Active Defense

by Lynette Eason

  “Have you narrowed down the possibilities of who this stalker might be? Who the shooter could be?”

  Oh, she’d thought about it all right. “Two people come to mind.”

  “Two? Who?”

  “The first one is Jeffrey Steadman. We shared a foster home for three years. That was my fifth—and longest—placement.”

  “Okay. Why him?”

  She’d been ten when she’d entered the system and fifteen when she’d landed in the Steadman household. Jeffrey had been seventeen and the local high school football star. He’d taught her how fun it could be to spend lazy summer days fishing in the local lake and to love Friday night high school football.

  He’d also flirted with her from the moment she’d moved into the room above the garage to the day he’d left for college a year later. Fortunately, he’d never pushed the flirting too far, but then, she’d never encouraged him to. “He showed up at the hospital a few weeks ago and we had lunch in between surgeries. He asked me out, said he wanted to get to know me as an adult. I told him thanks, but no thanks.”

  “How did he take that?”

  She smiled. A one-sided lift to her lip. “He seemed a little insulted. Wanted to know what was wrong with him. I just explained that I wasn’t interested in dating at the moment and he finally left. I haven’t heard from him since.”

  “I’ll get Caden to look into him.”

  “Caden can’t be everyone’s personal FBI agent. He’s got enough on his plate without me adding to it.”

  Travis’s lips curled into a small smile. “He doesn’t think we’re asking too much of him. This was an attempted murder, after all.”

  “I know, but—”

  “And when Sarah told him what was going on, he insisted on helping. He told us to let him know if we had anything he could go on. A name is something he can work with.”

  “I . . .”

  He snorted. “I know. You don’t like asking for help, but you agreed, remember? Do we need to rehash our earlier conversation?”

  She grimaced. “No, no. I get it. I just don’t have to like it.”

  “I know. Who’s the second person?”

  Before she could answer, Gavin slowed, his brake lights flashing.

  “What is it?” Travis asked.

  She frowned. “What?”

  He tapped his ear. “Talking to Gavin and Asher.”

  For the first time, she noticed the earpiece tucked into his right ear canal. And her nerves settled. They were professionals, and Travis was right. She needed help. It was time to stop running and fight back.

  With the decision made, her heart lightened, and hope penetrated the stress and worry that had gradually robbed her of her peace of mind. For the next couple of minutes, she simply enjoyed the fact that there was a plan. And she wasn’t in this alone.

  “Gavin, you see that?”

  “What?” Heather sat up, tensing once again.

  “Up ahead. There’s a van parked on the side of the road.”

  Travis slammed on the brakes and the seatbelt cut into the bruise already there. Blinding pain shot through her. She gasped.

  “Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but I don’t like—”

  The explosion rocked his truck and Gavin’s flew into the air.

  “Hold on!” Travis looked over his shoulder and pressed the gas pedal. His truck roared backward.

  Another muffled explosion sent her careening back to Kabul. To Abdul, to the thunderous sound that had rocked the ground beneath her. She blinked the images away as Gavin’s truck came down hard on its side. “Gavin!”

  Heather released her seat belt and scrambled for the door handle when a hard hand came down on her left wrist and jerked her back.

  “Stay put!”

  Her heart pounding in her chest and her temples, Heather obeyed. He was right, she couldn’t get out yet.

  The spurt of gunfire kicked up the dirt in front of Travis’s truck. He shoved her down. The passenger door flew open. Travis fired over her head. The black masked figure grunted and stumbled back. Another one took his place. “Drop it, or she dies!”

  Travis hesitated.

  The attacker jammed the muzzle of his gun against Heather’s head and grabbed her arm in a viselike hold. She yanked against the grip, her heart pounding, adrenaline surging, while Travis held his hands where the man could see them. “Don’t hurt her.”

  “Then don’t do anything stupid.” He gave Heather a hard jerk and she tumbled from the truck.

  “Hurry up!”

  The shout came from behind her.

