But he was relieved to see that it wasn’t that bad a wound. The slice was bleeding like a mother, but it was far from mortal.
He moved the knife to his injured hand, sinking his right hand back into her hair and jerking her to her feet. He wound his left arm around her throat, pulling her against him. He took the knife into his right hand and pressed the tip to her throat.
“If I had time, you’d be apologizing to me on your knees,” he growled into her ear. She’d gone rigid against him and he calmed at the return of his control of the situation.
Until he heard the engine behind them. Maintaining his hold, he spun them both to see an SUV approaching, its headlights off. Hank?
Could I have been wrong? Could there have been train tracks I hadn’t noticed?
Warily, he watched the SUV taking each turn of the road slowly, but it was too dark to see what model it was. But an SUV meant the road to Tahoe wouldn’t be a problem.
That was one worry off his mind.
Unless he’d been right before and the train didn’t run nearby. Instinct had him dropping the switchblade to the ground and pulling out his gun. He shoved the barrel into Mercy’s temple as the SUV rolled to a stop and turned its headlights on, blinding him. The door opened and a man got out.
He could see that the man was tall, like Hank. Wearing a white uniform, like Hank.
But . . . the hairs on the back of his neck lifted and he jabbed the barrel of his gun harder against Mercy’s head, gratified at the small sound of pain she made.
“Turn your lights off, Hank,” he called, but the man kept advancing slowly. Then the clouds flitted by, exposing the meager light of tonight’s moon and stars.
The vehicle was blue. A blue Range Rover. That he’d seen before. Frantically he searched his mind for the connection, for the—
The morgue. He’d seen it at the morgue, parked on one side of Reynolds’s black Toyota. It was one of the detectives working the homicide of Trish Hart. Sokolov or Rhee. Had to be Sokolov because it was a man in that uniform.
He’d been tricked. This was a trap after all.
Fuck you, Hank. I’m coming for you, asshole.
“That’s far enough!” he shouted. “Hands where I can see them, Sokolov, or I’ll kill her.”
Under his hands, Mercy tensed. Good. Maybe she’d go zombie. She’d be easier to control that way.
The man in the white uniform stopped, putting his hands up, still saying nothing.
“I know that’s you, Detective Sokolov! Just stop, right there. Tell whoever’s with you to get out of the damn car.”
“Nobody’s with me. I came alone.”
He snorted at that. “Right. You never go alone. There’s another cop here somewhere.” Or more. Shit. He looked around him frantically. They could have a dozen guns trained on him right now. He needed to keep Mercy up against him. She wasn’t quite as tall as he was, but close. She’d be his shield if the bullets started to fly.
The headlights blinded him. He wouldn’t be able to see anyone even if they were out there, but he could see that Sokolov had moved closer while he’d been looking around for the cop’s backup. The bastard was still moving. The white of the uniform he wore almost glowed. “Don’t move! I will kill her. I swear it.”
Sokolov stopped, but now he could see the gun in the detective’s hand. “What do you want, Carson?” he called.
What did he want? “I want you to get everyone away from here. Or I will kill her. I have nothing to lose.” He considered it, then added, “Except for you. You stay. Put your gun on the ground and lie down on your stomach.” Because he’d have to show his back to Sokolov when he went to put Mercy in the van so that he could get away. He began edging toward the rear of the van, dragging Mercy with him. “I’m not seeing your gun on the ground, Sokolov. I’m serious.”
“So am I,” Sokolov replied. “If I throw down my gun, you’ll just kill us both. Why would I do that?”
Because I told you to, he wanted to shout, but he didn’t. He was trembling now and he hated it. Hated that the man could make him so nervous. Hated that the bastard had the upper hand. The last word.
Hated that he was helpless and his options were running out.
“Because I have nothing to lose,” he said more calmly.
THIRTY-ONE
PLACERVILLE, CALIFORNIA
TUESDAY, FEBRUARY 21, 4:15 A.M.
“Dammit,” Frederick hissed. They’d lost Erin Rhee’s blue Range Rover. They’d gone around a bend in the road and come up behind two tractor-trailers, struggling up the steep grade. “Erin must have slipped in front of those two trucks before we got to them.”
