Fugitive Trail

by Elizabeth Goddard

  She struggled to her feet, slipped and slid up the opposite side of the bank, praying for help, wondering if it would come. She wanted to run, but her legs were heavy, her body shaking with the force of her heartbeat. She had to settle for slow, steady progress. Down a hill and up the other side, the sound of her pursuers echoing through the otherwise silent woods.

  From the sound of it, they were racing toward her, sprinting through the early spring foliage.

  She needed to run, too, but she could barely manage to walk. A light flashed through the trees. She thought the men had circled around and were setting a trap, but the light remained steady as she ducked behind an ancient oak. Her heart jumped as she realized what she was seeing. Not the beam of a flashlight. A house light. She ran as fast as she dared. Finally breaking free of the forest and sprinting across lush grass. Her harsh breath was the only sound in eerily quiet darkness. The house was a few hundred yards away—a little bungalow that looked like a sweeter, more-cared-for version of the one Titus had once lived in. Manicured yard and whitewashed porch with a swing hanging from its ceiling. The light she’d been aiming for shone from a front window. Another was visible in the attic dormer.

  A man cursed, the sound breaking the silence. Seconds later, she heard the soft click of a gun safety. She dove for cover, sliding across grass as the first bullet flew. It slammed into the earth inches away, kicking up bits of rock and damp soil. She managed to roll behind a bush and shimmy a few feet closer to the house, blood oozing in thick warm rivulets down her wrist and seeping into the back of her shirt and the waistband of her jeans.

  She kept low as another bullet hit the ground.

  She was almost to safety, crawling across the ground on her belly, her toes and knees propelling her forward, her pulse slushing loudly in her ears and blocking every other sound. She had no idea if her pursuers were approaching, no clue whether they’d fled. She knew only her goal: to escape, to survive, to get help for herself and justice for Ryan.

  She skirted the front of the house and crawled around the corner, out of the line of fire. She managed to get to her feet again, to run the length of the house and around to the back. The door was there, just like she remembered it. Three steps up. Grab the doorknob. Turn it. That’s all she had to do. She made it up the stairs, managed to turn her back to the door and grab the knob with her cuffed hand.

  Only, instead of opening like it had when she was a kid, it remained closed, the lock holding.

  She tried again, afraid to knock and give away her location. When it didn’t open, she searched the back porch for a spare key. The beam of a flashlight skipped across the yard near the corner of the house, and she darted down the steps, tried to run to the back of the property.

  Too late.

  Someone grabbed her shoulder, hard fingers digging into tense muscles. She whirled, sideswiping her attacker’s ankle. He swayed but didn’t fall. She shoved forward, using her body weight against him, trying to knock him to the ground. He muttered something, his grip loosening almost enough for her to break free.

  She tried again. This time he stepped sideways, letting her tumble to the ground. She fell hard, the breath knocked from her lungs, her vision blurring. She could have stayed down, but she’d been fighting hard battles most of her life, and all she really knew was how to keep going.

  She managed to roll to her back and was struggling to get up when a bullet whizzed past and slammed into a deck railing. Wood splintered, a piece of it digging into her cheek. She had no time to react.

  Her attacker was on her, pressing her into the cool grass. All her training flew out of her head. All the years of careful control were gone. In an instant, she was back in time, fighting off the man who had just murdered her mother. She brought her knee up. Or tried. He had her pinned. Legs pressed to legs, chest to chest, his entire body covering hers.

  She twisted, the bone in her injured arm snapping. She would have passed out if adrenaline hadn’t been pouring through her. She bucked, trying to throw off his weight.

  “Stop!” he growled. “Someone’s shooting at you, and we’re both in the crosshairs. I don’t know what your plans are for tonight, but I’m not planning to die.”

  It was the voice rather than the words that stilled her frantic movements. She knew the gritty texture of it, the soft Southern drawl that had never left. Not even a decade after moving to Hidden Cove with his mother.

  “Titus?” she managed to say, the name ringing hollowly in her ears.

  He tensed, then shifted just enough so she could breathe.

  “Wren?” he responded.

  He was looking into her face, staring into her eyes like he had dozens of times when they were kids exploring the woods together.

  “What’s going—?”

  Another bullet slammed into the deck, and his weight pressed into her again. This time, though, she didn’t fight it. She hadn’t been thinking clearly when she’d headed toward his property. If she had she wouldn’t have done it. Bringing danger into someone else’s life wasn’t the way she operated. She didn’t want Titus hurt because of her, and if she could have jumped up and led the gunmen away, she would have.