  “Travis!” Heather couldn’t help the terrified cry that slipped from her throat.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him dive for her. Someone kicked him in the ribs just as a hood came over her head. Heather let out a scream and threw a blind punch. Her knuckles scraped mask material and then her arms were pinned to her sides.

  “Don’t let them get away!” Travis’s shout was followed by gunfire.

  She was shoved into a seat as more shots rang out. Someone yanked her arms behind her back and bound her hands together. “Stay there. Don’t move if you want to live.”

  The driver gunned the engine and Heather planted her feet to keep from tumbling from the seat. Trembling, panting, trying to drag air into lungs that refused to expand. “Please,” she whispered, “why are you doing this?” This didn’t feel like a stalker situation. Did stalkers work in pairs? Or more?

  Bound and blind, she fought the fear that threatened to send her into a total panic.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  “He shot me, man,” someone said, voice shaky, shocked. “Like for real shot me.”

  “Shut up. We’ll take care of that after we get the girl back to the cabin.”

  Heather froze. Cabin? What cabin?

  “Getting shot wasn’t part of the deal.”

  “Shut your face,” the driver said, “or I’m going to shoot you. For real. I told you there was always a chance for things to go wrong.”

  Silence. The vehicle swerved around a curve. “Please,” Heather said, “just let me go. What do you want?”

  “Right.” The driver grunted. “Like you don’t know. This is what you signed up for, sweetheart, so be quiet and let us do our job.”

  What she signed up for? A shiver racked her. Squelching the terror, she closed her eyes. God, I don’t know why this is happening, but please, please, let Gavin be okay. And please surround me with your protection. Please . . .

  Travis bent, gasping, hands on his knees, weapon in his right hand. The dark Chevy work van had disappeared around the curve and they’d taken Heather with them. They’d taken her.

  Right out from under his nose. Still reeling at the reality, he repeated the license plate over and over, then spun to jog back to the scene, tucking his weapon out of sight.

  Patrol cars squealed to a stop. Travis ran toward Gavin’s truck and saw the man crawling through the window. “You okay?”

  “Yeah!”

  Travis detoured to the nearest cop. “You need to put a BOLO out on a black Chevy van. I got the plate.” He rattled it off. “They just took a woman. Heather Fontaine. Headed east on South Carlisle.” The officer sent the message, finishing up just as an ambulance swung into the area. The sense of urgency at Asher’s truck caught Travis’s attention. Gavin waved the paramedics over and Travis hurried to follow. He grabbed Gavin’s bicep. “What is it?”

  “Asher’s been shot.”

  His brain froze for a split second. “What?”

  “He took a bullet in the side.” Blood dripped from a gash on his forehead. Gavin raked a hand over his chin. “It’s bad.”

  “Oh no.”

  “Yeah.” His eyes sharpened. “Heather?”

  “They got her, Gavin. They got her.” His throat tightened and lungs constricted just saying the words. “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Yeah, I had to cut through the seat belt.”

  A muscle jum
ped in Travis’s jaw. “Glad you’re alive.”

  “Yeah, me too. You get any ID on who took her?”

  Travis described the van and the fact that he’d passed the plate on to the officer. “There’s a BOLO out.”

  “They’ll find her.” Gavin swiped the blood before it could drip into his eye.

  “Of course they will.” He tried to convince himself it was true, battling the statistics flashing in his mind.

  The paramedics loaded Asher onto the gurney, and Travis hurried to his friend’s side. The fact that his eyes were open sent a surge of relief through him. “We’ll be right behind you,” he said.

  “Don’t tell Brooke.” The weak, raspy voice worried Travis.

  Gavin snorted. “Right. She’ll beat you to the hospital and be pacing the hall until you come out of surgery.”

  Asher swallowed and winced. “Tell her . . . it’s . . . not that bad. I’ll . . . be okay.”

  “Just do what the doctors say,” Gavin said.

  Asher groaned and closed his eyes.