Gideon sat in the backseat behind Frederick, biting back his curse. It wasn’t the man’s fault. He’d been a damn good driver, keeping up as Erin zipped up U.S. 50 at speeds far faster than the limit.
Daisy muttered a curse. “She made sure we couldn’t follow her.”
Gideon closed his eyes. Rafe and Rhee were good cops. And Rafe would do his best to get Mercy out alive. Even if his best meant putting himself in the line of fire, and that scared Gideon most of all. He could lose a brother and a sister tonight.
“Breathe, baby,” Daisy murmured, her hand on his cheek. “You need to breathe.”
He tried. He truly tried, but his lungs would not inflate.
“Goddammit, Gideon.” Daisy’s hands were on his face now and she wasn’t gentle. She’d unbuckled her seat belt and was kneeling next to him on the bench seat. She gave his cheeks a slight smack. Not painful, but enough to get his attention. “Look at me.”
He nodded, blinking. “You are not safe.”
She made another one of those frustrated noises. “And you are not with me.” She leaned her forehead against his. “Breathe, baby,” she whispered. “With me, okay?”
He got himself under control, feeling ridiculous on top of panicked. “I’m good. Buckle yourself in.”
“I’m sorry, Gideon,” Frederick said, his misery plain.
“Don’t be,” Gideon managed. “You’ve done so much already. Erin never planned to let us catch up to her.”
An exit approached. “Should I take it?” Frederick asked.
“Yes,” Gideon told him. “If they’re close, we’ll see the SWAT vehicles go by and we can follow them.” If it’s not too late by then.
His phone began buzzing and Gideon grabbed for it, hoping like hell it was Rafe. But it was an unknown number. Maybe Carson Garvey, calling to negotiate. “Reynolds,” he answered, taking care to continue breathing because his heart had started to race.
“It’s Tom Hunter.”
“Tom? What’s happening?”
Next to him, Daisy perked up at the sound of Hunter’s name.
“We are not talking right now,” Tom said carefully. “Tell me that you get that.”
Gideon’s pulse shot through the roof. “I get it. Is she alive?”
“I don’t know, but I do know Sokolov and Rhee are on their way to Placerville. And I have no doubt that you are, too.”
“We are,” Gideon admitted, “but they lost us.”
“Is Daisy with you?”
“Yes.”
“Put me on speaker. Daisy,” he said when he’d done so. “I need you to put these coordinates in your phone’s GPS. You know how to do that, right?”
“Um, yeah,” Daisy said, then she smiled at Gideon. “It’s a property in Placerville. Turn right up here, Dad. Thank you, Tom.”
“You’re welcome. And you did not get this from me.”
“How did you get it?” Gideon asked, his lungs actually filling again.
“Molina has me looking into Carson’s finances. Follow the money, right? He’d been looking at this property, trying to get the money together to buy it. It belonged to Sydney. Undeveloped land.”
Gideon was nearly speechless. “Why?” he asked. “Why would you do this for me?”
“Because I have a sister, and if anyone touched her, I’d be losing my mind. I’ve also been on a chase like yours, a long time ago, and I know how it feels to be powerless.”
“What number are you calling from, Tom?” Daisy asked.
“I never leave home without a burner,” Tom said, the amusement clear in his voice. “And I never said that, either.” He hesitated. “Good luck, Gideon. Stay safe.”
The call was ended and all Gideon could do was watch and pray as Daisy guided Frederick down a country road.
“There, Dad.” She pointed at an access road with No Trespassing and Private Property signs posted everywhere.
Frederick turned and the Subaru rocked as it went over something big.
“That was the gate,” he said, then turned off the headlights, navigating the snow-covered road with care.
Minutes later, they didn’t need headlights. They could see Erin’s Range Rover, its headlights shining on a scene that made Gideon’s blood run cold.
“Oh my God,” he breathed. A six-foot-tall bald man held Mercy to his chest, his forearm across her throat and a gun to her head.
Carson Garvey. Undisguised.
Gideon’s stomach lurched. No. No, no, no.
Rafe boldly faced the man, his gun aimed at Carson and Mercy, but Gideon knew his best friend. Rafe projected a confidence he often did not feel. Especially when lives were at stake. As Mercy’s was.