Читать книгу Taken Hostage - Jordyn Redwood - Страница 11

ONE

Ten bullets. Nine in the clip, one in the chamber. Checked twice.

That was what fugitive recovery officer Colby Waterson carried at all times to protect himself. Extra clips didn’t matter because it was rare to have time to reload. Especially when working alone.

However, today was not about hunting fugitives from the law. Today was about helping save his sister Sam’s life. Today was the day Colby Waterson was going to meet Dr. Regan Lockhart. The one woman...the only human being alive...who could save his sister from a brain tumor that had thus far refused to die at the hands of conventional medical therapy.

Colby thrummed the steering wheel of his crimson-red Ford F-250. Needles of anxiety wormed through his chest and his breakfast sat heavy in his gut. He glanced at his watch. If traffic kept this pace, he’d be on time.

As long as nothing happened. As if hearing his thoughts, the rains let loose, torrential and determined, momentarily obliterating his view of the road until he engaged his windshield wipers, which only moderately improved visibility.

I should have left earlier. Why did they schedule this meeting so early in the morning? It’s a crime to be up before sunrise.

The roar of an engine drew Colby’s attention out his driver’s-side window as a black GMC Yukon flew past him and then squeezed in like a sardine between Colby and the blue Toyota Sequoia he’d been trailing.

What’s the rush, big man? Want to make sure everyone sees your nice, shiny, new toy? Was the maneuver worth getting a whole car length ahead?

Colby eased back a few paces to increase the distance between him and the black SUV. As a bounty hunter, he was constantly on the lookout for trouble, no matter what his agenda for the day was. After all, good days often turned into the worst kind. Like hearing your wife has cancer on the same day she tells you she’s pregnant. And then losing both his wife and unborn child within five months. The event that marked his life was over a decade ago yet still always felt like yesterday.

The black Yukon sped up and began riding the bumper of the navy blue Sequoia. Heat spread in Colby’s chest and he glared at the back of the driver’s head between windshield wiper passes. There was no doubt—the guy was driving recklessly and the fresh onslaught of rain only provided a slippery surface for added danger. Hydroplaning was quickly becoming a risk. Trepidation caused Colby’s flesh to prickle.

Seriously, what is your problem?

The driver of the Sequoia sensed the invasion and began to pick up speed. As the car pulled ahead, the driver was a black silhouette, but it appeared to be a woman. Now there were two cars increasing their speed on a rainy highway.

The Sequoia switched lanes to the right, into the slow lane.

And the Yukon immediately followed her instead of passing, nearly kissing her rear bumper to get in front of the car occupying the same space on the road.

Colby gripped the wheel in his hand, his heartbeat in his throat.

Something isn’t right here. Whoever is driving that car is clearly after that woman.

Deciding the best action was to observe from a safer distance, Colby dropped back several car lengths and grabbed his phone. Getting the boys in blue seemed like the best option before someone got hurt.

Just as his thumb hit the nine for 9-1-1, the Yukon pressed ahead and slammed into the left rear bumper of the Sequoia, shoving the SUV a dizzying one-hundred-and-eighty degrees across three lanes of traffic. Colby’s heart stalled as the Sequoia arced in front of him, the woman’s hair flung to the side as her vehicle roared across the rainy road. Cars slammed on their brakes to avoid getting hit.

Colby instinctively knew exactly where the Sequoia was going to end up—on the shoulder of the fast lane, facing traffic. Colby braked hard and yanked his steering wheel left. The Sequoia struck the cement barrier and the woman disappeared from view. Colby punched his brakes, his heart hammering at the base of his throat, his bumper inches from the other SUV.

Without thinking, he released his seat belt and opened his door. It crashed into the divider after opening just a few inches. He scrambled to open the passenger door and that was when he saw two men shielded in black ski masks exit the Yukon with guns raised. Colby opened his glove box and grabbed his Glock, pushed open the door and half jumped, half fell out onto the road.

The loud pops of the two thugs firing their weapons sent Colby’s mind reeling back to Iraq. He hunched down, squared his stance and fired two shots from his Glock above their heads, causing the two to retreat to their vehicle.

