Taken Hostage. Jordyn Redwood
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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