Christmas on the Run

by Shirlee McCoy

  “I know there’s a reason you’re worried about it. Want to share?”

  “When Zane’s kindergarten class went on its first field trip, I was freaking out. Jazz had a meeting in New York, and I couldn’t chaperone. He was all I had, and I was terrified he’d wander away or be taken. Jazz bought a phone he could carry in the pocket of his cargo shorts and installed an app that would allow us to track him. We’re both on it. I tossed her phone in the bag when I packed her things for the hospital.” Her voice broke, but her expression didn’t change. She typed something into her phone and smiled grimly. “And there she is.”

  She turned the screen, and he could see the small photos of Zane, Carly and Jazz on a map. She touched the photo of Jazz, and the screen zoomed in on her location. She was moving away from the hospital, heading northwest.

  “Does Brett know she’s on this?” he asked, typing her coordinates into a text and sending it to Chance.

  “Probably not. He’s a little...possessive, and Jazz has a habit of only telling him things that impact him. Otherwise, he likes to make decisions for her, and that drives her nuts.”

  “Sounds like a winner.”

  “Like I said before, I’ve always thought she could do better. I just didn’t know she was with a guy who was capable of something like this. If I had...” She shook her head, frowned. “I think they’re going to my place.”

  He’d been thinking the same, working through the coordinates on the map, the direction they were traveling and where that might lead them. “We’ll drop you off at my place and then head over.”

  “That’s time we can’t afford to waste,” she said calmly. “I’m going with you. I’ll do what you say, stay in the car, hide behind trees, dig a tunnel into the earth and cover myself with snow, but I’m not going to slow down the rescue efforts by letting you bring me to your place.”

  He couldn’t argue with her logic. And he couldn’t come up with a good enough reason to countermand it.

  But he wanted to, because he didn’t want her anywhere near Brett.

  “Sounds like a plan to me.” Boone spoke into the silence. “Sergeant Wright should be close behind us. I’ll ask her to keep her sirens off. I don’t want this guy to have any warning that we’re on the way.”

  “Right,” Dallas said, punching in the sergeant’s phone number and waiting for her to pick up, calculating in his head how much risk was involved in bringing Carly to the house, realizing that any amount of risk seemed like too much.

  He wanted her safe, healthy, happy.

  He wanted her out of danger and far away from anything that could hurt her.

  Boone had accused him of being embarrassed because he was falling for someone. The truth was a little harder for Dallas to swallow and a whole lot more terrifying.

  He wasn’t falling. He’d fallen. Quickly, suddenly, unexpectedly, he’d done the one thing he’d told himself he’d never do again. And the woman he’d fallen for was heading straight into danger.

  He swallowed down panic, tamped down the desire to argue his case, force his will, make Carly do what she didn’t want to.

  But she was right. Forty minutes was a long time when someone’s life was on the line.

  The call went to voice mail, and he left a message, then settled back into his seat and mentally calculated the best route into and out of Carly’s brownstone.

  TWELVE

  Things like this weren’t supposed to happen in broad daylight.

  In every movie Carly had ever seen, every news report she’d ever watched, the bad guys did their deeds in the darkest hours of the night. The heroes ran to the rescue when the sun was down and they had less chance of being seen.

  Reality was a lot different.

  Reality was parking a half mile from the house, watery sunlight filtering through the Jeep’s windows while Dallas and Boone finalized their plan.

  Or tried to.

  “No,” Dallas barked for the fifteen thousandth time.

  At least, it seemed like that when time was ticking and Jazz was alone with a...

  Killer?

  Stalker?

  Lunatic?

  All of the above?

  “You want to get in the back door without him noticing, right? The best way to do that is to have Carly go to the front door. She can call now. Tell Brett that she went to the hospital, heard he’d checked Jazz out. She’s on the way home and wants him to meet her there, so she can see how Jazz is doing. He’ll be waiting for her, watching out the front while you move in through the back. I’ll be near the corner of the house, out of sight, waiting to take action if necessary.”

