Deadly Christmas Secrets. Shirlee McCoy
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down the gravel road. She thought she was heading toward the creek. Branches scratched at her face, pulled at her hair and ripped at her clothes, but she kept a steady pace, heading deeper into the woods, and hopefully farther away from the danger.
She thought she heard the creek up ahead and was heading for that when something crashed through the brush beside her, the sound bringing to life every nightmare she’d ever had, every secret fear.
Stella said something, but she didn’t hear. She was too busy running, sprinting through the woods as if it was an open field, everything inside telling her to go and keep going.
She slammed into something.
Not a tree. A man. His chest hard, his body tall and firm.
She tried to jump back, but strong arms wrapped around her, pulling her in. She struggled against the hold, tore at the arms, used every fighting tactic she’d learned as a kid growing up in one of the roughest neighborhoods in DC, because she wasn’t going to die in the woods. Not before she found out the truth about Amelia.
* * *
“Calm down,” Logan said, grabbing Harper’s fist just before it connected with his jaw. “It’s me.”
“Logan?” She stilled, her arms dropping to her sides, her eyes wide in the darkness.
She’d come barreling out of the woods as if a couple of bears were chasing after her, but he couldn’t hear anything but the quiet burble of the creek and the soft rasp of her breath.
“You nearly scared the life out me,” she said, stepping away from him, her voice a little shaky.
“Where’s Stella?” he asked, because there was no way his coworker had left Harper to fend for herself. Not if she were capable of anything else.
“Right here,” Stella responded, stepping through the thick trees to his right. “With the dog. If the perp is still around, I haven’t seen him. Not since he destroyed my brand-new car.”
“I took a shot at him after he hit your fuel line. I was a little out of range, but I think I might have hit him.”
“That explains why he didn’t wait around for us to get out of the SUV,” Stella responded drily.
“He’s heading east. Straight toward the highway.”
“That’s five miles away,” Harper commented, her hand on Picasso’s head. She looked smaller in the darkness, her body diminished by the vast forest surrounding them.
“Five miles isn’t all that far,” Stella responded. “Not for someone who’s desperate, and he is. He sticks around here and the police are going to catch him. Or one of us will.”
“One of us is planning to,” Logan said, pulling a Maglite from his coat pocket. He hadn’t used it before, but now that the perp was on the run, he’d take every advantage he could to hunt the guy down before he made it to the highway.
“Are you going to try to track him?” Stella asked. She’d let him take the lead on this. That was the way Stella was. No fuss. No muss. If it wasn’t her assignment, she took a backseat, followed orders, made herself as much of an asset to the team as she could.
“He’s heading for his escape vehicle. I want to get to him before he reaches it.”
“The police could do the job as easily,” she remarked. No judgment in the words. Just a statement of fact. “And you know how Chance is—he likes to let the local PD handle their problems.”
“This isn’t their problem. This is my problem. I was hired to—”
“Find Harper. Which you’ve done.”
True, but finding Harper had put her in danger. He felt responsible for that, which made him responsible for her. Whether Chance thought so or not. And whether Harper did or not.
And he didn’t think she did.
She hadn’t wanted twenty-four-hour protection, had seemed determined to go on the way she had before he’d showed up with a gunman on his tail. She’d finally conceded when Stella had mentioned her niece.
Amelia seemed to be the key to all of this, and she seemed to be the key to getting Harper to accept protection and help.
“I’m right here,” Harper muttered. “I’ve been found.” She sounded tired, and he wondered what it must feel like to go from a peaceful and quiet existence to chaos and trouble.
“And now you’re in danger.”
“Not because of you,” she responded. “So let’s all go back to my place and wait for the police. They can do what they need to, and we can decide the best way to proceed.”
That wasn’t going to happen.
He wanted this guy, and if he waited for the police to show up, he wasn’t going to get him.
He glanced at Stella. “I’ll meet you back at the cabin. Can you call the sheriff? Ask him to have someone on the road, searching for the perp? He might want to notify the local hospital, too.”
“But—”
“No sense arguing,” Stella said, cutting off Harper’s protest. “He’s stubborn as a mule.” She grabbed Harper’s arm and dragged her back the way they’d come.
Picasso followed, silent for once. The dog probably sensed the tension in the air, the danger that seemed to lurk just out of sight.
Logan flashed his light on the ground, studying the leaves and foliage for signs that someone had passed that way. Minutes went by, the forest coming to life—small animals scurrying through underbrush, an owl calling from a nearby tree. Thick flakes of snow tumbled through the tree canopy, dancing in the beam of his light. If he didn’t hurry, the trail would be lost, the guy gone.
In the distance, sirens were screaming, the police racing in. Hopefully with their K-9 team. The dogs had come up empty earlier, but the scent would be easier to find this time, the area they’d be searching a lot smaller.
His light bounced across the ground, glowing on dead leaves, moist earth and a slick wet splotch halfway hidden by pine needles.
He moved closer and studied the spot.
Blood for sure. A drop that was just beginning to dry. The guy wasn’t that far ahead. Maybe the injury was slowing him down, keeping him from escaping to the road.
Or maybe he wasn’t running.
Maybe he was waiting in the underbrush, hoping for another chance to strike.
Forty-five minutes. A long time to walk through swirling snow and gusting wind. Logan had done worse—hiking desolate regions of Afghanistan in the middle of the night, scaling rock faces and climbing mountains in search of enemy strongholds. He’d been a scout sniper, trained in night operations. He’d probably still be that if his parents hadn’t died. He’d loved the work, the adrenaline rush, the high-stakes play.
He’d traded it all for a two-thousand-acre soy farm in North Carolina, which three generations of his family had owned and operated. He hadn’t done it because he’d wanted to farm. He’d done it because his father was dead, his mother was missing and his brothers needed him. Five years in the military hadn’t prepared him for finishing up the job of raising three teenage boys. They’d had a couple of rocky years, but he’d managed to get them through college and into life without much of a problem. Colton ran the farm now and had turned it into an organic venture that was making way more money than their father had probably ever thought was possible. Trent was the town sheriff. Gavin was pastor of the church they’d attended when they were kids. They were all productive citizens doing what they thought God was calling them to. Their parents would have been proud. Logan was proud. And he was going back for Christmas.