Life Flight

by Lynette Eason

  “Really?” She laughed. “That was almost two years ago. I’ll be honest. I was starting to wonder if you’d ever ask me out on an official date.”

  He laughed. “I was starting to wonder that too. I hate that it took a serial killer to bring us together, but I’m happy with the ending God orchestrated. Thank you for being patient and waiting for me to come to my senses.”

  He kissed her again, this time a lingering, sweet kiss that required a lot of restraint on his part but gave her a hint of the passion he was capable of. When he lifted his head, he was gratified to see her eyes a shade darker than they’d been a moment ago.

  Then she smiled. “You were totally worth the wait.”

  Dear Beloved Readers,

  Thank you so much for joining Holt and Penny on their tumultuous adventure to find a serial killer—and their love for each other. I hope you fell in love with the characters in this new series, and I do hope you’ll be looking for the next installment of Extreme Measures. But until then, here’s a treat for you. I want to encourage you to check out one of my favorite authors on the planet—not just because she is a fabulous person and a great friend, but because she is an amazing storyteller!

  If you haven’t “met” Lynn H. Blackburn, you’re definitely missing out, because once again, she’s crafted a brilliant story in Malicious Intent. Malicious Intent is book 2 of her new series—a series that shows the Secret Service for the true heroes they are. Danger, suspense, and romance are jam-packed into this latest story. What more can a reader ask for?

  I always look forward to reading Lynn’s stories, and you will too, because, trust me, once you start, you won’t be able to stop. Enjoy the ride!

  CHAPTER

  ONE

  The stack of cash on his desk was as close to genuine currency as squeeze cheese was to Brie.

  US Secret Service Special Agent Gil Dixon turned one of the fraudulent twenties over and studied the back. There were a few similarities to the real thing, but not enough to confuse anyone paying attention.

  “Free money?” Special Agent Zane Thacker asked as he passed Gil’s cubicle for his own.

  “Hardly enough to fool with.” Gil glanced back at the file. Two hundred dollars in twenties. Even if the person who deposited it had been trying to do something illegal, no prosecutor would touch the case. It simply wasn’t worth it.

  “Where did it come from?” Zane asked the question, but his tone indicated he was making conversation to pass the time, not because he cared about the answer.

  “Hedera, Inc.”

  Zane’s head appeared over the top of the cubicle wall they shared. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope.

  “Why would she have counterfeit bills?”

  “No idea.”

  “When are you going to see her?”

  “This afternoon. I thought I’d swing by her office first since the cash came from a business deposit.”

  “What’s a company like Hedera doing depositing cash anyway?” Zane’s question was the same one Gil had been pondering since the case hit his desk.

  “Beats me.” Hedera’s accounts should have been almost entirely digital. The deposit had been for a little over two thousand dollars in cash, only two hundred of which were fake bills. “That’s the reason I want to talk to Dr. Collins.”

  One reason, but not the only reason.

  Everyone in the office knew that Hedera, Inc., was owned by Dr. Ivy Collins. But no one knew that Ivy Collins was his Ivy.

  No. Not his anymore. And she hadn’t been in a long time.

  The Ivy from his memory had grown into a delicately boned woman with intense eyes that sparkled from the home page of Hedera, Inc., the company she’d founded four years earlier.

  She’d been his best friend. They’d had their whole life planned. School, college, marriage. It was all so simple. Next to Emily, Gil’s twin sister, Ivy was his favorite person in the world, so it only made sense that he would spend the rest of his life with her.

  It never occurred to either of them that anything could tear them apart . . . until the day she said goodbye and climbed into her mom’s sedan. He scampered up a tree and watched until the car disappeared from view, his nine-year-old heart broken.

  When he saw her again, she was sixteen. He was seventeen. And that summer, she stole his heart.

  And then . . . she was gone.

