Читать книгу The Christmas Target - Shirlee McCoy - Страница 11
ОглавлениеStella had to take her attacker down. She knew that, and it was all she knew. Everything else—the darkness, the cold, the blood—they were secondary to the need to survive and to find Beatrice.
She’d been a fool, though.
She should have waited longer. Instead, she’d rushed out when she’d heard the man calling Beatrice’s name. Now she was trapped in a vice-like grip, tumbling down, unable to stop the momentum.
Unable to free herself.
She fought the arms clamped around her waist. Blood was still seeping from the cut on her temple and a deeper wound on the back of her head. Sick, dizzy, confused—she knew the symptoms of a concussion, and she knew the damage could be even worse than that. Brain bleed. Fractured skull. She’d been hit hard enough to be knocked unconscious. She needed medical help, but she needed to protect Beatrice more.
She slammed her palm into her attacker’s jaw, water seeping through her flannel pajamas. The creek? Had she come that far?
Had her grandmother?
Fear shot through her, adrenaline giving strength to her muscles. She slammed her fist into a rock-hard stomach.
“Enough!” a man growled, his forearm pressing against her throat, his body holding her in place.
“Not hardly!” she gasped, bucking against his hold.
Suddenly he was gone, air filling her lungs, icy water lapping at her shoulders and legs as she gasped for breath.
She thought maybe she’d imagined him, that the head injury was causing hallucinations, or that she was hypothermic and delirious. Then a hand cupped her jaw, and she was looking into Chance Miller’s face.
He looked as shocked as she felt.
“You’re in DC,” she said, surprised at how slurred the words sounded, how difficult they were to get out.
“No,” he said, his arm slipping under her back as he lifted her out of the water. “I’m here.”
She thought she heard a tremor in his voice, but that wasn’t like Chance. He always held it together, always had himself under control.
“Always perfect,” she murmured.
“What?” he asked, and she realized they were moving, that somehow he was carrying her up the bank and away from the creek. Snow still fell. She could feel it melting on the crown of her head, sliding into the cut on her temple. None of it hurt. Not really. She just felt numb and scared. Not for herself. For her grandmother.
She had to concentrate, to stay focused on the mission. That was the only way to achieve success. She’d learned that, or maybe she’d always known it, but it had kept her alive in more than one tough situation.
“Put me down.” She shoved at Chance’s chest. “I have to find my grandmother.”
“Boone and Simon will find her. You need medical help.”
“What I need,” she said, forcing every word to be clear and precise, “is to find my grandmother. Until I do that, I’m not accepting help from anyone.”
“We’ve already called the local authorities. They should be here soon. They can conduct the search while an ambulance transports you to the hospital.”
“I’ll just transport myself back. So how about we make this easy and do things my way for a change?”
“We do things your way plenty. This time, we’re not.” He meant it. She could hear it in his voice. She could feel it in the firmness of his grip as he carried her through the snowy woods.
And he was right.
She knew he was right.
She needed medical attention.
She needed help.
But she couldn’t go to the hospital. Not while Beatrice was still lost in the woods.
“Chance, I can’t leave without her. I can’t.” Her voice broke—that’s how scared she was, how worried. Her grandmother was out in the cold, and someone was out there with her. Someone who’d attacked Stella.
More than one person?
She thought so, thought she’d been hit from behind, but she couldn’t quite grasp the memory.
Chance muttered something, then set her on her feet, his hands on her elbows as she found her balance. It took longer than she wanted, the world spinning and whirling, the falling snow making her dizzy. Her stomach heaved, and she swallowed hard. No way was she going to puke. If she did, it would be over. Chance would carry her back to the house and send her off in an ambulance.
Focus on the mission.
“Something is going on,” she said, afraid if she didn’t get the words out, she’d forget them. “Someone is out here.”
“We’re out here,” he said, turning on a penlight and flashing it across the creek bed. Something pink sat near a rock a few yards away.
“Not just us. Someone attacked me.”
He stilled, the light holding steady on that pink thing, his gaze suddenly on Stella. “Who?”
“I don’t know. He came out of nowhere. One person. Maybe two.”
“Did you see his face?”
“No.”
“Did he speak? Say anything to you?”
“No.”
“How long ago was that?” He strode to the object, lifted it.
Her grandmother’s slipper.
Stella had bought them for Beatrice three Christmases ago, knowing her grandmother would love the faux fur and sparkly bows. Funny that she could remember that, but she had no idea how long she’d been out in the snow.