Eight defensive chances remained.

He raced to the Sequoia and opened the door. The woman was just righting herself, bringing her hand up to stem the flow of blood from a cut on her forehead. She’d hit her head on something. At the moment, Colby didn’t care what it was. He simply wanted her out of the car and down on the ground.

Reaching over her lap, he disconnected her seat belt. She was disoriented, looking at him with a far-off, disconnected gaze.

“What...happened?”

“Ma’am, I need you out of this car. There are two men—”

Shots rang out and bullets punched holes into the navy blue paint. Colby turned and fired off three more shots to drive the black-clad men back to ground.

Eight. Seven. Six.

He then reached around the thin woman and muscled her out of her vehicle, settling her not-so-gently on the wet, black pavement. She stared up at him, her gray-green eyes distant, her styled red hair tangled.

That was when he recognized her. Dr. Regan Lockhart. The woman who was to save his sister.

Colby reached for his phone, which he normally kept in his back pocket, and remembered dropping it on his passenger seat. He glanced across the roadway. The only sound was the rain thrashing in his ears. His clothes were caked against his flesh. He couldn’t see the two men but, if he had to guess, he’d say they were maneuvering to outflank him. Colby heard sirens in the distance but it only took a second to fire a kill shot.

What did these men want with a neurosurgeon?

Not sure his plan was the best but out of options, he grabbed her arm and pulled her up over his shoulder. He squared himself back to the black Yukon.

Five. Four.

Two more rounds gone from his arsenal, but hopefully worth the risk to provide cover. He scrambled to his vehicle. As he reached the front of his truck, a round punched into the hood. He yanked open the passenger door, threw the doctor unceremoniously into the well of the passenger seat and scrambled across into the driver’s seat, reaching to pull the door closed, keeping his head as low as possible. His windshield shattered, spraying shards of safety glass over both of them. The showering crystals seemed to convince the woman to stay put.

He needed distance between them and these gunmen. He raised his Glock.

Three. Two.

At this point, he couldn’t risk any more blind shots. The last bullet had to be saved for a close encounter. Colby threw his truck in Reverse and stomped on the gas pedal, praying that no one was behind him.

* * *

Dr. Regan Lockhart’s ears rang from a combination of metal sheering against metal and the booms of guns firing. Her head pounded from slamming into the steering wheel and her normally logical thoughts swam in a sea of woodsy cologne and leather. The backward lurch of the truck caused her breakfast to roil in her stomach like sharks after chum. She pressed her hands into the gray-carpeted floor mat that was littered with glass and tried to lift her head up.

She felt a palm push at the back of her head. “Stay down!” a strong male voice ordered. Just as well, as the dizziness made it difficult to tell up from down at the moment and his hand on her head provided a steadying force.

What happened?

Sirens overwhelmed the ringing and her eardrums ached from the onslaught of honking horns. The truck jerked to a stop and the male occupant—the one who’d pulled her from her vehicle under a hail of bullets—jumped out. No longer hearing the sounds of shots being fired, Regan ever so slowly raised her head and found a vacuous hole where the windshield had been. She placed her arms on the black leather passenger seat now slick with rainwater, the glass tinkling musical notes as she brushed the shards off so she could push up without further cutting her hands.

Just as she was about to settle herself onto the seat, the passenger door opened and she got a good look at the stranger. He reached his hand out to her, his muscled arms visible through the buttoned-up shirt that clung to his chest from the rain.

“Can you move or should I help?” he asked.

She placed her quivering hand in his steady one. How was he not shaky from all that had happened? When both her feet hit the road, her legs withered, and he helped ease her gently onto the pavement, keeping his hand underneath her head until it, too, rested on a bed of gravel.

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“Who...are you?” Regan asked.

“Colby. Colby Waterson.”

Waterson. Something pinged in Regan’s memory. Inherently she knew that name was important.

“You need to stay down,” Colby said, hovering over her to keep the rain off her face. “The police are starting to canvass the area for the people who ran you off the road and tried to kill you.”