  “You need to get out of here,” she whispered.

  “We need to get out of here,” he responded, his lips brushing her ear. “Who is it? What does he want?”

  “I don’t know who he is. What he wants is me dead,” she replied.

  “How about we don’t let him achieve his goal? Stay down and stay quiet. I’ll see if I can get a visual.” He rolled away, cold air replacing the warmth of his body as he moved.

  She wanted to tell him not to go. She wanted to remind him that she was an FBI agent and knew how to take care of herself and her problems, but her thoughts were sluggish. Before the words could form, he was gone, disappearing like a wraith into the darkness.

  * * *

  Wren Santino was the last person Titus would have ever expected to show up at his house. Finding her in his backyard just after midnight on a late winter night? He couldn’t have imagined that if he’d tried.

  But she was there.

  Pale faced. Bleeding. Handcuffed.

  And being shot at.

  It had been years since they had last spoken to each other. That had been his fault. It was a fact he had acknowledged each time he had been tempted to reach for the phone to call her or make the trip to Boston to visit. Selfishly, he had wanted absolution and a return of the companionship and friendship he had lost. But, he had known Wren well enough to know that if she wanted to offer any of those things, she would have reached out to him.

  She never had.

  Until now.

  He pulled his handgun from its chest holster as he army crawled in the direction of the gunfire. He knew he had to stop the shooter, but he hated leaving Wren alone. They had been best friends. Buddies. Confidantes. She’d stood as his best man when he’d married Meghan.

  He knew her almost as well as he knew himself, and he didn’t trust her to stay where he had left her. Even injured and cuffed, she would try to apprehend the shooter. He glanced back but couldn’t see her through the darkness. He couldn’t hear her, either, and he took that as a good sign.

  He slid through the shrubs that butted up against the underside of the deck. He’d been meaning to dig them up. Now he was glad he hadn’t. He waited a few seconds, listening to the sudden silence, watching the darkness beyond the manicured yard.

  “Don’t go after them,” Wren whispered, so close he knew she had followed silently.

  “Them?” he replied, glancing back and meeting her dark eyes. She was on her stomach, her skin pasty white in the gloom.

  “Two men dressed in Hidden Cove deputy uniforms. Both are armed.”

  “You’re sure they aren’t actually police?” he asked.

  “They shot Ryan. I think he’s dead, but I’m not su
re. It’s possible that he can be saved if help arrives soon enough. I’d rather have you call for an ambulance than run into the woods looking for the shooters.”

  “Your Ryan?” Titus asked, knowing that it had to be, that there was only one Ryan in town who Wren was affiliated with.

  “Yes.” Her voice broke, and he had to resist the urge to hug her the way he would have before he’d ruined everything between them.

  “I’ve already called 911. Help should be here soon, but letting them go? That’s not going to work for me.” He’d noticed the blood trail in his front yard as soon as he’d walked outside. He’d thought it might be an animal wounded by a hunter who was shooting out of season and on private property. That had made the most sense to him. He’d been back in Hidden Cove for four years. He’d found more than a couple poachers on his property.

  Usually he let them go with a warning.

  Tonight, he had been in the mood to press charges.

  He had called 911 and then he’d gone out to look for the perpetrator. He hadn’t expected to be shot at, but he had been prepared for almost anything.

  “Don’t make yourself a target, Titus,” Wren said. “Ryan has already been shot. I don’t want the same to happen to you.”

  “Where is he?”

  “Near his cruiser. About five miles outside of town. On Mountain Road. My SUV is there. The police shouldn’t have any trouble finding him.”

  The faint sound of sirens drifted on the breeze. “It sounds like help is almost here,” she said.

  “Wait for them here. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, crawling away, army-style.

  “You’re not going to find the shooters. They’re heading back to their vehicle. There’s no way they’re going to wait around for the police to arrive,” she said, shifting into a sitting position.

  “Get down,” he barked, fear making his tone harsher than he’d intended.

  “I need to get these cuffs off, and I need to get back to my SUV. My cell phone is there. I want to call the FBI Boston Field Office and get some of my colleagues up here.”

  “Wren, get down,” he repeated, crossing the distance between them.

  “You don’t have any handcuff keys, do you?” she asked, dark strands of hair sliding across her cheek as she tried to get to her feet.

  “I stopped carrying those when I quit the Boston Police Department,” he responded.

  “I have some in my SUV.”

  “I guess you have a good reason for that?”