  He’d thought before about confronting her, but he’d never followed through. What would he say if he ran into her? “Why did you cut me out of your life?” or “What is wrong with you?” or “I missed you.” He had no idea what might fly out of his mouth. Their reunion was fifteen years overdue, but this certainly wasn’t how he’d expected it to happen. Would she be surprised? Did she even know he was in town? Did she ever think of him?

  Not that it mattered. Or it shouldn’t matter.

  Who was he kidding?

  Ivy Collins was the girl who got away. The woman who had haunted him for years. The mystery he needed to solve.

  It was time. He was going to get answers. Today.

  Six hours later, Gil and Zane pulled into an empty Hedera parking lot. Zane waved a hand to indicate the empty spaces. “It’s only four thirty. Why isn’t anyone here?”

  Gil parked in a visitor space and dialed the Hedera number. A recorded feminine voice with the barest hint of a Southern drawl told him Hedera’s business hours were 7:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m. and encouraged him to leave a message, assuring him he would be contacted during normal business hours.

  “These people work seven to four? I wonder if they’re hiring.” Zane glanced at his watch. “What now?”

  Gil wasn’t ready to let this go. Not yet. “Do you have time to swing by her house?”

  “What else do I have to do?” Zane laughed, but there was a bite to his words. Zane was usually a fun guy, but he’d grown somber and withdrawn over the last few months. Most people assumed it was because of the trauma they’d all been through in the spring. Zane had been shot, then he’d lost his car, his home, and almost everything he owned. And if that hadn’t been bad enough, his transition to the protective detail had been delayed indefinitely. All solid reasons for a guy to be in a funk.

  But Luke Powell, another fellow agent, was convinced it had more to do with Zane’s tense relationship with the only female agent in the office, Tessa Reed, and Gil was increasingly sure he was right.

  This wasn’t the time to pry, but the time was coming. For now, he let it go. “She lives about five minutes from here. Let’s see if she’s home.”

  Gil slowed as he approached Ivy’s house but didn’t stop. The house was in an older part of Raleigh, where the lots were large and the subdivision delineations weren’t clear. Two stories. Probably with a basement. Sitting on a wooded acre of land.

  He drove past five more houses, turned around in a driveway, and came back. He pulled into Ivy’s driveway and parked near the walkway to the front porch. Gil and Zane exited the car and walked to the front door.

  Should he warn Zane about his history with Ivy? As far as Zane was concerned, there was no reason to think this would be anything other than a friendly chat.

  If the roles were reversed, he would want to know. He paused on the step. “Zane—”

  Zane reached around him and hit the doorbell. “What?”

  He couldn’t very well start this conversation now. “It’ll keep.” He hoped.

  They waited, but there was no sound of footsteps. Gil stepped to the door and knocked. The door swung open as soon as his knuckles made contact.

  Not normal.

  Was it possible that Ivy had left her front door open? Sure. Was he going to assume that was the case? Absolutely not. Gil pulled his weapon from his hip.

  Zane was already dialing for backup. Good. Better safe than sorry. He put his phone back in his pocket and gave Gil a quick nod.

  Gil pushed the door all the way open. It swung silently. He concentrated all his senses on this new environment. The foyer
was small, with a hexagon-shaped library/office to his left. To his right sat a formal dining room. Both were empty. Straight ahead was a living area with sofas, a large TV, and comfortable chairs. The room was tidy, and there were no apparent signs of a struggle.

  But two distinct and wildly contrasting odors battered his senses. Cinnamon and charred flesh.

  Zane lifted his chin in a quick up and to the left. Gil followed, and they cleared two bedrooms and a small bathroom. Then Gil took the lead, and they prowled through the living area. A door to the left was probably another bedroom. If the house plan made any sense at all, then the archway to the right would lead to the kitchen area, but he couldn’t get a good sense of the space from where he stood. A door opened from somewhere at the back of the house and feet pounded down steps. But someone was moving in the space on the other side of that wall.

  Was a drawer being opened?

  After another quick glance at Zane, Gil swung into the next room. A breakfast nook was on his left with a door that he assumed led to the outside, and on his right was the kitchen.

  Across the large island stood Ivy Collins.