“That’s my grandmother’s,” she said, that thickness back in her throat again.
“Stella,” he said, the calmness in his voice the exact opposite of the panic she felt, “how long have you been out here?”
“I don’t know. Maybe fifteen minutes.”
“Were you unconscious at any point?” His gaze drifted from her eyes to the bleeding cut on her head.
“Yes.”
“So it could have been longer than fifteen minutes?”
“Yes. Now how about we stop talking about it and start looking?”
“Okay,” he said. Just that, but she felt better hearing it.
Because of all the people she knew, Chance was the one she trusted most to get things done.
His light illuminated the shadowy bank at the far side of the creek. The sun hadn’t risen yet, but the forest was tinged with grayish light. No sign of Beatrice that Stella could see, but, then, her eyes didn’t seem to be working well, everything shifting in and out of focus.
In the distance, sirens wailed.
Help coming too late?
Please, God. Not too late.
The prayer was there. Just on the edge of her thoughts, and she tried to follow it with more words, more pleas, but her mind was spinning, her thoughts scattering. Her stomach heaved, and she was on her knees retching into dusty snow and pine needles.
“It’s okay.” Chance crouched beside her, his cool palm on the back of her neck, his coat dropping around her shoulders. She felt him tense, knew he’d realized that she had another head wound. Double the potential for severe injury, and he’d be calculating the risk to her versus the risk of leaving the creek while Beatrice was still wandering around in the snow.
If they went back to the house, Beatrice would probably die before anyone found her.
The temperature was below freezing, the snow falling faster and heavier. And Beatrice’s slipper had been in the creek. Which meant she’d been in the creek, too.
“I want you to wait here,” Chance said quietly. “I’ve already texted our coordinates to Boone and Simon. They’ll be here soon. One of them will wait with you until the medics get here.”
Not a question.
Not a suggestion.
He really thought that she was going to wait at the edge of the creek while Beatrice wandered through the snowy forest.
She struggled to her feet, following him as he stepped across the burbling water. He didn’t tell her to go back. He didn’t waste time or energy arguing with her. It was one of the things she’d always liked about Chance—he didn’t spend time fighting battles when he had wars to win.
“There’s a print there.” His light settled on an impression in the muddy bank. “Let’s see how many more we can find.”
He started walking parallel to the creek, and she followed, her heart beating hollowly in her ears, her legs weak, her body still numb.
Voices carried through the woods, men and women calling out to one another. A search party forming, but Stella could only think about taking one step after another, following the tracks that Chance’s light kept finding. Bare feet pressed into the muddy earth. Bare feet in below-freezing temperatures.
Stella was shivering uncontrollably, and she had Chance’s coat. Beatrice probably had nothing but her cotton nightgown and the gauzy robe she put on each morning when she got out of bed.
She tasted salt on her lips and realized hot tears were mixing with icy snow. She never cried around other people. Ever. She was crying now, because she’d already lost her grandfather, and she wasn’t sure she could bear losing her grandmother, too.
She swiped the tears away, tried to clear the fog from her mind at the same time. She had to think. She had to imagine being in Beatrice’s shoes, walking outside, making her way to the creek. Had someone been with her? Maybe the person who’d attacked Stella?
Or had she gone off by herself? Maybe reliving some long-ago day? A trip to the creek with Henry, a picnic in the moonlight? Had some memory sent her wandering?
Had she—
“There!” Chance shouted, the word sending adrenaline coursing through Stella again.
He sprinted forward, and she followed, tripping over roots and rocks, trying desperately to see what he was seeing.
There! At the edge of the creek! White against the dark ground and glistening water. Gauzy fabric, a thin pale leg peeking out from it.
“Nana!” Stella sprinted forward, grabbing her grandmother’s hand as Chance lifted her lifeless body from the water.
* * *
They’d always been a good team.
Always.
Worst-case scenario, best-case, didn’t matter. Chance and Stella knew how to move in sync. He wasn’t sure that was going to save Beatrice. Stella’s grandmother was as limp as a rag doll, her skin icy cold. No respiration. Pulse—thready and weak.
“She’s not breathing,” he said, laying Beatrice on flat ground and checking her airway.
“Nana?” Stella said, giving her grandmother’s shoulder a gentle shake. “Can you hear me?”
Beatrice remained silent, her face bone-white.
