Navy SEAL Rescuer. Shirlee McCoy
he called out, glancing up the road toward the distant highway, then down it toward the curve in the road and the dead fields of the neighboring farm.
“Help me!” A woman stumbled into view, burnished red hair gleaming in the sunlight, welts raised on the pale column of her throat. He knew her. Knew of her anyway. Everyone in Pine Bluff did.
Catherine Miller.
The Dark Angel of Good Samaritan.
Injured, terrified.
He ran toward her, scanning the area as he slid an arm around her waist.
“What happened?” he asked.
“Someone attacked me,” she rasped, her eyes hollow, her face expressionless.
“Where is he?”
“He ran when you called out.” She gestured to the curve in the road, the tall, brown grass and weeds. Anyone could be hiding there.
“Come on.” He urged her toward his house, her backbone prominent beneath his hand, every vertebra pressing up against her shirt. Too thin. That’s what he’d thought the first time he’d seen her on the news.
Too thin, but beautiful.
Aloof.
The perfect neighbor because all she wanted was exactly what Darius did—to be left alone.
Only, she hadn’t been left alone.
The welts on her neck, the bruise on her jaw proved that.
“Who was it? Someone you know?” He opened his front door, ushering her inside.
“I’m not sure. He was wearing a ski mask.” She shivered, and he pulled a throw from the back of the sofa and wrapped it around her shoulders, his fingers brushing her neck.
She flinched, tugging the blanket close.
“What else was he wearing?”
“Dark pants. Long-sleeved dark shirt. He was tall. Maybe a couple of inches shorter than you.” Her teeth chattered, but she looked him straight in the eye, her gaze direct, her blue eyes dark and lifeless.
“I’m going to call for help, then I’ll see if I can find him.” He pulled out his cell phone, dialing 911 as he took his Glock from the gun safe in the hall closet.
Catherine watched as he loaded it, her expression never changing. The media had said plenty about her incarceration and release. They’d said plenty about her, too. Interviews with supposed friends, with people she’d worked with and with the family of the people she’d been convicted of murdering. There’d never been an interview with her, though. Just photos and videos of her leaving prison, her expression as empty as it was now.
“Stay here, okay?” he asked.
“I’ll stay for as long as I can,” she responded, and he frowned, hot air sweeping in as he opened the door.
“You need to stay here as long as it takes for me to make sure you’re safe.”
“My grandmother is at the hospital getting chemotherapy. I need to be there to pick her up in less than an hour.”
“Someone tried to kill you. I think your grandmother will understand if you’re late.”
“My grandmother can’t know what happened.” She touched her neck, but it was the only indication she gave of her feelings or her fear.
“Unless she’s blind, she’s going to be asking a lot of questions. How are you going to explain this?” He touched the bruise on her jaw, and she tensed, her eyes flashing with life for the first time since he’d seen her on the road.
“I’ll tell her whatever I have to to keep her from worrying.”
“Your choice, Catherine, but remember, you won’t be able to tell her anything if you’re dead. Stay in the house. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He stepped outside, listening to the noisy starlings fighting over rotten food near his overflowing trash bin, waiting for a sign that the perp had followed Catherine.
Nothing.
Not even a hint that things weren’t what they should be.
Darius ran down the porch stairs and across the yard, scanning the landscape and the sun-baked dirt road. A scuffed area just beyond the curve in the road gave the first hint of what had happened. He crouched over it, examining the heel digs ground into the dirt and the footprints that led into deep cover.
He followed them into the heavy overgrowth, head-high weeds and dried grass pressing in close, reminding him of far-off days and late-night treks through planted fields and desert scrub. Different place, different circumstances, but the adrenaline was the same, the skin-tightening feeling that he wasn’t alone was the same.
Sirens screamed, their warning swelling and then ending abruptly. Help had arrived. If the perp was close by, he wouldn’t be for long. Not with the police on-site. Darius slipped through the tangled vegetation, following a trail of broken branches and crushed grass, the Glock a comforting weight in his hand.
He’d spent four years as a Navy SEAL working in enemy territory in Afghanistan searching out top-ranking al Qaeda operatives, and he’d never gotten tired of the hunt. Even now, stateside and working as a security contractor, he loved this part of the job the most.
Cat and mouse.
Hide-and-seek.
Him against the enemy.
He followed the trail deeper into the field, then back through sparser growth and out into Catherine’s property. An old farmhouse jutted up from the middle of an overgrown yard, its front door swinging open.
Darius approached cautiously, his senses alert, his nerves alive with anticipation. Cans of paint sat on the porch, a gray paint roller abandoned beside them. A red shoe print marred one whitewashed floorboard, and letters were painted across the width of the porch floor. Someone had covered them with a thin layer of white paint, but they were still easy to read.
Murderer.
Had the person who’d attacked Catherine vandalized the property first? He frowned, stepping into the foyer, heat pressing in on every side. No breeze to cut the oppressive air. No open windows to clear the heavy scent of cigarette smoke.
Sweat trickled down his temples and rolled into his eyes. He ignored it, his attention on the creak and groan of the old house, the moan of settling wood. Life had a different sound, a different feel, and he walked through a small living room, knowing it was empty. The dining room was empty, too, a nicked wood table and an old china cabinet the only furniture. No chairs. No painting. No curtains on the windows. Everything spare and worn.
The floor creaked as he walked back through the foyer and into what might have once been a family room. The room held a fireplace on one wall, a hospital bed, a dresser and a chair. A small refrigerator sat on the floor, a half dozen medicine bottles sitting on top of it. Someone had installed a window air-conditioning unit, and it hummed softly as Darius checked the closet and a small bathroom.
Empty.
The kitchen was the same. Nearly gutted with nothing but an old oven and a chipped sink, it had seen better days. Tools lay on the floor and paint peeled off the windowsills. Someone had been working hard, but the house still felt tired and old as if the life had been sucked out of it. Lived in, but already abandoned.
The front door opened, the floorboards in the hallway creaking. Footsteps on stairs and someone walking above his head. Not the police. They’d follow protocol and announce their presence.
He eased up the stairs, slowly, quietly. Whoever was in the house wasn’t being quiet about it. Drawers opened. Something slid across the floor.
Searching for something?
He followed the sounds, lunging as a figure darted from the room at the far end of the hall. His bum leg screamed in