by Kylie Brant
“The fuck . . .” Teeter roused and grabbed at the weapon in his lap.
Forrester jammed the barrel of his weapon against Dylan’s temple. “I’ve got a gun at the boy’s head. Raise that weapon and I blow it off.”
T stilled. “You okay, Dylan?”
But Dylan was unable to answer. His worst nightmare had sprung to life. The specter that had haunted him for years. And he didn’t see any escape.
“You’ve got three seconds.”
There was a moment’s pause before something clattered to the floor. Forrester took two quick steps and scooped up the gun. “Now, on your knees. Hands behind your head.” When the man obeyed, Forrester struck him across the face with the weapon. “Let’s see who we have here. Because from the sound of your voice, you aren’t the old-maid aunt Tina said she left her kid with.”
The man’s words pierced Dylan’s horror. His mom said that? That meant—oh, Jesus, no. Forrester had his mom. A vise in his chest squeezed his heart so tightly, Dylan could barely breathe. Was his mom still alive? Or had Forrester killed her after she told him where they were?
A small light shone as Forrester held up his phone. “The fuck—Teeter? What the hell are you doing here? Let me guess.” Dylan shuddered when the man’s voice went menacing. “That looks like my truck in the garage, isn’t it?” He pulled his leg back and kicked the man viciously. Once. Twice. Again. “Thieving bastard.”
“You went off and left it.” Teeter curled up in a ball to protect himself, his voice little more than a whimper. “It wasn’t doing no good to no one just sitting there.”
“Like that’s an excuse.” The man stilled. “Bet you’re the one who killed them kids that got blamed on me too. Son of a bitch.” He raised his foot again, but this time Teeter grabbed it.
Dylan acted on instinct then, rising to his knees and throwing his body against Forrester, driving him off-balance. He landed with a crash, and both Dylan and Teeter dove toward the man’s weapon. Then stilled an instant later when Forrester broke free of them and aimed the gun at Teeter.
“I’d have killed you anyway, but this . . . this will be a pleasure.” The sound of the shot was deafening in the small home. Forrester pulled Dylan off the floor and pushed him toward the man. “Get his keys. Hurry.”
Dylan’s fingers fumbled as he obeyed. “T,” he whispered as he drew the key ring from his pocket. The wet gurgles coming from the man nearly made him weep. Had Forrester killed him? “Hang on, you hear?”
Forrester grabbed his hood and yanked him to his feet, snatching the keys out of his hands. “Pick up that twine on the floor.” The light on his phone lit up the pieces Dylan had discarded. “Bring it with you.”
He gathered it up, then was grabbed again and hauled toward the door. “Now that I have my truck back, we’ll drive that. Just have to back up and grab my cargo out of the car’s trunk.” The ugly laugh he gave sent fear streaking down Dylan’s back. They went to the garage, and Forrester opened the door to the truck. “Climb in and over. Pull anything and I’ll put a bullet in your spine.”
Dylan scrambled into the truck, terror making it impossible to think. Forrester followed him in and started the vehicle. Put it into reverse. He was going to nudge the doors the rest of the way open with the vehicle, Dylan realized. He grabbed his seat belt to fasten it.
But before the pickup had moved more than a few inches, one of the garage doors opened wider. Dylan’s heart leaped. A black-clad person sidled inside. Was it the marshal? His fingers were already scrabbling to release the seat belt. This might be his one chance to get away. If he could open the passenger door and roll out . . .
But Forrester had seen the figure too. He ducked, rolled down the window, and stuck his gun through it. The stranger dove out the door. Forrester fired, the sound of the shot echoing and reechoing in the small building. Dylan froze, straining to see the stranger in the darkness.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” The man beside him cursed. Shifted gears.
Through the rearview mirror, Dylan could see more people running toward the garage. It was the cops. It had to be. A desperate spear of hope had him reaching for the handle to his door just as Forrester stomped on the accelerator. The truck lurched forward, bursting through the back of the run-down garage and jolting over the yard beyond. When they came to a road, Forrester yanked the wheel, and they sailed over the curb onto the blacktop.
