Wanted By The Marshal (American Armor Book 1)

by Ryshia Kennie

  The wood chipped away piece by piece, sliver by sliver. Now she didn’t think of the pain or of the warm trickle that ran down her fingers, and then down her wrists. Vaguely, she knew it was blood. She knew that she was bleeding. It didn’t matter. For she knew now, what she’d only guessed before, there was a window behind the wood covering.

  The possibility of freedom began to appear as she could see vague shapes, enough to figure that she was looking at an alley. Now half of the window was uncovered. It was enough. She ripped her already torn pants off at the knee and wrapped the material around her hand. Her body shook with stress, with anticipation. She took a deep breath and hauled her arm back. She drove her fist through the window with all the strength she had. The glass shattered. She could feel the slick warmth of blood as it ran down her arm. She forced her mind to think of only one thing—escape. With that thought, she yanked out two more pieces of glass, clearing the bottom half of the window enough so that she could get out.

  Freedom.

  Kiera sank to the floor and began untying the rope that bound her ankles. She looked up often, her heart pounding. She feared that her captors would burst in at any moment. They’d punish her for what she’d done—kill her even. It wasn’t a thought she could entertain. She couldn’t think of that. There was no time to speculate.

  Finally, she pulled the last knot free and stood up.

  There was a sense that time was slipping away. There were furtive noises on the other side of the wall, the one to the right of the window she’d just uncovered. She had to go now. And even though she wasn’t a big woman, she knew it would be a tight squeeze. Seconds later, one leg was outside; a breeze ran across her skin and she barely acknowledged that. The jagged edges of glass that she hadn’t been able to clear away ripped the places where her skin was bare. The pain only reminded her to keep going, that she wanted to live.

  The night air was heaven as it sent goose bumps across her exposed flesh. Her heart raced. Her captors could be anywhere. They could be behind her now.

  Kiera flipped over so that she was on her back and didn’t land on her head into the unknown darkness. But, with the majority of her body out, she lost her grip. She landed on a pile of plastic garbage bags that broke her fall. For seconds, she lay there, shocked, terrified and exhilarated all at once.

  Freedom at last.

  Something sharp bit into her side as she struggled to her feet and pain shot through her. Finally, she stood in the darkness shaken and disorientated. She took a breath and then another. And she told herself that if she ever got out of this, if she were truly free, she’d be setting up a safe-ride program for all the workers at the care home.

  A streetlight glimmered in the distance. She limped as fast as she could toward the light, and the possibility of freedom.

  Cheyenne, Wyoming

  One week later

  US MARSHAL TRAVIS JOHNSON knew that he should be looking forward to the low-key case he’d just been presented with, especially after his last assignment. It had been high-octane from beginning to end as they’d cornered a drug lord who had made it through two international borders and numerous state lines. But, the truth was, he loved action and he loved a challenge.

  “I’ve received notice that Kiera Connell was discharged from the hospital yesterday.” The look James Perez, the FBI lead on this case, gave him was grave.

  Travis nodded. He knew the case. He knew that the woman was the only survivor of a serial killer who had terrorized women from coast to coast for well over a year.

  “She’s safe but we’re afraid she might run if she feels otherwise. At this point, no need of twenty-four-seven protection, just a presence that gives her a sense of security. I want you to head the team that will protect her.” James shrugged with a half smile. “I wouldn’t dump this on you, but considering the high-profile status of this case, we need the best protecting her.”

  “No worries,” he said. He wasn’t surprised that James had considered the pressure this might put on him. James was one of the most considerate men he knew. They’d known each other for years, worked together many times, and had eventually become friends who shared many interests including a mutual love of baseball.

  “You read the file?”

  Travis nodded. He’d followed the case over the past year. The file had only sharpened the details.

  “Yeah, I did,” he said with a grimace. It didn’t matter how long he was in law enforcement, or how many cases he saw, the depths of mankind’s depravity could still surprise him. “There appears to be no connection between the witness and killer.”