  The paramedics loaded him into the ambulance. Travis nudged Gavin. “Come on.”

  “Hospital?”

  “Yeah.” Travis tossed Gavin an old but clean T-shirt. “Press on that wound.” Gavin did while Travis drove. “The cops will track us down at the hospital to get our statements,” he said, “and we can keep up with their progress on finding Heather.”

  “You don’t think we should be out there looking?”

  Travis shot him a sharp look. “Of course that’s my first instinct. I want to be looking, but that would be a lousy use of time and resources. It’s time to use some of those military skills you’ve got that will allow us to work smarter, not harder.”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “Working with the cops is a good start. Seeing if there’s any security footage out here is a hope, but I’m not holding my breath. They picked the perfect spot for an ambush. I’m angry with myself for not studying the area more closely.” He paused. “I was in a hurry to get her out of here. Get her home. I’m wondering what I missed.” The words were bitter on his tongue. But true. And now Heather was paying the cost for his haste.

  “You didn’t miss anything. You know as well as I do that sometimes things are out of our control and just happen, so stop blaming yourself,” Gavin said. “Let’s get to the hospital and pray Asher’s really going to be okay.”

  “Can you call Sarah and get her to come to the hospital with Brooke? Maybe Asher’ll be out of surgery by the time they get here.”

  “Already thought of that.” Gavin snatched his phone and punched in Sarah’s number.

  Travis drove with purpose . . . and a prayer on his lips.

  CHAPTER

  NINE

  Nausea swirled as the beginning of a migraine started to pound over her right eye. Not now, not now. She drew in a ragged breath of stale air. Occasionally, when her blood pressure spiked, a migraine would hit.

  And she had no medication with her. At least they hadn’t taped her mouth shut. She swallowed and held her head as still as possible until the van jerked to a stop.

  A pained cry slipped from her lips. Lights danced under her eyelids—a sure sign that things were going to get worse before they got better. Rough hands pulled her from the van, then the hood from her head. She blinked at the brightness, her pain level ratcheting skyward.

  She retched. “I’m going to puke.” The hands released her. She bent and lost the contents of her stomach.

  “You done?”

  “Migraine,” she whispered. “Don’t have my medication.”

  A pause, then the one behind her to the right gave her a small shove. “Get inside and I’ll find something for you.”

  Heather stumbled up the porch steps, trying to take in as much detail of her surroundings as she could, but her vision kept flickering and all she wanted to do was lie down and close her eyes. But the terror racing through her . . . Oh God, please . . .

  Once inside, the taller man led her to a side room. “There’s a bed in there.” He aimed her at the door, and she bolted for it, wanting him to go away and let her suffer alone—and figure out how she was going to escape with a pounding head, wonky vision, and a churning stomach.

  She eased onto the side of the bed, letting her squinted gaze roam the room. If she hadn’t been a prisoner, she might have enjoyed the decor. A cabin with wood walls, a queen bed with a thick quilt. And an en suite bathroom. All the comforts of home.

  The door opened. She tensed. “Here.” The man still wore his ski mask. Blood crusted the dark jacket at his waist. He tossed a bottle of pills toward her and it landed on the bed next to her. “The best I can do. It’s an over-the-counter migraine medicine.”

  She eyed the bottle, then her captor. Did she dare trust him?

  “I’m not trying to poison you,” he said as though reading her mind. “I think this was a big mistake and want this over with as much as you do.”

  “I doubt that.”

  He snorted. “My wife gets migraines. I keep a bottle of that stuff in the glove compartment. Take it.”

  “All right. I will. Thank you.” Might as well make nice. “I’m a surgeon,” she said. “Let me take a look at that wound.”

  He paused. Seemed to think about it before shaking his head. “It’s fine. If I was going to bleed out, I would have done it by now. I’ll hit a hospital after this is all over.”

  Heather frowned. “I don’t understand why you’re doing this. Who paid you to kidnap me?”

  He snorted on a laugh. “Are you serious?”