  “No,” he repeated, but Carly was already dialing.

  To Dallas’s credit, he didn’t try to take the phone. Instead, he just shot daggers from his eyes as the phone rang.

  Brett picked up immediately. Of course.

  “Where are you?” he demanded. “I’ve been waiting for hours.”

  “I ran into some trouble. You know my boss, Michael?”

  “I don’t have time for this, Carly,” he growled. “Where are you?”

  “No need to snap. Michael has been causing me some trouble. He may be responsible for what happened to Jazz.”

  “Where. Are. You?” he asked for the third time, his voice stone cold.

  “I was at the hospital. The nurse told me you’d insisted Jazz be discharged because you didn’t think they were providing the necessary care. Are you at Hopkins? I thought I’d stop by the house and get a few more things for Jazz and then head there. Dallas lent me his car, because my van is at his place and he’s being questioned by the police.”

  “About what?”

  “Like I said, Michael’s been causing me some problems. Dallas has information about it. He’s sharing that with the police. I figured while they worked things out, I’d visit Jazz. Can you think of anything she might need from the house?” Her mouth was dry with fear, her words thick with it.

  “Actually, I stopped by your place to grab a few more things. Great minds, right?” he said, his tone completely changed. He sounded warm and friendly and kind. Everything that he obviously wasn’t.

  Poor Jazz. She’d be devastated when she learned the truth.

  If she didn’t already know it.

  Her fingers tightened on the phone, but she kept her voice light. “Exactly! Should I go straight to Hopkins, then?”

  “No. Come here. Jazz would probably prefer you pack her bag. Are you close? I don’t want to keep her away from the hospital for too long.”

  Lying piece of garbage was on the tip of her tongue. She managed to not say it.

  “Maybe three minutes from the house. How is she? Can I speak with her?”

  “She’s resting. I think she’d rather stay here and forget the hospital.”

  “I can’t say I blame her. Give her my love,” she said, praying that Jazz was alive. That he hadn’t already done something horrible to her.

  “I will.” He disconnected, and she was left holding the phone to her ear, listening to the empty connection and her own pounding heart.

  “Good job,” Dallas said quietly, all the frustration gone from his eyes. All she could see there now was compassion, understanding, worry.

  “A B-list actress could have done better,” she responded, and he smiled.

  “I’m glad to see terror doesn’t chase away your sarcasm. It’s one of the things I like about you.”

  That surprised a laugh out of her. A harsh, rough, ugly laugh, but still a laugh.

  “He’s expecting me in about three minutes. That gives you just enough time to get to the back door. Be careful, okay?”

  “I planned on saying the same thing to you. There should be some kind of police presence here soon. Chance sent me a text saying t
hey’re coming without sirens and lights. If Brett sees or hears them while you’re at the door...”

  He didn’t finish. She knew he was thinking that things could go really bad really fast.

  “I’d rather him not,” he finally said.

  “Then we should probably do this now. Before they arrive.”

  She tried to sound confident and unafraid, but she didn’t think she fooled him.

  He touched her cheek, just a gentle, light brush of his palm that skimmed the angle of her jaw. His hand settled on the side of her neck, his thumb resting in the hollow of her throat. She knew he could feel her pulse racing, feel the rapidness of her breathing.

  “You’re going to do great,” he said calmly, and then he leaned in, brushed her lips with his, the caress as gentle and pure as the first spring rain.

  She wanted to lean into him, linger for a moment longer, but Jazz was alone with a man whose agenda Carly couldn’t even begin to understand, and Dallas was already moving away, climbing out of the Jeep and closing the door. She watched as he walked to the brownstone at the top of her street, rounded the corner of it and headed into the side yard. Seconds later, he’d disappeared from view.