“Let Boone know where we are so the medics can find us more quickly. She needs help now. Not ten minutes from now.” Stella wrapped Beatrice in his coat and began CPR. No chest compressions. Just rescue breaths that made Beatrice’s chest rise and fall.
He made the call quickly, his gaze on the trees that edged close to the creek. The morning had gone silent, nothing moving in the shadowy pre-dawn light. It wasn’t a safe stillness. It wasn’t a good silence. Something was off—the air subtly charged, the shadows seeming to shift and undulate. He pulled his Glock from the holster, stepping away from Stella and her grandmother. Behind him, voices drifted through the trees—the medics moving toward the creek as he moved away from it.
Stella didn’t ask him where he was going or what he was doing. She was either so focused on her grandmother she hadn’t noticed or she sensed what he did—someone watching.
The woods had lightened imperceptibly, black trees now brown-gray, white snow flecked with green pine needles and fallen leaves.
He used his penlight anyway, training it into the heart of the forest, flicking it across thick tree trunks and winter-brown bushes. He didn’t want to go too far. Even with help close at hand, he was worried about leaving Stella and her grandmother. Both were in bad shape. Stella, at her best, could take down almost any well-trained fighter. But she wasn’t at her best. Not even close.
He reached the top of a shallow embankment, the snow thicker there, the trees sparser. His light bounced across a fallen log, illuminating a hint of bright pink that peeked out from behind it.
The other slipper. He didn’t move closer. He’d spent years in Afghanistan and Iraq, working as part of one of the top ranger teams in the army. He didn’t talk about those days, but he’d lived them. They’d been the best preparation in the world for the kind of work he did with HEART.
Always cautious.
Always meticulous.
Always weighing risk versus benefit.
Until there was nothing to do but act, and then he’d do whatever was necessary to get out alive with his comrades.
The slipper?
It looked like one of the dozens of booby traps he’d seen just sitting out in the open, waiting for someone to pick it up. He flashed the light to the left and right of it, searching for wires or leads. Nothing. Not that he’d really expected there to be anything. Booby traps didn’t happen all that often in the good old USA, but he was paranoid, and he believed what Stella had said. Someone’s out here.
Her words had explained the gash on her temple, the blood that stained the collar of her pajama top and matted her dark red hair. She needed the medics almost as badly as her grandmother did. Maybe just as badly. He’d seen people die of head injuries like hers. He knew how dangerous they could be. If she’d been a different kind of person, he’d have carried her back to her grandmother’s house and made sure she was in an ambulance heading for the hospital, but Stella knew her own mind, she made her own decisions. He’d have done the same if he were in her position—insist on being part of the search. So, he’d let her call the shots.
But he wasn’t going to let her get hurt again.
Someone’s out here.
Yeah. She was definitely right about that.
He crouched near the slipper, his light trained on the ground beyond it. He studied the layer of pine needles and dead leaves, found what he thought were depressions in the surface. He followed the trail with his light, surprised to see what looked like a path through the trees. Not a deer trail this time. It looked man-made, the ground clear of shrubs and undergrowth.
Stella’s attacker had gone that way. He was certain of that. He was also certain that whoever it was wouldn’t be returning. Not now. Too many people crisscrossing the woods, too many lights flashing above the creek. Only a fool would risk capture by sticking around.
He saved the coordinates of the trail and holstered his Glock. He’d pass the information on to the team, let them figure out where the path led. Once he made sure Stella and Beatrice were safe, he’d return. By that time, local law enforcement would have already scoured the area, but he’d take a look anyway. It was what he did. Double-check. Look where others might not. Sometimes, a second or third or fourth pair of eyes would uncover something that no one else had.
If the police came up empty, Chance was going to make sure he didn’t. Right now, he had a lot more questions than answers, and he didn’t like it. Had this been a random act? An opportunistic crime? Or had it been planned?
Stella had worked a lot of missions. She’d made a lot of friends, and she’d made a few enemies. It was possible one of them had followed her to Boonsboro.
He frowned, turning back toward the creek.
She’d have been an easier target in DC. She lived alone there, in an apartment on the top floor of an old brownstone. He’d been to her place twice, and he’d lectured her both times. Not enough security. The doors were flimsy. The locks were a joke.
She’d told him to mind his own business, but that was Stella. She liked to do things her way. When it really mattered, though, she knew how to follow protocol and work as part of a team.
