Federal Agent Under Fire. Julie Anne Lindsey
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hands until images of her sister and parents blurred in her mind. She was dying, and he was singing.
Suddenly her fight-or-flight instinct sharpened like a switchblade slicing through the fear. No longer able to flee, years of self-defense courses bubbled to the cloudy surface of her thoughts along with the voices of past instructors, her father, and every surviving woman whose story had served as a warning.
Marissa refused to be a victim.
She released his hands and balled her fingers into fists. She rammed her elbows into the soft torso behind her and drew strength from the gust of breath that swept out of him in response. She stomped one foot against her attacker’s instep and followed with a kick to the shin. He swore violently and tightened the pressure on her throat, repositioning his fingers for a more effective grip. Black dots danced in her peripheral vision, but she wasn’t done. The human kneecap breaks with only eight pounds of pressure. He was taller than her, but slower. She kicked again, raising her foot high behind her, this time earning a wild yelp. His grip faltered and sweet oxygen rushed into her burning lungs. She was small, but that was an advantage, not a curse. She bent her knees to lower her center of gravity and clutched his forearms with both hands. In one final heave, her body lurched forward, chucking the man over her back and soundly onto his. Air whooshed from his mouth, and Marissa’s wobbly legs were in motion before he’d hit the ground.
* * *
FEDERAL AGENT BLAKE GARRETT stormed into the Shadow Point Sheriff’s Department with a familiar mix of dread and adrenaline. “West.” His voice echoed through the building as his long legs ate up the distance between the front desk and his brother West’s office. He dipped his chin at the receptionist as he passed. If West was right about Nash Barclay, there was no time to waste on formalities.
“West.” Blake strode past a set of deputies gearing up for their shift and down the narrow hall past West’s empty office. The place never changed. Concrete floors. Metal desks. The constant aroma of black coffee in the air, and the words Sheriff Garrett painted on the big office door. The Garrett inside was once their father. Now, it was his younger brother. Where the hell was he?
Blake opened his mouth to call again, but stopped short.
Sheriff West Garrett popped his head through the open conference room door. “Hey.” He met Blake with a hearty hug. “It’s good to see you. Wish I could get you back to town this quick for fishing and birthdays, but I suppose a possible serial killer sighting is as good an invitation for you.” West’s hair was lighter than Blake’s, bleached by hours in the sun. His face was tanned and his eyes were bright, mischievous for a reason Blake couldn’t comprehend. They had business to discuss. Ugly, dirty business and no reason, as far as Blake could tell, for nonsense.
“How sure are you that this was Nash?” Blake asked. He owed Nash Barclay a bullet and he planned on making good on the debt. “He’s been underground for nearly five years.”
West furrowed his brows. “When was the last time you slept, man?”
Roughly? Five years ago. “I’m doing just fine, Mom. Now, can we get down to business, or do you want to ask me if I’m getting enough to eat?” Blake forced a smile to smooth the sharp edge of his words. Yes, he’d been away more than around these last few years, but he’d had good reason. He didn’t feel right showing his face in a town where he’d let a serial killer get away. Who would?
“All right.” West nodded. “Cole and I agree the victim fits the profile. Blond hair, blue eyes, petite build.” He circled a wrist, implying Blake knew the rest.
Four women had gone missing during Blake’s rookie year at the bureau, and he’d worked long and hard to find a connection between them when no one else could. Beyond their appearances the women had nothing in common. On the surface. Once Blake had started pulling threads, he found the same toxic creature hidden in all their lives—Nash Barclay. Nash had worked as a maintenance man for the local library system, and each of his victims had frequented a branch where Nash made regular service calls. Blake went to pick him up for questioning, but Nash ran. He’d tried to lose Blake in the labyrinth of industrial park alleys and abandoned factories but Shadow Point was Blake’s home turf, and Nash was soon confronted with the business end of Blake’s department issued Glock. They’d stood ten feet apart on a sprawling asphalt roof at the old tire plant, daring one another to make a move. Nash had taunted him, screaming obscenities until he was red-faced, begged him to shoot or go home, but Blake had been determined to stick to protocols, obey procedures, wait for his partner. He wanted Nash in cuffs, not in the morgue. He’d relived the moment a thousand times, certain he’d done everything right until Nash began to sing.
Nash’s mood had changed in an instant. The violence in his expression had morphed into an eerie smile, and he’d sang. The behavior had successfully fractured Blake’s concentration, and in that splinter of a second, while Blake had pondered the mind of a psychopath, Nash dove headlong over the roof’s edge. He’d landed on the shorter building next door with ease and disappeared behind a massive smokestack. For the last five years, he might as well have been the smoke.
The moment should have ended in an arrest. A victory for justice. It should have catapulted Blake’s budding career. Instead, it had put him on a short list of screw-ups. Worse, his mistake had cost those missing women and their families the justice they deserved. That moment had changed his life and caused him to question everything, especially himself.
“And the song?” Blake asked. “She said he sang the song?”
“Yep.” West leaned closer. “Why don’t we go over things in my office?”
“First, I need coffee.” Blake stepped forward.
West’s arm bobbed up like a guard gate, blocking the conference room doorway. “We should talk first.”
Blake stopped to look more closely at his brother. West never said no to coffee. “Why?”
“Well, I guess because Miss Lane’s eager to meet you.” He twisted his mouth into a knot.
“Great.”
West grinned. “She’d like another crack at the man who attacked her. Thinks you can use her help.”
Blake snorted. “I need a lot of things right now, but help from a little blonde woman isn’t one of them. I need coffee and whatever information you gained from her interview, then I’ll stop by the victim’s place after you’ve debriefed me. See if she’s thought of anything else that can help us.”
West shook his head. “I’m trying to tell you she didn’t go home.”
“Parents’ house?”
“Nope.”
“Well, where’d she go?” Blake cocked a hip, resting a restless hand over the butt of his sidearm. “Boyfriend’s place?” That’d be a first. Nash had specifically chosen single women in the past.
West dropped his arm and tilted his head toward the conference room. “She’s waiting for you.”
“What?” He craned his head for a better look through the doorway. “Why didn’t you send her home?” He dropped his voice to a whisper and checked his watch. “Do you mean to tell me she’s been sitting in there for more than two hours? You should’ve driven her home by now.” He pushed West’s arm out of his way and strode into the conference room. Blake stopped short at the sight of a clearly aggravated woman in running gear.
“I’m not a victim,” she said. “Also, the sheriff tried to send me home, but I’m not one to be sent anywhere, especially when I can be useful. Someone’s trolling the park for women, and I can help.” Her disheveled ponytail was hanging on by threads, but her backbone was straight as an arrow.
Blake’s cheek twitched. He cast an uneasy glance at his brother. “This is Miss Lane?”
West smiled. “I tried to get you to go with me to my office.”
The woman was on her feet and moving in Blake’s direction.