Love You More: A Novel

It took a full minute. Then I heard a low creak of a back screen door, easing open.

I held the shotgun loosely, cradled in the crook of my left arm. With my right hand, I slowly withdrew the KA-BAR knife.

Never done wet work. Never been up this close and personal.

I stopped thinking again.

My hearing had already acclimated to the shrill car alarm. That made it easier for me to pick up other noises: the faint crunch of snow as the subject took his first step, then another. I took one second to check behind me, in case there were two of them in the house, one creeping from the front, one stalking from the back, to circle around.

I heard only one set of footsteps, and made them my target.

Forcing myself to inhale through my nose, take the air deep into my lungs. Slowing my own heartbeat. What would happen would happen. Time to let go.

I crouched, knife at the ready.

A leg appeared. I saw black snow boots, thick jeans, the red tail of a flannel shirt.

I saw a gun held low against the man’s thigh.

“John Stephen Purcell?” I whispered.

A startled face turning toward me, dark eyes widening, mouth opening.

I stared up at the man who’d killed my husband and kidnapped my child.

I slashed out with the knife.

Just as he opened fire.

———



Never bring a knife to a gunfight.

Not necessarily. Purcell hit my right shoulder. On the other hand, I severed the hamstring on his left leg. He went down, firing a second time, into the snow. I kicked the gun out of his hand, leveled the shotgun, and except for thrashing wildly in pain, he made no move against me.

Up close and personal, Purcell appeared to be mid-forties to early fifties. An experienced enforcer, then. Kind of guy with some notches on his brass knuckles. He obviously took some pride in his position, because even as his jeans darkened with a river of blood, he set his lips in a hard line and didn’t say a word.

“Remember me?” I said.

After a moment, he nodded.

“Spend the money yet?”

He shook his head.

“Shame, because that was the last shopping trip you had left. I want my daughter.”

He didn’t say a word.

So I placed the end of the shotgun against his right kneecap—the leg I hadn’t incapacitated. “Say goodbye to your leg,” I told him.

His eyes widened. His nostrils flared. Like a lot of tough guys, Purcell was better at dishing it out than taking it.

“Don’t have her,” he rasped out suddenly. “Not here.”

“Let’s see about that.”

I ordered him to roll over on his stomach, hands behind his back. I had a pocketful of zip ties from Shane’s supplies. I did Purcell’s wrists first, then his ankles, though moving his injured left leg made him moan in pain.

I should feel something, I thought idly. Triumph, remorse, something. I felt nothing at all.

Best not to think about it.

Purcell was injured and restrained. Still, never underestimate the enemy. I patted down his pockets, discovering a pocketknife, a pager, and a dozen loose cartridges he’d stuck in his pants for emergency reloading. I removed all items and stuck them in my pockets instead.

Then, ignoring his grimace, I used my left arm to drag him several feet through the snow to the back stoop of his house, where I used a fresh zip tie to bind his arms to an outside faucet. With enough time and effort, he might be able to free himself, even break off the metal faucet, but I wasn’t planning on leaving him that long. Besides, with his arms and legs bound and his hamstring severed, he wasn’t making it that far, that fast.

My shoulder burned. I could feel blood pouring down my arm, inside my shirt. It was an uncomfortable sensation, like getting water down your sleeve. I had a vague impression that I wasn’t giving my injury proper significance. That probably, I hurt a great deal. That probably, losing this much blood was worse than a bit of water down a sleeve.

I felt curiously flat. Beyond emotion and the inconvenience of physical pain.

Best not to think about it.

I entered the house cautiously, knife returned to its sheath, leading with the shotgun. I had to cradle the barrel against my left forearm. Given my condition, my aim would be questionable. Then again, it was a shotgun.

Purcell hadn’t turned on any lights. Made sense, actually. When preparing to dash out into the dark, turning on interior lights would only ruin your night vision.

I entered a heavily shadowed kitchen that smelled of garlic, basil, and olive oil. Apparently, Purcell liked to cook. From the kitchen, I passed into a family room bearing two hulking recliners and a giant TV. From that room, into a smaller den with a desk and lots of shelves. A small bathroom. Then, a long hallway that led to three open doorways.