Dylan gave one last look in the window behind him, hope dying a quick and brutal death. He’d barely had a chance to register that a rescue had been in progress before they were speeding away from it.
Away from any possibility of getting out of this alive.
Chapter 85
“Medics are on the scene,” Deputy Walls reported via the radio. “We found a woman in the trunk, unconscious and badly beaten. The man inside the home is alive but has already lost a lot of blood. They’re both being taken to the hospital in Morganton.”
Cady lowered the radio transmitter long enough to throw another concerned glance toward Miguel in the darkened back seat. Ryder was burning up the blacktop, strobe flashing, with the rest of the task force following closely. She’d given the aerial assist pilot their location, and the chopper was on its way. “I still think you should have waited for the medics.”
“I’m fine.” Miguel’s terse answer had her facing forward again. Cady knew from experience what the other man was going through. The bullet had gone through the garage door before it’d hit him, and the vest had provided protection. But even so, the impact was significant. He had no broken ribs, but at the very least, he was going to have a helluva bruise.
Guilt niggled. She was the one who’d sent him through the garage to see if the entrance to the house was open. If it were, the flashbang would have been fired through it rather than through the front window, where it could have hit any of the people inside.
Because the emotion was useless, she pushed it aside. He wouldn’t thank her for it. And they all knew what the job entailed.
“For an old truck, it can really move.” Ryder’s gaze was trained on the vehicle’s rear lights that winked in the distance.
“Forrester’s a mechanic. He probably worked on it. I’m not familiar with this area. Where do you think he’s headed?”
“We’re on 80 now, which will turn into the Blue Ridge Parkway if he doesn’t turn off.”
“That runs clear up to Mount Mitchell State Park.” Miguel was heard from the back seat.
Cady reached for the radio again to alert the Yancey County sheriff’s office. She couldn’t predict Forrester’s actions. But she was guessing he was hoping to lose them in the heavily wooded area of Mount Mitchell State Park. It was time to summon the rest of the task force.
Adrenaline rapped hard in her chest. It’d do no good to wonder what was going on between Forrester and Dylan right now. As long as the truck was moving, the boy was probably safe.
It was when it stopped that they needed to worry.
Chapter 86
Dylan ducked, but Forrester’s backhanded fist grazed his jaw. Rattled his teeth.
“I’m gonna ask once more before I start shooting pieces off you. Where’s the fucking key? The one you took out of the backpack when you little fuckers grabbed it in the woods that night. Your mom didn’t have it. Said it used to be in a bank in your bedroom. But the bank’s gone.”
Dylan wiggled his jaw, his thoughts racing like frantic little ants as an image flashed across his mind. Trev handing him something in the log. He hadn’t been sure if it was a memory or his imagination. But there had been a key in the bank. He would have sworn he’d never seen it before the cat broke the bank into pieces.
The man’s fist raised again, and Dylan hugged the door. “It’s in a plastic bag. In my closet.” He flinched when the man swore violently.
“You’re going to pay for every minute you kept me from my money.”
Dylan risked a glance outside. The scenery was still speeding by. The road had gotten twisty, a
nd they were moving much too fast. He’d thought more than once about opening the door and leaping out. Figured he’d kill himself at this speed. Could that be worse than what Forrester had planned for him? He wasn’t sure.
His mind went to his mom. To Uncle T. Dylan had had it all wrong. T was a killer. He still couldn’t wrap his head around it. But the man hadn’t been working for Forrester. And right now T might be lying dead in that house. “Where’s my mom?” he asked. His voice was shakier than he would have liked. “You better not have hurt her.”
“With any luck, she’ll die from the beatdown I gave her. I’m just sad that I didn’t get to see it.”