Kill? Had she heard that right?

“An ambulance is on the way,” Colby reassured her. “Do you want them to take you to Strang Memorial?”

So he did know her in some measure.

Regan pulled her hands up to her face and lightly tapped the wound at her forehead. Sticky—the time between blood freshly flowing and drying.

“You’ll need stitches,” he informed her. “Maybe a CT scan, but then again...you’ll know best. You’re the neurosurgeon and all.”

Regan desperately needed this world to slow down. Was this what it felt like for the patients she treated? For their families? She was still stuck on one of the first things he’d said to her. Had someone tried to murder her? She was used to life changing in a matter of seconds for other people. One moment she’d been listening to Bach on the radio while driving to the hospital. In the next her vehicle was run off the road and someone was shooting live ammunition—at her.

And then this man—someone who knew her—had saved her life.

Regan wanted to sit up but thought it best to defer to his judgment for the moment. She clenched her lips against the nausea. Concussion for sure—no need for radiation to determine that. All her limbs worked, though slowly, like her electrical impulses were swimming through molasses.

After blinking several times, her fuzzy vision began to clear and the first thing she zeroed in on was an intense set of sapphire-blue eyes. Impossibly dark and captivating. As her view of his face broadened, she took in his well-trimmed beard and brown hair cut short but not messy. More like expertly tousled. How could he look so composed after this encounter when her heart raced like a rabbit that had overdosed on caffeine? He took her hand in both of his to stop her shaking. His broad smile was disarming.

“What happened?” Regan asked. To her, her voice had never sounded so fearful.

Another series of whooping sirens signaled an ambulance struggling to break through the jam of halted vehicles and scared drivers.

“An SUV came up and ran you off the road but...”

Colby’s voice trailed. Something definitely troubled him. Regan’s chest caved. What could be worse than what had already happened?

“They used a certain maneuver to get your car to spin around like that. You have to be trained in how to do it. Those men who tried to hurt you aren’t amateurs.”

What did that mean? Regan shook her head. She hadn’t had an incident with another driver. Could this just be a case of mistaken identity?

As if reading her mind, Colby said, “This wasn’t road rage. I think they wanted to take you.”

Kidnap? Regan’s body poured more adrenaline into her blood. Could he be right?

“Why do you say that?”

“Because when I picked you up they stopped shooting except for one well-placed round in the hood of my truck. I’m guessing to try and disable it. It seemed like they didn’t want to risk hurting you. Did you know those men?”

“I...” Regan tried to process his theory through the cobwebs that spun in her mind. None of this made sense. She was a doctor. A healer. Who could possibly want to hurt her? “I didn’t even see them.”

Colby raked his hands through his wet hair. “And I didn’t have time to get a good look at their license plate.”

“How do you know me?” Regan asked.

“My sister is Samantha Waterson.” Colby tapped his hefty, black watch. “My family was going to meet with you right about now to discuss whether or not you’d picked her for your research protocol—to save her life.”

Regan bit her lip. After all that he had done for her, how could she say no?

“Why do you think they were experts?” Regan asked.

“Because I learned that exact maneuver when I served in the military. What they did wasn’t by accident.” He nodded behind her, and she eased up and looked behind.

A duo of police officers was walking toward them. He grabbed her hand again, his eyes imploring hers to understand his message. “The police aren’t going to find those men and they’re going to come back for you. Mark my words.”

Regan couldn’t connect a logical thought in her mind. Whoever this man was—this stranger, who had saved her life at great risk to his own, seemed to have intuitiveness in understanding the criminal element.

“How do you know they’re coming back?”

“I hunt criminals for a living. I know how they act...how they think.”

A patrol officer kneeled next to her. “I’m Officer Johnson. I need to ask you a few questions. Your name?”

Regan was still shaky and now the cold was settling into her bones. The rain lightened to a fine mist.

“Regan Lockhart,” she answered.

The officer glanced at Colby. “And you are?”

“Colby Waterson.”

And in that instant Regan knew she didn’t want to be separated from the one man who’d already proved he’d risk his life to protect hers.