  His Ivy.

  It was as if no time had passed. No years of silence. Something strong and true pulled him to her. His body tried to close the gap between them, but his mind resisted. Years of training forced Gil to scan the room.

  “Hold here.” Zane’s voice vibrated with rage as his footsteps retreated. “I’ll clear the bedroom.”

  Blood ran down her right temple and trickled from puffy lips. Her sweater was ripped and hung off one shoulder, revealing a nasty burn. Something was very wrong with her right hand, but Gil couldn’t focus on that, because in her left hand, she held a gun.

  Before he could tell her that he was there to help, she pulled the trigger.

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The man’s body jerked backward. He crashed into the wall and slid down, landing hard.

  His right hand reached toward his left shoulder, a reflexive action as he tried to stop the blood gushing from the gunshot wound. Self-preservation appeared to overrule all other instincts, including the one he should have called up—the instinct to flee.

  Because if he thought he was in danger from her and her weapon, he clearly didn’t have a clue how lethal the man who now stood in front of him was.

  Ivy wasn’t sure how she knew, but she knew. Gil could kill him. He might even want to. For that matter, she might want him to. She shouldn’t, but in that moment, she couldn’t dredge up any sympathy for the injured man.

  Father, forgive me.

  Gil kept his gaze focused on the bleeding man on the floor, but he didn’t rush to offer aid or arrest him.

  “Zane?” Gil spoke in a conversational tone, like he was going to ask if he could grab him a drink or something. “We’re clear in here.”

  A man eased out of her den and into the kitchen area. “You okay?” The man Gil had called Zane did a top-to-toe scan of Gil, then repeated the process on her. His mouth tight, his eyes burning with fury as his gaze paused at her arm, her hand. “Get her. I’ll get him.”

  Gil didn’t turn his back on the man on the floor. He backed away. Every step brought him closer to her but kept him where he could rush to Zane’s aid if it became necessary. Zane patted the man down, removed two guns—one from a shoulder holster, one from his ankle—then dashed to her hall bathroom. He returned seconds later with two bath towels. He tossed one to Gil. The other he tossed to the man on the floor.

  Zane knelt before the bleeding man and applied pressure to the wound. When the man tried to jerk away, Zane’s voice rumbled with disgust. “I’m trying to help you. I don’t care one way or the other, but it’s more paperwork for me if you die.”

  Ivy heard all this, but it couldn’t hold her attention. She was keenly aware of Gil, moving in slow motion in her direction. Once Zane had the man fully under control, Gil didn’t hesitate to come to her.

  “Gil.” His name came out rough. She tried to clear her throat, but her mouth was completely dry. What else could she say? Nothing would make this less awkward.

  “Buttercup.”

  At the long-unheard nickname, spoken with unfathomable tenderness, Ivy forgot she hadn’t spoken to Gil Dixon in fifteen years. Her feet moved. She tried to reach for him, but her arms refused to cooperate. She slammed into him, chest to chest, and his arms caught her. “Gil.”

  “I’ve got you, Buttercup.”

  He was so strong. Solid. And for the first time since her ordeal had begun an hour earlier, she felt safe.

  Five interminable hours later, Ivy stared at the clothing the nurse held out to her. “Where did that come from?”

  Her nurse, Juliet, ignored the question. “You’re cleared to leave. Would you like some help with the shirt?”

  Ivy followed the nurse’s gaze. Her right hand throbbed with every beat of her heart. Her ring finger and pinky were broken. The doctor said they should heal fine, with no loss of mobility.

  Her right thumb sported two burns, courtesy of a cigarette. One on the tip, one at the base. The thumb contained numerous nerve endings. She knew that better than most. But she’d never experienced each and every one of them screaming in distress at the same time.

  Neither the cut on her temple or her lip had required stitches, but that didn’t mean her entire face didn’t hurt. Her head throbbed. And then there was the nasty burn on her right shoulder. It had come not from a cigarette but from a very hot object that bore a disturbing resemblance to a curling iron but had never been used for anything so gentle. Will I ever be able to curl my hair again?