  “There isn’t, at least that we know. I doubt that will change. From everything the witness said, she’s never seen him before.”

  “That seems to be the usual for this killer. Picks random women,” Travis said grimly. Eleven women had died at this man’s hands and other than the fact that they were female and attractive, there were no other commonalities. They ranged in age from twenty to forty, their ethnic roots as varied as their ages.

  “As you know, she was found here.” James turned his computer around. He pointed it out on the detailed map of one of the most neglected areas of the city. “Five o’clock in the morning, a transit driver on her way to work found her. She called it in immediately and stayed with the victim until police and an ambulance arrived.”

  “A Good Samaritan.”

  “I salute them almost every day on this job,” James said with sincerity.

  Travis couldn’t agree more. The unsung heroes. The civilians who went above and beyond were an invaluable resource that often went unpraised and unnoticed.

  “She was damn lucky,” Travis said. Having her alive and able to ID the killer was a huge break in a case that, as horrific as it was, unfortunately, was titillating. The media had had a field day following the trail of the killer and that news had gained a growing body of followers over the months of the spree. Now those killings were being tied to others hinting that the killer might have been active much longer than authorities had known. That was the dark side of humanity. They loved tragedies and horrors, as long as they had no personal connection to them, of course. He pushed the chair back and stood up. Despite what he’d said, he was anxious to get back into action even if it was as non-challenging as babysitting a potential witness who was no longer in danger. The perp had been put behind bars.

  “She was lucky. She escaped before she could be assaulted or worse. According to what she told authorities, she wasn’t sexually assaulted. She was backhanded a number of times. She has some fairly serious bruising on her left cheek.”

  Travis swore at the thought of it even though he knew that in the scope of things, that assault was minor.

  “Unfortunately, that wasn’t the worst this piece of sludge did to other women. Besides the concussion, she has dozens of wood splinters in her hands—and yet none of that stopped her from getting away.”

  He pushed the file at Travis. “She’s spent more time in the hospital for psychiatric evaluation than anything else.”

  A phone rang.

  Travis looked at the picture on the file as James took the call. The dark-haired beauty who had smiled with lighthearted innocence for the photo was frozen in a moment in time when she couldn’t imagine the nightmare that was to follow. Since the picture was taken, she’d come close to death. The thought made him feel slightly sick.

  “Just a heads-up,” James said as he put the phone aside. “She’s insistent that she return to work as soon as possible.”

  “What?”

  He looked up, shocked that that would even be a consideration after everything she’d been through.

  “I’ve suggested at least a two-to-three-weeks’ wait on that.”

  Travis said nothing. There was nothing to say, for in reality, he had no say. It was up to the FBI. For him it was an assignment, nothing more. The only thing he kne
w was that everything about this case was troubling.

  Her attacker, Eric Solomon, the man now known as a serial killer who had silently hunted, killed and raped women across the country, was behind bars. Something about the emergency call had triggered an instinctive reaction by the detective in charge that night. He’d felt something off and deployed unmarked vehicles without sirens or flashing lights. The victim had been taken to the hospital while officers had converged quietly on the deserted house where the victim claimed she’d been held. The perpetrator had been caught when he’d returned minutes later and had been unprepared for what awaited him. There, the baby-faced man had been surprised by the police presence. He’d turned to run and been caught and arrested on the spot. The evidence had almost been too easy. The victim’s DNA was lodged under his fingernails and strands of her long hair were twisted around his ring finger like a trophy. Once the victim had identified him in a lineup of photos, it was clear that they had their man. He was now awaiting trial.

  “In all my years, I’ve never dealt with this kind of situation,” James said. “The perp is behind bars and the victim is still terrified for her life. She thinks there’s another killer out there.”

  “Could it be a delusion brought on by post-traumatic stress?”