The breath strangled in Dylan’s lungs. She couldn’t be dead. Couldn’t. After all this time of avoiding Forrester, living on the run, only to have the man do his worst anyway? A dark cloud threatened to form in his mind, blocking rational thought as emotion took over. He punched through it. The only way to discover if Tina was alive was to survive this thing.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. There were headlights in the distance that seemed to keep pace with them. They’d dip away behind hills or around curves but always returned. Maybe it was the cops. The thought didn’t summon as much anticipation as it should have.
He was hoping with everything he had that Forrester hadn’t killed his mom.
Chapter 87
He couldn’t shake the fucking headlights on his tail. Bruce looked in the rearview mirror again. Just when he thought he’d lost the cops, a car would come over the rise of a hill behind him. Its speed told him exactly who was back there.
He pounded the steering wheel with a fist, his mind racing as rapidly as the truck’s engine. Getting back to Asheville and grabbing the key was his priority. With it, he could finally access the hundred grand he’d stashed away in a lockbox in a Charlotte bank. He didn’t dare go back to his storage shed. Or call Loomer. He’d get the cash, go to Atlanta, and take the first flight out of the country.
Were those headlights behind him getting closer? Bruce pressed harder on the accelerator. Having a hostage suddenly seemed more of a liability than a solution out of this mess. He slanted a glance at the kid. Caught him staring at him. He dropped his eyes pretty damn fast, though. He’d already learned exactly what Bruce was capable of.
He could get rid of the boy now, leave his body in the snow on the side of the road, but he might be lying to him about the location of the key. His family was made up of born liars. Better to keep him until he had the key in hand.
He saw the signs for Mount Mitchell State Park flashing by him. It was like he’d driven here on instinct. They’d camped in the park several times when he was a kid, when his dad had kicked the drugs for a time. Bruce had loved the shadows of the forest. He’d known the trails well. Better, maybe, than anyone in the cars chasing him.
Bruce slowed enough to watch for one of the motorcycle roads that wound in and out of the woods. There. He waited until no lights showed in his rearview mirror. Then he jerked the wheel so hard, the boy bounced in his seat high enough to rap his head against the ceiling. He slowed to a stop. Hopefully, he didn’t have to go too far in to be hidden from the passing cars. But there was no way to be certain one of the cops wouldn’t spot the pickup. So he’d have to misdirect them.
“Give me that twine.”
The kid slowly bent to the truck floor and then came up fast, swinging his clasped fists at Bruce’s face. They hit him square in the jaw, and by the time Bruce’s head had cleared, the teen was almost out of the truck. Bruce leaped across the seat and caught him by the hood of his sweatshirt, yanking him off-balance until he fell back into the vehicle. He grabbed his gun and pressed it against the boy’s cheek. “I don’t need you anymore. Don’t push me to kill you now.”
“Like you killed Trev?” The kid’s eyes were wild. Full of hate. Bruce yanked at the boy until he scrambled awkwardly into the truck. Leaned across him to grab the twine.
“Who the fuck is Trev?” He made short work of tying the kid’s wrists together and then took great pleasure in looping the twine around the boy’s neck. Twice.
“My friend. In the woods that night. You killed him. Because you’re a fucking animal!”
Bruce got out of the car. Sank into several inches of snow. Cursing, he rounded the hood and went to the teen’s open door. He tied the free end of the twine to the metal loop on the doorjamb and then slammed the door again. The weapons were heavy in his pockets. He had the one he’d taken off Teeter—the son of a bitch—and Tina’s, as well as his own. He went back to his door and snapped, “Turn your face to the window.” Waited for the boy to obey before slipping one of the weapons onto the floor of the back seat. “I never killed no one in the woods that night, although I sure as hell wanted to. Wishing now I’d killed the both of you when I saw you, though.” He smiled nastily. “Your mom was there that night. Bet you didn’t know that, did you? Maybe she killed your little friend.” He slammed the door and ran back to the road. He jogged up it until the first set of headlights picked him up in its beam. Then he crossed through the ditch and burst into the thick trees. By the time the cops got organized and went to follow him, he’d have doubled back to the truck and headed out again.
He wondered if the marshal was back there in one of those cars. The way things were going, he wouldn’t be able to get to enact any of the half-formed plans she starred in. Survival was his ultimate goal.
