Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 99132 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 496(@200wpm)___ 397(@250wpm)___ 330(@300wpm)
Tim dropped instantly, his body folding like a paper doll, blood arcing against the concrete wall.
He hit the floor face-first and couldn’t move.
Buster let out a sharp, high-pitched whine.
Then the darkness took him. Where was the wind now?
Abigail Caine stared out at the blustery rain from her seat in Wayne’s truck.
More damn rain. Washington had a way of pressing the damp into human bones. The narrow road twisted through the dense forest, flanked by towering pines that loomed like silent sentinels, always watching, never judging. She rather liked them for that.
The storm beat fully now as they drove away from picking up pizzas to take back to the Fish and Wildlife offices for lunch. Most of the officers, including Wayne, hadn’t slept. But Viv was nowhere to be found. Abigail should probably do something about that, but she couldn’t decide what.
The truck’s headlights carved twin tunnels through the murky day, and Wayne—sweet, predictable Wayne—hummed some tough guy country song.
She folded her arms, watching the rivulets of water chase each other down the window.
Rain covered everything. Mistakes. Blood. Tracks. It was practically a gift.
He thought she needed protecting. From what, exactly? Consequences? Other people? Herself ? She had survived more dangerous things than lovestruck federal agents. She’d orchestrated them.
Wayne existed in a world of rules and rightness, of protect-and-serve delusions and tender affections he hadn’t realized he’d aimed at a weapon. It would be almost sweet if it weren’t so insufferably naive.
She had plans. Big, sharp, elegant plans, and every moment he hovered, every time he reached for her elbow like she might fall apart, he became a liability. Even though she had no intention of actually going to trial next week, it was good to keep him around. Just in case. She glanced at him, smiling faintly.
He looked like a tough bulldog. Strong muscles, wide face, fairly handsome. Plus, he was unusually good in bed, which had saved his life more than once. Not that she had a decent reason to kill him.
“You know,” Wayne began, his voice gentle, “I think it’s so nice of you to help with the search. You’re a kind one, Abby. After all this is over, after we find that girl, the sniper after your sister, and you survive your trial, let’s go away together. Somewhere warm.”
Abigail forced a smile, turning to face him. “That sounds lovely,” she lied.
“I’m close to finding the sniper. Very.”
Abigail perked up. “How so?”
Before Wayne could respond, the world erupted into chaos.
A battered pickup truck, its rusted frame barely holding together, burst from a concealed side path. The driver, face obscured by a blue ski mask, showed no hesitation. The battered old truck slammed into Wayne’s truck with bone-jarring force, sending it skidding off the road and into the dense underbrush.
The impact was disorienting. Abigail’s head struck the window, and a sharp pain blossomed at her temple. Wayne reacted instinctively, his training kicking in. He reached for his sidearm, a Glock 22, standard FBI issue, and shouted, “Abigail, stay down!”
But she was already moving, opening her door and stumbling out toward the trees. They were sitting ducks in the mangled truck. The world around her had narrowed to a singular focus. She needed to neutralize threats. Fear was a foreign concept, and only cold calculation remained.
The assailant emerged from the truck, a figure clad in jeans and a flannel shirt, moving gracefully. Without hesitation, he raised a handgun toward them. The muted thuds of suppressed gunfire punctuated the air as bullets tore through the foliage.
Wayne returned fire, his shots echoing loudly through the trees. He moved to shield Abigail, placing his body between her and the attacker. “We need cover,” he hissed.
She didn’t argue. At least the stormy weather darkened the day. Her hair matted against her head and she swiped it off her face.
They ran, boots slamming through moss and fallen needles, weaving through trees slick with rain. The forest was thick, uneven, full of shadows and potential cover, but the shooter, calm and relentless, was gaining ground. Abigail didn’t need to see his face to read his control. He moved like someone used to hunting prey.
A bullet smacked into the trunk of a tree just inches from her head, bark exploding against her cheek. She didn’t flinch but adjusted her path and kept going.
Wayne grunted behind her, stumbling, then recovering. She glanced back. He was still moving, still firing in bursts, but there was blood now. Dark and spreading across his chest. A hit. Likely not a kill shot yet, but enough to slow him. Maybe enough to end him.
They crashed through a thicket of fern and low pine, and Wayne faltered. This time, he didn’t recover. He dropped to one knee, then the other, his gun slipping from his grasp into the wet brush.
Abigail turned.
Her heart didn’t race. Her breath didn’t catch.