4

      Sunday, August 4, 1:54 p.m.

      Sara made a mental note of the Porsche driver’s estimated time of death as she checked the F-150 driver’s lacerated scalp.

      “Gas main exploded. We got the hell outta there.” The truck passenger pointed toward the silver Chevy Malibu. “It’s them people there you should be worried about. Guy in the back seat ain’t lookin’ so good.”

      Sara was glad to hear Will keeping pace as she jogged toward the Chevy. There was something not adding up about this car accident. The rear-end impact from the truck didn’t feel severe enough to break the driver’s neck. A mystery for the Atlanta medical examiner to figure out. Eventually. There was no telling how long it would take to clear out the gas main explosion. It was sheer luck that the construction site was empty.

      Still—

      Broken neck. No other signs of trauma. No lacerations. No contusions.

       Weird.

      The Malibu driver told Will, “My friend needs help.”

      “She’s a doctor,” Merle said.

      “Sir?” Sara knelt down to examine the unconscious man in the back seat of the Malibu. The passenger beside him watched her every move. Airway clear. Breathing normal. “Sir, are you okay?”

      Sara heard names being tossed around behind her.

       Dwight, Clinton, Vince, Merle.

      “Dwight?” Sara tried. The back of the Malibu was dark, the windows tinted almost black. She pulled the unconscious man into the sunlight. His pupils were reactive. His vertebrae were aligned. His pulse was strong and steady. His skin felt sticky, but then it was August. Everyone’s skin felt sticky.

      “I’m Hank,” the passenger beside him told Sara. “You’re a doctor?”

      Sara nodded, but that was all she could give him. This idiot had knocked himself unconscious because he hadn’t bothered to put on a seat belt. The gas main explosion would have critical cases: burns, traumatic brain injuries, crush trauma, projectiles.

      Hank opened the door and got out of the car.

      Sara glanced up.

      Then she stared.

      Blood soaked the back of Hank’s leg.

      He turned around, leaning his arms on the roof of the car. His shirt slid up. There was a gun tucked into the front of his pants. Sara heard him say, “Clinton, it’s nobody’s fault.”

      Sara looked at her hands. The stickiness wasn’t from sweat. It was from blood. She brushed her palm along Dwight’s back. The familiar puckered hole in his left shoulder indicated the same type of injury she’d seen on the back of Hank’s leg.

      A gunshot wound.

      The Porsche driver’s broken neck. The short skid marks on the road. The blood trail leading to the truck. The names—would Will catch the fake names? Dwight Yoakam. Hank Williams. Merle Haggard. Vince Gill. Clint Black. They were all country music singers.

      Sara took a deep breath and held in her panic.

      She carefully searched the Malibu for a weapon.

      Dwight’s holster was empty. Nothing on the floorboards. She looked between the front seats and almost gasped.

      A woman had wedged herself into the footwell. Petite with short, platinum blonde hair. Arms wrapped tightly around her legs. She hadn’t moved or made a noise this entire time, but now she raised up her head and showed her face.

      Sara’s heart shuddered to a stop.

      Michelle Spivey.

      The missing woman’s eyes were bloodshot with tears. Her cheeks were sunken. Her lips were chapped and bleeding. She spoke soundlessly, desperately—

       Help.

      Sara felt her own mouth open. She took a stuttered breath. She heard another word echoing in her head, the same word that came to every woman’s mind when they were surrounded by aggressive, damaged men—

       Rape.

      “Will.” Sara’s hands trembled as she fumbled in her pocket for the key fob. “I need you to get my medical bag out of the glove compartment of the car.”

      Please. She silently begged. Get your gun and stop this.

      Will grabbed the key. She felt the brush of his fingers. He didn’t look at her. Why wouldn’t he look at her?

      Clinton said, “Give us a hand, big guy. Let’s go.”

      “Wait.” Sara tried to slow them down. “He could have a neck injury or—”

      “Ma’am, excuse me.” Merle’s beard was long but his hair was buzz-cut. He had to be police or military. All of them were. They stood the same way, moved the same way, followed orders the same way.

      Not that it mattered. They had already gained the upper hand.

      Will had clearly made the same calculation. He was looking at Sara now. She could feel his eyes on her. Sara could not look back at him because she knew that she would fall apart.

      He said, “I’ll get your bag.”

      Hank had limped around the car. He stood beside Sara—not too close, but close enough. Sara could feel the threat of him like a chemical burning her skin.

      Will gripped the key fob in his fist as he walked toward the BMW. He was angry, which was good. Unlike most men, fury cleared Will’s mind. His muscles were tensed. She focused all of her strength, all of her hope, onto his broad shoulders.

      “Vale.” Hank was speaking to Vince. He wasn’t using their code names anymore. The pretense was over. Either Sara or Will had given themselves away or Hank had figured out that the police sirens they were hearing in the distance would soon find their way down Bella’s street.

      Hank lifted his chin, indicating Vale should follow the rest of the team to the car.

      “Out,” Hank told Michelle, his voice low. He had a gun in his hand. It was small, but it was still a gun.

      Michelle winced as she crawled over the center console. She held up her pants with one hand. The fly was unzipped. Blood dripped over her fist, ran down her legs.

      Sara’s