“Stop running scenarios through your mind.” Heath looked up again, concern sharpening his voice. “Get back to the computer and get to work.”
Ryker gave him a look, then faced his computer to rip through Sheriff Cobb’s life to see if Isobel Madison had made appearances after the boys home burned down. He worked for about thirty minutes before taking his notes out to the table. “Cobb has purchased tons of land, in different states, including the thirty acres that used to hold the boys home.”
“What about Cobb and Madison?” Heath asked.
Ryker flipped through his notes. “I’m not sure if they ever met up again, but Cobb took several vacations through the years that don’t seem like him. Spas and faraway getaways.” His phone dinged, and he drew back. “What the fuck?”
Running into his office, he checked the alarm on his computer, looking up just as Heath came into the room. “There’s an alert on the safe house. Another one.”
Heath’s brow furrowed. “Why? I mean, Dr. Madison just took Greg. Why would she infiltrate the house?”
Ryker shook his head. “I don’t know. Gut says it isn’t her.” But who it was, he had no clue. He yanked his gun from a desk drawer and tucked it at his waist. “I’ll go check it out.” He was already running through the office and almost to the door.
“Stop,” Heath bellowed. “You need backup, and you were just shot. Your shoulder has to be burning.”
“It’s fine.” Ryker turned. “You’re a million times better on the computer than I am. I need you on the image satellites and Denver on the phone tracking. Somebody has to check out the safe house, just in case, and it’s me. Maybe it’ll be a lead to Zara.” He didn’t wait for his brother to argue, launching back into a run.
Within seconds, he’d pulled the truck out of the garage and onto the mostly empty roads, trying to ignore the pain. The freezing snow battered the truck, and visibility sucked, even though it was midday.
He reached the block before the safe house, his heart thrumming, his head clouded with thoughts of Zara in danger. Taking several deep breaths, he parked and then ran through the storm. The cold slammed through him, finally bringing clarity. Good. He needed to be focused.
Even so, as he silently crept into the backyard and into the house, he had trouble concentrating. So he closed his eyes and listened. One heartbeat. Okay. Just one. He could handle the intruder. The beat was calm and steady…and somewhat faint. The person had to be at the other end of the house.
He moved with stealth, crossing the kitchen and entering the living room.
A punch caught him unaware, exploding agony across his jaw. The force threw him across the living room and into a cheap card table, which splintered into pieces. He fell, rolled, and jumped up at the guy, who was supposed to be in the back room.
Had he managed to subdue his heartbeat? Who the hell was he? His attacker was his size, fit, and wearing a ski mask. He moved gracefully, light on his feet and no doubt well trained.
One solid punch to the gut, and the guy grunted, before swinging again for Ryker’s head.
Ryker ducked and came up with an uppercut, his damaged shoulder protesting.
The guy’s head jerked, and he growled as he moved forward.
“Shit. What’s your jaw made of?” Ryker hissed, punching for the gut and nose.
The guy took the hit and kicked out, nailing Ryker in the ribs. Pain lanced through Ryker’s torso, and he shoved it down, going for a one-two punch that threw his attacker back into the door frame. It cracked.
The guy shoved off the wood and tackled Ryker, propelling them both over the dingy sofa. They hit the coffee table and smashed onto the dirty carpet, both angling for position.
Ryker clapped his hands on the guy’s ears and flipped backward to his feet, then retreated toward the kitchen. The guy rolled and did a similar backflip and instantly angled to the right, his hands in fists. He kept moving, his gaze intense in the dark room, his movements slow but sure.
Hell. The guy could really move.
While Ryker wanted to be fair, and he really wanted to know if he could take this guy, he needed to know where, or rather who, Isobel Madison was. So he reached in his waistband for his gun.
Cold metal instantly rested against the base of his neck.
Fuck.
He stilled and breathed out. Not one slice of sound had given the man in the basement away as he’d climbed the stairs. If Ryker didn’t know better, he’d guess the guy was a ghost.
But the gun pressed to his nape belied that theory.
He lowered his hands, waiting for an opening.