  “Ready?” Boone asked, and she met his eyes, saw a tough determination there that she hadn’t noticed before. He’d seemed like the nice guy of the group. The good old boy. The one who wouldn’t hurt a fly.

  He didn’t seem like that now.

  Now he seemed focused, sharp and capable of just about anything.

  “Yes,” she lied.

  “Okay. You’ll drive to the house, park on the street across from it. You’re not going to see me, but I’ll be around. If anything happens, I guarantee you I’ll protect you,” he said, getting out of the Jeep, opening her door, waiting while she climbed into the driver’s seat.

  He didn’t say another word as he closed it. Just gave her a quick nod.

  Then, like Dallas, he walked away, taking the same path out of sight. She had to trust that both men would be in place before she arrived at the house, that everything they’d discussed would go off without a hitch.

  She put the Jeep into Drive, her hands shaking so hard she wasn’t sure she could navigate the snow-covered road.

  “Please, God,” she whispered out loud, a dozen petitions filling her head.

  She couldn’t put voice to them. They were a soundless, wordless prayer, swirling up from the depth of her soul, filling the empty air and rising to the ears of the One who held every moment in the palm of His hand.

  * * *

  This wasn’t his idea of a good plan, but given the circumstances, it was the best one they had. Dallas waited until his cell phone buzzed, signaling that Carly was heading to the front door. Then he climbed over the fence and moved toward the back door.

  There was no doubt Brett would be at the front of the house, watching for Carly. He’d probably be at the door when she arrived, pushing it open, greeting her with that polished, perfect smile of his. Dallas had pegged the guy as a snotty yuppie who had money and liked to let everyone know it. In the eight days Jazz had been hospitalized, Brett had had flowers delivered five times. The last time Dallas had been in the ICU, the room had smelled like a funeral parlor—dead flowers, musty water and Brett’s overpowering cologne.

  He hadn’t liked the guy, but not liking someone didn’t mean they were a criminal. There’d been nothing concerning in Brett’s background, nothing that had made them stop and take more notice. On paper, he was a well-respected copyright lawyer who lived in a penthouse in New York City. He had an apartment in DC, a black Mercedes and a boat he kept docked at a marina on the Eastern Shore of Maryland.

  Obviously, he had plenty of cash.

  Or wanted people to think he did.

  Money and greed were powerful motivators.

  He reached the back door without a problem, pulled out the glass cutter Boone had taken from his glove compartment. He’d have preferred to use a punch. It was quicker and easier, but also louder. One quick hit and the glass would shatter, warning Brett of his presence. Slicing out enough of the glass to reach the doorknob was a slower way to go, but it was also quieter.

  A soft hoot drifted from the front of the house—a signal that more people were arriving. The local police or more HEART members, probably. It didn’t matter. The plan had been set in motion. He was going to follow through. Doing anything else could get someone killed. Carly should be at the front door by now, talking to Brett, making excuses for not entering the house. Stalling, because that was what she’d been told to do.

  He duct-taped the glass near the lock mechanism and made the first cut, working quickly. He’d done this hundreds of times before, knew he could be in the house in seconds.

  Somewhere to the left, a door opened. Footsteps padded on the snowy grass.

  He spun in the direction of the sound, his gun in hand, the glass forgotten.

  Jazz was there, swaying on her feet, sixteen shades of white. Gaunt and ghostlike and moving toward him in bare feet and a hospital gown. Her lips were blue and her eyes hazy, but she grabbed his arm, motioning for him to be quiet.

  “I saw you from the living room. Would have gotten to you sooner, but that jerk fiancé of mine put something in my juice. Like I wasn’t already loopy enough. Just like always, he’s underestimated me,” she said, her voice like a worn-out violin, the strings frayed, the sound scratchy and uncomfortable.