  If they’d wanted to hurt her, those morons who tortured her would have threatened to shave her head. Facing that possibility, she might have at least considered giving them what they wanted. It was a small mercy, still having her hair. But in this moment, she would take it.

  They weren’t big on mirrors in this emergency department. Probably so people wouldn’t freak out when they got a good look at themselves after a trauma. But she could imagine the state she was in. When they fried her shoulder, a few strands of her hair were singed. She couldn’t see the damage, but the stench of burnt hair was unmistakable and inescapable. She caught a whiff every time she moved.

  And there was no way she didn’t have mascara and eyeliner tracks on her cheeks. She had tried hard not to cry. But when the big guy ripped her shirt, leaving her exposed and trembling, already aching from the broken fingers and burned thumb and two times he’d backhanded her, she expected the worst.

  There’d been no time to mentally prepare herself to be toasted like a marshmallow. Great. No more s’mores for me.

  Juliet tilted her head to one side. “Ma’am. Do you want some help getting dressed?”

  “No. I can get it. But where did my clothes come from?” They were definitely her clothes. Black yoga pants and a butter-soft T-shirt. Socks. Tennis shoes. A light sweater. And . . . other things. Someone had brought these clothes to the hospital for her. Was it Gil? As much as she wanted to know where Gil was and why he had walked back into her life, today of all days, she couldn’t stop the blush at the thought of Gil Dixon going through her underwear drawer.

  Not because of the clothes—although that was cringeworthy—but because of the picture, framed and set in a place where she could see it every day. If he’d been in her room, there was no way he could’ve missed it.

  “I don’t know, hon. The unit secretary brought them to me.” Juliet turned to the door. “I’ll check on you in a few minutes, and we’ll get you out of here.”

  Ivy waited for the door to close before she took the clothes into the tiny bathroom. She wouldn’t risk changing in the main room, where any minute someone could walk in on her. She’d shown more than enough skin tonight.

  She pulled the tie, curly from an untold number of washings, at the neck of the hospital gown, slipped off the gown, and reached for her clothing. She could figure out how to get her clothes on without the use o
f two fingers and a thumb. She was an engineer, for crying out loud. Thank goodness those idiots hadn’t had the sense to look at her hands, pay attention to the calluses, and discern that she was a leftie.

  Ten minutes later, she leaned against the doorframe, proud and exhausted. She’d done it. Now she faced a new dilemma. She’d arrived in an ambulance. An ambulance Gil insisted she ride in after she almost passed out in the kitchen moments after he arrived. The paramedics said it was due to a combination of shock and excruciating pain from the burns, but it was still embarrassing. After she swooned—unfortunately, there was no other word for it—Gil refused to let anyone ask more than the most basic questions.

  “What did they want?” Access to her computer at work.

  “Why?” No clue.

  “Have you ever seen them before?” Never.

  “How did they get into your house?” She didn’t know. She’d been in the kitchen, removing her leftover pad Thai from last night’s dinner with her ex-boyfriend (a fact she left out of her narrative) from the microwave. She turned, and they were there.

  “You didn’t hear them?” No. They could have rolled through her house in a tank, and she wouldn’t have heard them. She had her AirPods in her ears. She skirted over the fact that she’d been singing and saw no reason to mention that she’d also been dancing or that she’d spun around and landed in the arms of the man who later tried to barbecue her shoulder.

  At that point, Gil intervened. “Enough. She needs medical attention.” He glared at the police officer questioning her. The police officer glared back.

  Gil didn’t flinch. His look was cold. Hard. Furious. “Dr. Collins is a prominent member of the community. Her home is here. Her business is here. She isn’t going anywhere. She’ll be available to answer questions later.”

  He wasn’t wrong. But how did he know all this about her? And why was he here in the first place? Armed? With a partner? She had so many questions.

  “Right now, she’s going to the hospital.” Gil spoke with a finality that brooked no argument.