But if someone were going to die tonight, it wouldn’t be him.
Chapter 88
Ryder pulled to a stop on the road. Backed up. “Look up that slope there.”
Following the direction he was pointing, Cady saw the tracks he indicated. Ryder left the vehicle running, and they all got out of the Jeep to inspect them in the glow of the headlights. “They look fresh. But where’d he leave the truck?”
“There are lots of little roads that twist in and out of the trees up and down the mountain.” Miguel came to stand beside her. “Some of them would be closed in winter, but not all.”
A car eased to a stop behind the Jeep. Two more of the task-force members got out to join them, bringing their number to seven. Cady left Ryder to update them and stepped away to radio their location to the pilot before rejoining the others. They were donning tactical gear when a couple of sheriff cars pulled up behind them. Cady approached the deputies emerging from the vehicles. “Deputy US Marshal Maddix.”
“Yancey County deputies Everett, Hayes, Jones, and Miller.” The speaker was highlighted in the still strobing light bars. “We’ve brought the winter gear you requested for your crew. You’ll need it. There’re eight inches of snow on the ground, more in some places. Temps in the midteens.”
“I appreciate it. I need two of you to guard the perimeter. The others try to find the pickup the fugitive drove in. Older, dark green. He had a teenage boy with him.” Dylan was still alive. She had to believe that.
After a few moments standing in the stiff winds whipping over the mountain, she felt her teeth begin to chatter. She had a hat and gloves but was more than eager to don some of the winter garb the deputies had brought, even if the boots and coat were two sizes too big.
The rest of the group got dressed, then selected tac lights and weapons from the back of the Jeep.
“Rugged territory,” Miguel observed, pulling on a stocking hat. “There are lots of trails on the mountain. I’ve been up here a few times, but I wouldn’t want to try them at night.”
“He’d have to be familiar with the area to head to even the easier ones,” Deputy Everett said.
“Trails or no, I’m guessing there are plenty of places to hide up here.” Shifting her focus, Cady said, “The aerial assist pilot is fifteen minutes out.”
She throttled back the urgency building inside her. The overriding impulse would be to plunge into the wooded area after Forrester. She was indelibly aware of every minute head start he had on them. And what that time could potentially cost them. But the need for strategy outweighed imp
ulsiveness. She’d establish a search grid before they got started.
And when they did, they’d make good time following the fugitive’s footprints in the snow. But knowing that did nothing to diminish the sense of foreboding spreading in her gut.
Chapter 89
Bruce grabbed a denuded bush to pull himself up the incline. He’d never been here in winter and hadn’t expected this much snow. The work boots he wore weren’t waterproof. The Carhartt jacket was warm enough, and he’d pulled up the hood. Tied it. Good thing he had gloves in the pocket, because he needed them.
The snow would give away his path, but the spruce-fir forest he was walking through provided cover. He’d continue on for a while and then double back, messing up the trail leading to him. That’d gain him some time.
And while the fuckers were trying to figure it out, he’d head back to the pickup. Get rid of the cops they’d surely stationed near the road. Sneak into Asheville and get the key from Bandy’s house. The fake ID he had was the same one with which he’d opened the account in Charlotte. Once he had the key to the safe-deposit box there, he could empty it before driving to Atlanta and hopping a plane.
Formulating the plan kept his mind off the chill creeping through his body.
His foot tripped over something hidden in the snow, and his arms wheeled in an attempt to regain his balance. Gravity won. He fell heavily on one shoulder, sliding halfway down the slope he’d just climbed. He fought to haul in a breath, the cold air slicing at his lungs like a razor. Moments passed before he could struggle to his feet again. He checked to make sure he hadn’t lost the weapon he had tucked into the back of his pants and brushed himself off before attempting the ascent again. The sooner he got back to the road, the better. He wasn’t on a path. He couldn’t even fucking see a path. A guy could break his neck out here in the dark.
His only consolation was that the cops wouldn’t fare any better than him.