He moved toward the creek, retracing his steps, following the sound of voices and the flashes of lights through the forest. He thought he heard Stella, her voice about as familiar as his own. They’d known each other for a long time. Long enough to know each other well.
And to care about each other deeply.
He’d seen her crying while they searched for Beatrice. He wasn’t going to mention it. Not to her. Not to anyone on the team. Stella was indestructible and unflappable. At least, that’s what she wanted everyone to think.
The air changed, and he knew he wasn’t alone, that someone was just out of sight, hidden by the heavy boughs of a giant conifer. He didn’t pull his firearm. Anyone who wanted to take a shot at him would have already done it. A shadow separated itself from the trees, the gray edge of dawn highlighting red hair and a tall, narrow frame.
Despite his height, Boone Anderson moved quietly, his footfalls silent on the pine needles. “Find anything?” he asked.
“One of Beatrice’s slippers and a path through the woods.”
“We going to follow it?”
“You and Simon can. Let the local PD know what you’re doing and where you’re heading.”
“You’ll be at the hospital?”
“Someone has to be.”
“Stella can usually take care of herself.”
“She’s in bad shape. I don’t think she’ll be doing much of anything for a while.”
“How bad?” Boone cut to the chase. No extra questions. No speculating. He was a straight shooter. He did his job and he did it well, but his heart was with his family—his wife, his new baby, the daughter he’d lost years ago and had recently been reunited with.
“Probably a lot worse than she’s going to admit. A pretty deep gash to the temple and one on the back of her head.”
“And she probably thinks she’s going to be up running a marathon tomorrow.”
True. That was Stella. To a T.
“Where’s Simon?”
“Sent him down to the creek to see what the ruckus was about. Looked like the medics were carrying a gurney in. I’m assuming they’ve got to carry someone out. The grandmother?”
“We found her in the creek. She wasn’t breathing.”
“Pulse?”
“Yeah.”
“Then she’s alive, and we’re going to pray she stays that way.” Boone pulled out his cell phone, texted something, then slid it back in his pocket. “I told Simon you were on your way. You go do what you need to do for Stella and her grandmother. We’ll keep you in the loop, and we’ll play nice with the local PD.”
“You’d better. I don’t think you’ll like prison food.”
Boone snorted, pulling something out of his pocket and holding it up for Chance to see.
A bag of homemade cookies.
Typical of Boone. The guy never stopped eating.
Any other time, Chance might have smiled.
Right at that moment, all he could do was think about the tears that had been sliding down Stella’s cheeks. He’d never seen her cry. Not on the worst missions. Not when she’d been exhausted or tired or injured. Not when things had seemed hopeless or the person they’d been looking for had been found too late.
Not even at her grandfather’s funeral.
Never.
Not once.
Because Stella didn’t cry.
Except that she did, and he’d seen it, and he didn’t think he’d ever forget that.
Boone opened the bag and took out a cookie. Unflappable. Just like always. He’d done what he’d been asked to do, and he’d keep doing it, but first, he’d eat.
“I always come prepared. Tonight, it’s a dozen homemade chocolate chip cookies,” he said. “I’ll share, but only because my wife told me I have to.”
“You can tell her that you tried, but I’m not in the mood for cookies.”
“Worrying won’t change anything. You know that, right?” Boone bit into the cookie, his gaze as direct as his comment.
“That won’t stop me from doing it. Keep your nose clean, Boone. I’m heading out.” Chance jogged back to the creek, every nerve in his body on high alert. He hadn’t expected trouble. He’d found it.
Now he was going to deal with it.
A dozen people were standing near the creek—police, park rangers, paramedics. Simon stood next to Stella, his hand on her shoulder, not holding her up but pretty close to it.
He met Chance’s eyes, mouthed, She’s done.
“I am not,” Stella bit out, her body shaking beneath a blanket someone had tossed over her shoulders. “Done.”
“That’s a matter of opinion,” Simon countered as paramedics lifted Beatrice onto a backboard. She’d been swaddled in blankets and had an IV in her hand, but she was breathing, an oxygen mask covering her mouth and nose. That was an improvement, and it gave Chance hope that she might recover.
“My opinion is the only one that matters,” Stella muttered, but she didn’t seem interested in the argument. She was watching as the medics strapped Beatrice to the board and lifted her.
“Careful,” she warned, as if the team needed to be reminded.
They ignored her.