  “We’re definitely considering that possibility. In fact, that is why she was held in the hospital a day or two longer than necessary,” James said. “Right now, as you know, our biggest concern is that she might be saying one thing and planning another. I think her talk of going back to work is only a ploy to let us believe she’s alright. Truth is, I think she’s far from it.”

  James glanced at his phone as it dinged a message and pushed it away. “I’ve never seen a victim escape something as dire as she did in quite the way she did. She has a mind of her own and where that might lead her...” He leaned forward. His blue eyes stood out more than usual against his tan complexion. “I can’t take any chances with this. We need her on the stand. But...” He paused. “This witness appears to have more guts than any I’ve seen before.”

  Travis had to agree with that. For the woman had literally clawed her way out of a closet and broken out through a boarded-up window by crawling through an impossibly small opening. Then, she’d run barefoot down a dark, neglected alley to safety. And when she’d been brought in, James had told him how deadly calm she’d been. There had been no tears or hysterics, only a shaky voice as she’d reported what happened. The tears had come later according to hospital staff but even then, there’d been few. According to the file, and James had confirmed it, she’d been solid in her testimony that would incriminate the perpetrator of one of the worst serial killer rampages the country had seen in recent years. She was a five-star witness and had identified Eric Solomon from a picture lineup presented to her while she was still in the hospital. But there was only one glaring glitch, and it was the fact that she claimed to have heard two voices—both she believed to be men and both with the intent to hurt her. That belief was a glitch that cast a shadow on both her stability and her believability. It was her insistence, with a complete lack of supporting physical evidence, that the killer hadn’t worked alone.

  Chapter Two

  The covers were twisted, some on the bed, some off. The room was still in darkness as Kiera fought with a sheet and finally reached over and flipped on the bedside light. She’d thought she’d heard a sound, something out of the ordinary. Seconds passed. She clutched the sheet as the fridge fan clicked on. The soft whirring seemed loud in the night silence.

  “It’s the fridge,” she muttered as if saying those words would reassure her, as if they would change everything.

  It was her second night back in her own home, in her own bed. It had been over a week since the attack. When she’d been discharged from the hospital, she’d been more than ready to pick up her life where it had left off. Except, that wasn’t the way it was. The condo she called home no longer felt like one. The funky, crafty style she’d created by shopping flea markets and craft sales, the style that had felt so completely her and so homey, felt foreign. She’d been on edge since she’d come home. And a police officer had been assigned to patrol her area. He made a regular pass of her property, checking in often and would continue, the officer had assured her, until a US marshal took over. While she wasn’t under twenty-four-hour surveillance, she was promised a patrol car in her neighborhood and a regular check-in.

  She grabbed the book she was reading and her blanket. After heading to the kitchen to start the coffee maker, she curled up on the couch while it brewed. But the cozy mystery lay unopened on her lap despite the fact that it was one that she’d anxiously been waiting to read. She sat quietly, trying to think of anything but the trauma she’d endured.

  She looked over at the half-grown cat she’d so recently taken in. Her name was Lucy. Both the name and her reason for being here were fate more than choice. She’d taken the cat so one of the residents at the home where she worked wouldn’t lose contact with her pet and would still be able to see her. Now the adolescent cat was curled up on her raspberry-and-blue flowered armchair. Lucy had claimed that chair from the minute she’d been brought home. Kiera stood up and went to sit on the edge of the chair and ran her fingers through Lucy’s soft fur. The cat batted at her hand and curled up tighter, presenting her with her back.

  “You win,” she said with a smile and went back to the couch. But, despite the cat’s rejection, it felt good to have her here, to have another living being sharing her space. In fact, she’d picked the cat up from her friend’s house the minute she’d been discharged from the hospital. But she knew that she needed more than Lucy to move past the trauma. She needed to dive back into the work she loved. Returning to her routine would get rid of the fear and uncertainty that had rooted in the midst of her life like a field of thistles. Even now, she missed her colleagues’ banter and the everyday comings and goings of the care home. The thought of that brought a touch of normalcy to the sense of unreality she’d had since she’d been kidnapped.

