Misty. So still. So
very still.
Caron whimpered and tapped a fingernail against the
glass.
Misty didn’t move.
She was too late. Too late. She’d taken too long, made too many mistakes finding the right road. Misty
was
like
Sarah; she, too, had paid the ultimate price for Caron’s
mistakes. Her heart crumbling, Caron let out a guttural
moan and screamed silently.
Sarah!
Her fingernails scraped the glass, making a screeching sound.
Not again! Dear God, please, not again/
Inside, Misty lifted her head. Her hair dragging on the
dirt floor, she looked up at Caron.
She was alive!
Parker jerked Caron’s arm.
When she slammed against him, he half tugged, half
carried her to the back of the shed, moved on around to the
other side, then pinned her behind him.
“She’s alive, Parker,” Caron whispered raggedly. Tears
streaking down her face, dirt smudging her nose, she
slumped against him bonelessly. “She’s alive.”
Parker squeezed her close and, over her shoulder,
watched the house. The man he’d seen through the window came to the back door, looked around, then disap
peared back into the shadows inside.
“Take this, and keep an eye out.” Parker thrust the gun
into her hand. “Anybody comes out, shoot. Anybody.”
He bent down and tested the strength of the wooden
slats. Finding one that suited him, he jerked. The nails
holding the wall in place groaned and popped the slat loose.
He jerked again to free it.
Caron craned her neck and checked at the corner. A
robin flew from one oak to another stirring its branches.
Nothing else moved.
A loud crack rent the air, and she spun around. Parker
held the ripped-out slat in his hand. Blood trickled from his knuckles. Seeing it, knowing it was his, made her stomach
flip. She checked the house. No one was coming.
“It’s just a scrape.” Parker set the board on the ground. He looked into the shed through the thin hole in the wall,
then stepped back and nodded. “You’re smaller. Go on. Get Misty.”
Caron passed him the gun and wedged herself into the
tight hole. The rough wood scraped her back and chest raw.
Splinters pushed through her skin like hot spikes. She
couldn’t move. “Parker,” she whispered. “I’m stuck.”
There was a rustling sound, and then his feet were against
her hip. He pushed hard, and she broke through, stumbled, and crashed into the far wall.
Lawn tools fell. Metal clanged against metal. Some
thing sharp cut into her shoulder, burning like fire. Shears.
Caron swallowed a scream of pain and threw them onto the
floor. “A scrape. Just a scrape.”
Time had just run out.
A gun shot split the air.
Parker?
Caron’s heart seemed to stop. No. No, it couldn’t be him. They’d come too far, gone through too much.
She needed him!
Misty whimpered, and twisted on the floor.
Caron scrambled over lawn tools to get to her. “Come on, honey.” Praying Parker was all right, she scooped the
girl into her arms. “You’re going home.”
“My leg hurts.”
Fighting tears, Caron looked down into the dull eyes
looking up at her. Misty’s heated body told Caron the child
desperately needed a doctor. “I know, honey. Just hang on.
Straightening from a bend, Caron grunted—and saw a
long shadow fall across the floor.
She held Misty tighter and looked up. A man she didn’t know filled the doorway. And in his hand he held a long black gun that was pointed directly at her face.
The protective vest was useless.
Looking down the empty black hole of the barrel, Caron’s thoughts whirled. Staggeringly strong empathy pains for Misty assaulted her. Images of Sarah flashed horror scenes through her mind. And a cold fear that Parker had been shot crushed her heart and turned her blood to ice.
The gun didn’t waver. Caron couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. She looked into the man’s eyes. Cold. Indifferent. Uncaring. He was going to kill them. Stark terror settled over her like a shroud. Where in God’s name was
Parker?
Parker kept the Colt trained on the center of the man’s
back. His trigger finger itched, but...
In the second after
he fired, the man could shoot, and he couldn’t risk Caron
or Misty taking a bullet. When adrenaline was pumping this
hard, reaction times were blazingly fast.
Knowing Caron was inside, that the man held a gun on
her, enraged and terrified him. The snapping of a twig, the crunching of dry grass, and the man would hear. And Car
on or Misty could die.
The plate of poisoned food lay scattered on the ground
in the clearing. Parker eased past it. He was out in the open,
an easy target, and Harlan’s voice was buzzing so loudly
inside his head that he could barely hear his own thoughts. Caron’s face kept swimming before his eyes.
Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped down his face. He
didn’t dare wipe it away, didn’t dare make any movement that could distract him, even for a split second. Inching forward, he stepped into a huge red stain on the grass. A fist-size rock lay there, covered with dried blood. Strands
of blond hair clung to it and blew in the light wind. His
stomach muscles clenched, and bile rose in his throat. In his
mind, Harlan screamed Sarah’s name.
No, Parker told himself. No, it wasn’t Sarah’s. It was Linda Forrester’s blood. Caron had been right; Misty had
seen the killing.
He heard the hammer of the man’s gun click, heard his
voice. Why didn’t Caron scream?
Parker grabbed the rock. He forced himself to mentally count down as he moved. Five, four, three, two—then he
threw it at the man.
It clipped his gun arm. The man spun, and his gun went
off.
Parker rushed him.
Caron watched Parker barrel into the man’s back. The gun flew from his hand. A tangle of legs and arms and flying fists, they blocked her path. Gritting her teeth against the pain in her shoulder, she stepped back, deep into the shed, and shielded Misty against the wall. The noises had
her half-crazy—groans and grunts as dizzying punches were
thrown and received. Horrible hollow sounds, fists meeting flesh, bone splintering—the sounds of men locked in
mortal combat.