  “Yeah. You never know when you might need them.” She didn’t smile, but there was some life in her eyes again. “I want these guys. Sitting in cuffs while they escape isn’t helping me get them. You have a car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Let’s go.” She strode toward the two-story garage as if she knew he would only ever park his Jeep there. Because, of course, he did. Jeep in the garage. Coats in the closet. Keys on the hook by the front door. Everything in its place. All of it in order and neat.

  She knew that. She knew him. More than most people.

  His hang-ups and his habits.

  And she had loved him anyway. The way one friend loves another. That had meant the world to him.

  It still did.

  He followed, making another call to 911 as he unlocked the garage and flicked on the light. He had the keys and his cell phone in his pocket. He unlocked the Jeep, helped Wren into the passenger seat, his hand curved around her biceps.

  She’d always been muscular and fit. Now she felt fragile, her tendons and ligaments drawn tight over small bones. He reached for the seat belt.

  “Don’t worry about that,” she said.

  He shook his head. “Safety first.”

  She didn’t argue. He had known she wouldn’t.

  He knew her. Just like she knew him.

  He climbed into the driver’s seat and started the engine, pulling out of the garage and onto the dirt driveway that led to Mountain Road. They bounced over the deep ruts that he planned to fill when the weather warmed up and then turned onto the paved road that led to town.

  She’d said Ryan was there.

  Ambushed by the men who’d been trying to kill her.

  He was thinking about that, watching the road in front of him more than he was the road behind. He expected to see emergency vehicles speeding toward his place. When he glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a car coming up fast behind him, it took him by surprise. No headlights. Just white paint gleaming in the moonlight.

  “What’s wrong?” Wren asked, shifting to look out the back window. “That’s them,” she murmured, her voice cold with anger or fear.

  “Good. Let’s see if we can lead them to the police.”

  “They’ll run us off the road before then.”

  Probably, but the closer they were to help when it happened, the better off they’d be. He sped around a curve in the road, the white car closing the gap between them. It tapped his bumper, knocking the Jeep sideways. He straightened, steering the Jeep back onto the road, and tried to accelerate into the next curve as he was rear-ended again.

  This time, the force of the impact sent him spinning out of control. The Jeep glanced off a guardrail, bounced back onto the road and then off it, tumbling down into a creek and landing nose down in the soft creek bed.

  He didn’t have time to think about damage, to ask if Wren was okay or to make another call to 911. He knew the men in the car were going to come for them.

  Come for Wren.

  And he was going to make certain they didn’t get her.

  He unsnapped his seat belt and jumped out of the vehicle.

  “What are you doing?” Wren asked, her hands behind her, unable to do anything to free herself. He reached across the seat and unsnapped her belt.

  “I’m going to discourage them from coming down here to find you,” he said, backing out of the Jeep.

  “It will be easier and less dangerous to let them come to us,” she replied, scooting across the center console and climbing out.

  “Only if you stay out of sight and let me handle it,” he replied.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means, they’re after you. If you walk to them, they’re going to get exactly what they’re hoping for.”

  “I’m not going to wait here while you fight my battles,” she argued.

  “You have no idea whose battle this is. Neither do I. But right now? We’re both in danger. Since I’m currently the only one capable of fighting, I’ll do it for both of us. You can have your turn next time. Get back in the Jeep. I’ll return as soon as I can.”

  She raised a dark brow, but did as he asked, sitting in the driver’s seat as he turned toward the road. He pulled his gun from the holster, keeping it ready as he began the steep ascent. He had quit law enforcement a few years after he had found out the truth about Meghan. It wasn’t something he had planned or, even, contemplated. Being a Boston cop had been his life goal. He had achieved it and had enjoyed moving up in ranks, becoming a homicide detective and following the path he had planned for himself.

  But, when the opportunity to quit and change careers had presented itself, he hadn’t hesitated. He’d dived in headfirst and prayed it would work out. Four years after he’d returned to Hidden Cove and taken over his old carpentry teacher’s restoration business, he finally felt like he’d found his niche, but he hadn’t forgotten what it was like to be a police officer. He knew how to pursue suspects and apprehend perpetrators. He wasn’t going to allow the men who had run him off the road to escape. There was too much riding on their being apprehended. Justice. The safety of the community.

  And, most importantly, Wren’s safety.

  It may have been years since they’d last spoken, but he still cared about her, and he wasn’t going to step back and allow her to be
hurt by an unknown enemy.

  A door slammed, and he stopped, crouching behind thick undergrowth as he waited for the perps to make their move.

  Copyright © 2020 by Shirlee McCoy

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  ISBN: 9781488060977

  Fugitive Trail

  Copyright © 2020 by Elizabeth Goddard

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This edition published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

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