  “Of course I am.”

  He hesitated. “Wait a minute. What do you—?”

  “What are you doing?” The gruff voice came from the other man. “No contact with the victim, remember?”

  “She’s got a migraine.”

  “Who cares? You wanna get paid or not? Get in here before you cost us both the rest of our paychecks.”

  The first man backed from the room, his gaze still on Heather. “She can look at this gunshot wound. She’s a surgeon.”

  “I don’t care who she is! Get in here!”

  He shut the door without another word and Heather wilted. For just a moment. Then her eyes went to the bottle once more. She had no clue who could be doing this to her—and from the gist of the conversation, these guys were just the hired help. Someone else was calling the shots. Who? Why?

  She jammed the heels of her palms against her temples. She needed the pounding to stop. More than that, she needed a plan of action. Unfortunately, the pain fogged her thought processes.

  Letting out a low groan, she slipped into the bathroom to wet a washcloth and fill a cup with water. With those items in one hand, she grabbed the roll of toilet paper with the other and returned to the bed. After she set everything on the nightstand, she wrapped toilet paper around the pill bottle to preserve any fingerprints, then opened it to study the contents. They looked legit. She downed three, chasing them with the water. She closed the bottle, stashed it into the front pocket of her jeans, stacked the pillows, and leaned back.

  With the washcloth covering her eyes, Heather allowed herself to relax, forcing her muscles to release their long-held, terror-induced tension.

  But her ears focused on the voices beyond the door. She was desperate to know if Gavin was okay. The image of his truck flying in the air and landing on its side replayed over and over until she forced herself to move on to Asher and Travis.

  Travis. He’d risked his life for her. They all had. Exactly what she’d been afraid would happen. She sent up a silent prayer for all of them even while one big question nagged at her. How had the two in the other room known exactly when and where to hit their little convoy? Had the sheriff said something to someone who passed the information on?

  She forced herself to drift into a semiconscious state—a skill she’d learned to get her through medical school.

  Heather’s next conscious thought was that her head wasn�
��t pounding nearly as hard and the nausea had faded. Her second thought was that no one had bothered her since they’d locked her in the room. She rolled her head, testing it. When no sharp pain returned, she swung her legs over the side of the bed to stand.

  Okay, then. If they weren’t going to tell her what was going on, she had to find out on her own.

  Heather went to the window and looked out. Trees. Nothing but trees. And the setting sun. According to the skyline, it would be dark in about thirty minutes. That meant it was around 5:30 in the evening. She didn’t recognize the area just beyond the window. Which meant she had no idea where she was.

  But they’d driven approximately fifteen to twenty minutes. Maybe slightly longer. It had felt like forever with the migraine and the fear, so she could be off in her estimation.

  She tried the window. Sealed shut, but no bars. Interesting. The nail holes looked fresh, but hope stirred. She could work with this.

  Voices from the den area reached her. A shout. A door slammed. Another shout she couldn’t understand echoed down the hallway. Heather walked to the door and pressed her ear against it.

  “. . . paid . . . did . . . job. I’m not . . . longer. What’s the holdup . . . better be in . . . account . . . set her loose.”

  Well, part of that was clear enough, but she heard only one voice. And it wasn’t the one with the bullet wound. The other captor on the phone?

  Probably.

  “Hey!” The one on the phone hollered to someone, his words now clear. “Did you hear that? Check outside and make sure no one’s snooping around here because they see lights in this place.”

  Heavy, slow footsteps sounded, then faded.

  Heather pressed a hand against her head, praying the pain would stay away. From what little she’d heard, it sounded like they were waiting for the person who’d arranged for the kidnapping to pay them. Which explained why they’d left her alone. They’d done their job. Now they were going to get paid and be on their merry way.

  And if they didn’t get the payment, they’d turn her loose? Right. She wasn’t holding her breath for that one.

  It didn’t matter.

  She didn’t plan on sticking around long enough to find out.