Which was surprising since she had blood dripping down the side of her face and more of it seeping from beneath her hair. She was also pale as paper, her skin completely leached of color. Chance would have thought every available medic would be hovering around, cleaning her wounds and getting her ready to be transported. She must have refused treatment, insisted that the attention be given to her grandmother.
Now her grandmother was on the move, and Stella looked like she planned to follow.
“I don’t think so,” he said, grabbing her arm.
“You don’t think what?” she asked, trying to pull away.
He didn’t have to put much effort into keeping that from happening. Which concerned him. A lot. “That you’re going to walk back to the house.”
“I don’t think you have a choice in the matter.”
“Sure I do. Just like I had a choice when I didn’t drag your butt back to the house. I let you decide then. This time, I decide.”
“This is not the time to go macho on me, Chance,” she growled. “I’m in no mood.”
“And I’m in no mood scrape you off the forest floor. So, how about we stop arguing and get this done? Your grandmother needs to get to the hospital, and you’re slowing things down.”
She pressed her lips together, and didn’t say another word as an EMT urged her to sit down, then cleaned both wounds.
“This one looks okay,” the EMT said, pressing gauze to Stella’s temple, “but you’re probably going to need stitches to close the other one.”
“I’ve had worse,” Stella muttered, brushing the young woman’s hands away and holding the gauze in place herself. “Has the ambulance left with my grandmother?”
“Yes,” the EMT admitted. “She’s in a very critical state and needed to be transported immediately. We’ve called another one for you.”
“There’s no need for another ambulance. I’ll drive myself. My grandmother might be confused, and I really need to be there with her.”
If she hadn’t been dead serious, Chance would have laughed.
“Ma’am,” the EMT said before Chance could, “you’re in no condition to drive.”
Stella must have agreed, because she eyed Chance with a look he’d seen many times before. It was the one that said she needed him, but she didn’t want to. The one that said she couldn’t do it alone, but wished she could.
He understood the look and the feelings behind it.
“I’ll give you a ride,” he offered before she could decide whether or not to ask, and she smiled. A real smile that softened her face and made her look sweet and young and vulnerable. It surprised him, because she hadn’t directed a smile like that at him since they’d broken up. He’d forgotten how powerful it was; forgotten how it made his pulse race and his heart pound.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it.”
“You know I’d do anything for you, Stella,” he said, and meant it.
Her smile faded, and she was just staring into his eyes, looking wounded and tired and a little too fragile for Chance’s peace of mind.
Finally, she shrugged. “You’re the first guy to ever say that to me.”
Odd considering that she’d been married for years. Her husband had died serving his country, and she’d mentioned once or twice just how proud she’d been of him.
That was about as much information as she’d given.
Even when Chance had asked.
Even when they were dating.
“Then you haven’t had the right guys in your life,” he responded, keeping his tone light.
She wasn’t herself.
That was obvious. He didn’t want her to regret their conversation or be embarrassed by it.
He took her arm, helped her to her feet. “Do you have a spare key to the house? Boone and Simon might need to get inside.”
“I left the door open.”
“There are police everywhere. Someone might have closed it.”
“There’s probably a key in the flower box outside the kitchen window. If you want to look for it, I can—”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”
“Whatever it was, the answer is still no. We’re getting out of these woods, and I’m driving you straight to the hospital. No stops for anything.”
“You’re awfully bossy when I’m hurt,” she muttered. There was no heat in her words and no real complaint.
“Awfully worried,” he corrected, taking her elbow and helping her up the embankment.
“Don’t be. I’m fine.”
“You always are. Until you aren’t, and then I have to ride to the rescue,” he replied, baiting her the way he had a hundred times before. He knew how she’d react. Her back would go up, her chin would lift, and she’d march to the house like she hadn’t been knocked unconscious and nearly frozen.
It almost worked out that way.
“I’ve rescued you more times than you’ve ever rescued me,” she said.
Just like he knew she would.
Then she shrugged away from his hold, marching forward with just enough energy to convince him she might actually be okay.
They made it through the trees and out into the yard, white snow swirling through the grayish light. He could see how pale she was, see how much she was trembling. She was cold or in shock or both, and he had about two seconds to realize that baiting her hadn’t worked out the way he’d wanted before her steps faltered.
Just a little hitch in her stride, a soft sigh that he barely heard, and she was crumbling to the ground so quickly Chance barely had time to catch her.
