Fatal Exposure. Gail Barrett
name.
The doorbell sounded again.
She silently disconnected the phone. All her senses hyperalert, she tiptoed across the kitchen to the door, careful not to make any noise. She stopped and held her breath, afraid that even the tiniest hitch would give her away. Then she put her eye to the peephole and peeked out.
A man scowled back. She took in his black, slashing brows, the harsh angles of his chiseled face, the dark beard scruff shadowing his jaw. He was tall, in his late thirties with a strong neck roped with tendons, shoulders as thick as planks. His midnight hair was short, his mouth drawn flat. Authority radiated from him in waves.
A siren went off in her head. A cop. After a lifetime spent on the streets, she could detect one from a mile away. And even wearing a leather jacket and jeans, everything about this man screamed police.
Her thoughts whirling wildly, she backed away from the door. He must have seen her come home. He’d probably staked out her house and lain in wait. It was too late to pretend she wasn’t here.
Struggling not to succumb to panic, she fled back into the kitchen, jerked her coat off the chair, and pulled it on. Then she threw her backpack over her shoulder—just as the doorbell sounded again.
“Be right there,” she called out, hoping to buy some time.
Knowing she only had seconds to escape him, she sprinted into her small home office, grabbed her laptop from the desk and shoved it into her bag. Then she knelt at the fake outlet beside the bookcase and pried the cover off. She pulled out her stash of emergency cash and added it to her bag, then took out her semiautomatic handgun and slammed a magazine home. She stuck the weapon into an outside pocket of the backpack and rose.
She spared a glance at the basement but instantly ruled it out. A cop wouldn’t come alone. He probably had a partner watching her backyard—including the tool shed, which hid the cellar door. But she’d prepared for this day, planning for this very emergency. She’d even bought an end-unit row house with this disaster in mind.
Moving faster now, she raced up her stairs to the guest bathroom, which faced the open side. Then she quietly pushed open the window and peered out into the night. The crisp autumn air chilled her face. The rumble of traffic from the D.C. beltway hummed its usual background noise. A car sped down the street, its headlights sweeping over the ancient oak tree growing beside the house and illuminating the edge of her fenced backyard.
No sign of a partner. Maybe the cop really had come alone.
Unwilling to take that gamble, she scrambled onto the windowsill and grabbed hold of the nearest branch, the cold bark rough on her palms. But then she paused, her throat tightening with a stab of regret. She was so damned tired of this. She’d spent more than half her life on the run, always looking over her shoulder, always terrified she’d be found. This row house was her first-ever attempt to set down roots, to lead something even remotely resembling a stable life. To have a garden, a home. To put an end to the utter loneliness that plagued her in the dead of night.
But she knew the futility of dreams. Predators ruled this brutal world, a lesson she’d learned at an early age. And unless she wanted to end up a victim, she had to go on the run again.
Jerking herself back to reality, she adjusted her grip on the tree branch and swung onto the sprawling limb. She crept to the trunk, inched over the huge, gnarled branch that stretched across the neighbor’s fence, then dropped onto their patio, landing with a muffled thud. Her heart racing, she darted into the bushes and hid.
For several seconds, she didn’t move. She held her breath, listening for signs that she’d been seen. But no one looked out the neighbor’s window; no one raised an alarm. Praying her luck would hold—and the cop would keep ringing her doorbell instead of circling around to the back—she snuck through the shadows to the gate and pressed her ear to the wood.
Silence.
Now came the risky part.
She had to exit through the alley. There wasn’t another way out. And she couldn’t wait; once that cop realized she’d fled the house, he would search the entire block—including the neighbor’s yard. She just hoped that if he did have backup, his partner would be watching her back door instead of the neighbor’s gate. Her pulse quickening, she cracked it open and peeked out.
She swept her gaze down the dark alley, over hulking, tomblike cars, past trash cans looming like phantoms in the quiet night. The cold wind gusted, ruffling the bushes lining the fence, but she seemed to be alone.
Now or never.
She sucked in a breath, swung the gate open wider and stepped through.
Just as the shadows leaped.
Chapter 2
Parker lunged at the woman fleeing the alley, a hot rush of fury fueling his steps. There was no way she was going to escape him, not after all this time.
“Stop! Police!” he ordered, grabbing hold of her shoulder. But she whipped around, catching him off guard, and rammed her elbow into his head. He staggered back at the sharp jolt of pain.
Damn. The woman could fight. But she still wasn’t getting away.
Shaking off the pain, he surged forward as she took off running again. His feet jackhammered the pavement. Shadows zipped past in the night. He put on a burst of speed, catching up to her in a few long strides. Then he went in low, locking his arms around her waist, and lifted her off her feet.
She twisted and thrashed like a hellcat, but he gritted his teeth and held on. She dropped her pack, snapped her arm back in another attempt to hit his head, but he ducked and dodged the blow. Then she reached down and grabbed his leg, jerking it up hard between hers. Thrown abruptly off balance, he fell.
Hell. He’d underestimated her. Again.
But this time he didn’t let go. He dragged her down to the pavement with him, his arms encircling her waist. She landed atop him a split second later, knocking the breath from his lungs. Grunting, he rolled over and pinned her down.
“Stop fighting,” he rasped between gasps for air. “I’m not trying to hurt you. I’m a cop. I only want to talk.”
But she wriggled and squirmed, managing to pin his arms to his sides with her legs before he anticipated her intent. Then she jabbed her finger beneath his ear, sending excruciating shocks sizzling through his nerves. White spots danced behind his eyes.
So she wants to fight dirty. He could accommodate that.
Furious now, he wedged his elbow around her knee and swung his leg over hers. Then he flipped her over, reversing their positions, and trapped her between his legs.
For a moment she went stone-still, her uneven gasps filling the night. Then she shoved against his chest, struggling to gain enough space to break free. But he bore down even harder, using his strength to make her stop.
Sweat trickled down his jaw. His breath seesawed in time to his careening pulse. After several futile attempts to get loose, she stopped.
“Let me go,” she cried, her voice muffled.
“Why should I?”
“I can’t breathe.”
He didn’t doubt it. He probably had seventy pounds of muscle on her.
“Please.” She sounded desperate now. “I...can’t...breathe.”
Unable to dredge up any sympathy, he steeled his jaw. “You going to talk to me this time?”
“Yes.”
“Somehow I’m not convinced.”
“I said I would.” Despite her predicament, temper flared into her voice.
“You’d better,” he warned. “You try running again, and I’ll hurt you for real this time.”
Too ticked