  She stood up, paced and then sat down again. She knew that the experts disagreed with that theory. They thought that counseling sessions and rest were the answer. She didn’t need counselors or psychiatrists or any other health professional to talk her into wellness. What she needed, besides her life back, was to know that both her kidnappers were behind bars. That would make her feel so much better than any therapist ever could. But the authorities thought they had her attacker. No one believed that there were two involved in the attack for there was no physical evidence. Instead, the FBI had assigned a team of marshals to protect her. They weren’t here yet, and secretly she felt that they were putting them in place more to ensure that she didn’t skip town than to protect her. It was a feeling based on the way they’d phrased things as they laid their protection plan out to her. Whatever they thought about that—they were wrong.

  It was five minutes to five o’clock.

  The phone rang.

  “It’s a prank,” she muttered. “Someone with a sick sense of humor.” That’s what the police officer had said when she’d told him that she’d gotten two calls early yesterday morning. One a hang up and the second heavy breathing. He hadn’t taken the calls seriously at all. In fact, he’d called the incidents unfortunate and bad timing, following so closely on the heels of all she’d been through.

  Yet, in her heart she didn’t believe any of that. Her gut knew it would happen again and her hand shook as she answered.

  “Hello,” she said and fought to keep the tremor from her voice. “What do you want?”

  She was talking to dead air. They’d hung up just as they’d done yesterday at exactly this time.

  If they followed yesterday morning’s pattern, they’d call again. In exactly ten minutes.

  She hit End and wished that she could hurl the phone across the room.

  She got up, dropping the blanket and the book on
the couch as she went into her bedroom and over to the nightstand. She hesitated a second before opening the drawer. She looked at the gun lying there as if that would somehow make her feel better. The gun had rested in the bottom of her aunt’s purse for forty years, or so the woman who had raised her had claimed. She’d kept the gun after she had died, as a memento, nothing more. She didn’t like guns. And, for the longest time, aside from getting a permit to carry a concealed weapon, she’d kept it in a locked storage box. Despite the promise of police surveillance, being checked in on didn’t feel like it was enough. In her fear, she’d taken the gun out of the locked storage box the day after she left the hospital. Her life had turned on its head. Her aunt had been right, one should always be prepared. If she’d had the gun with her that fateful night, maybe she would never have been taken.

  “Auntie Nan, you may have known what you were talking about,” she said. Her voice was soft, reflective. She looked upward as if somehow, somewhere, her aunt would be listening.

  “Damn it.” She hated this, hated the fact that her life was in shreds and now she was the victim of some idiot. A prank caller on top of everything else was too much. For she knew her freedom would soon be curtailed by personal protection. A man prowling her property night and day was not something she wanted, and not, according to the FBI, anything she could avoid.

  A US marshal was security she didn’t need. They’d soon be here anyway. What she wanted hadn’t seemed to matter in over a week. First the kidnapping and now in its aftermath, the surveillance, protection they liked to call it. Despite their insistence of vigilance, the irony was their reasons for it. They didn’t believe her claims that there was another killer. Instead, they feared that she would run. There was no danger in either option. She wouldn’t run and there was another killer. But Cheyenne wasn’t a place where a serial killer could continue his sick activities and not get caught. It wasn’t a place where he could blend in. It was a small city and that made it difficult to hide. Whoever the second killer was, he’d follow a pattern already established over the last year and head to a larger center where there was more opportunity. She was as sure of that as she was that the second killer existed. She tried to tell herself she was safe, that the fact that only one killer was behind bars, didn’t matter. She tried to tell herself that the killer that authorities insisted didn’t exist, was no threat to her but they would be a threat to another woman in some other town or city in this country. But despite thinking that, she wasn’t so sure that she was safe or, that it was over. She wasn’t a forensic expert or a psychiatrist, but she knew a little about serial killers. She’d met one face-to-face and she’d been in the presence of the other.