  “I’m Dallas Morgan. Carly’s—”

  “Brother-in-law. I wasn’t as out of it as everyone thought while I was at the hospital. Just couldn’t get my mouth and body to cooperate. Not that I care who you are. I figure if you’re at the back door while she’s at the front, you’re together. The side door is open. He won’t be able to see you as easily if you go in through there. Carly’s outside on the front stoop, but...” Her voice trailed off, and he wasn’t sure if she’d lost her train of thought, or if she didn’t have the heart to voice her fears.

  They moved around the side of the house, the door into the kitchen wide-open. Boone stood at the corner of the brownstone, his back to them. He didn’t acknowledge their presence, but there was no doubt he knew they were there. His focus was on the front of the house and on following through with his part of the plan.

  “Stay here,” Dallas whispered as they neared the side stoop, but Jazz had already slumped down in a heap of hospital cotton, shivering.

  He shrugged out of his coat and dropped it over her, wanting to do more, but the clock inside his head was ticking, counting off the minutes. Carly had no idea her friend had opened the door for him, no idea she could turn and walk away and leave Brett in the empty house.

  The plan had been for him to open the door, walk in and take Brett down.

  She was expecting to see Dallas, to step away once she did. Quickly, without giving away his presence.

  “What did you do?” a man shouted.

  A woman screamed, the sound cut off as a gunshot broke the morning silence.

  Dallas’s heart jumped, adrenaline speeding through his blood as he stepped through the kitchen and ran for the front door.

  THIRTEEN

  Everything happened at once.

  A police car pulling up the street. Brett seeing it. His eyes going wide and then narrowing. His shout. Boone running around the corner of the house. Metal flashing. The world exploding. Boone falling back, getting up again.

  Carly trying to run, Brett’s hand fisting in her hair, pulling her back and tossing her into the house with so much force she slammed into the wall. A framed photo fell, the glass shattering, and then the front door was swinging open and Boone was running inside.

  Cold metal pressed against Carly’s temple, and she was yanked to her feet. Unsteady and confused, Brett’s arm tight around her waist, she looked straight into Boone’
s eyes. He didn’t look nearly as terrified as she felt.

  “Get out!” Brett growled. “This isn’t your business.”

  “It’s my business anytime a punk like you tries to harm someone,” Boone responded, blood oozing from a wound in his upper arm.

  “I said,” Brett hissed, “get out.”

  “Sorry. I’m not one of your hired lackeys. I do what I want. You might as well let her go,” he said reasonably. “The police are here. You’re going to jail. Better to get booked for assault than murder.”

  “I’m not going anywhere, and I’m not getting booked for anything,” Brett responded. “Back up, or I’ll put a bullet in her head.”

  “No, you won’t,” Boone said, blood seeping through his coat and trickling down his arm. Voices drifted in from outside, mixing with the tinny sound of a police dispatcher answering a call for backup.

  Brett had to know he’d lost, that whatever he’d hoped to accomplish wasn’t going to happen, but he kept the gun pressed painfully to Carly’s temple, his arm clamped around her waist.

  “I don’t make idle threats,” he spat, the gun digging deeper into Carly’s skin. “Stay there and let me do what I have to.”

  “What would that be? Bully an unarmed woman? Drag an injured one from the hospital because you’re too much of a chicken to face the consequences of what you’ve done? Is that what you want? To go free so you can do the same thing to someone else?” Boone was talking, dragging out the conversation, probably trying to keep Brett’s focus toward the front of the house.

  Had Dallas made his way in?

  She hadn’t heard glass breaking or doors opening. She hadn’t heard footsteps, either, but she knew how silent he could be.

  “What I want is for you to shut up,” Brett snapped, jerking Carly backward a couple of steps.

  Was Dallas behind them?

  That had been the plan. That he would come in through the back and take Brett by surprise.

  “So it is money,” Boone said, looking about as bored as anyone in the middle of a hostage crisis could possibly look. “What’d you do? Get in too deep with the New York underground? Do you owe the wrong people money? From what I hear, they don’t much like it when they don’t get paid. They’re liable to kill a man for not producing the cash when it’s time.”