John O’Reilly, and he’s just too freakin’ blind to see it—”
“Isn’t this touching?” Mitchell swung the door open, sneering.
“Doug, do what you want with me.” Beth’s voice trembled over the words, but a note of iron lay beneath them. “But you’ve got to get her some help. She’s bleeding. And her head… Call an ambulance, and we’ll leave. I’ll go anywhere you want, do whatever you want—”
“Nobody’s going anywhere.” Pain edged Mitchell’s voice, and blood oozed from his shoulder. One of her bullets had found its mark. On a wave of woozy satisfaction, Lanie let her eyes drift closed again. “We’re waiting for O’Reilly to join the party. Meanwhile, you’ll do whatever I want anyway, won’t you, babe?”
“You sick bastard.”
The voices wafted away as the darkness swallowed Lanie once more.
* * *
Parked up the street, John surveyed the house. Lights blazed in the windows, but the outdoor lights remained dark. The sheer curtains were drawn, and no shapes moved behind them. His gaze zeroed in on the upstairs windows. Even the extra bedrooms were lit.
John’s gut clenched. The two guest bedrooms were shut off to save electricity. Lanie had not turned on those lights; he was sure of it. Mitchell was already in the house, possessing all the advantages. John scanned the street, his gaze lighting on Steve Martinez’s Honda parked a few vehicles away.
Maybe Martinez was in the house as well. John slipped from the truck and eased toward the car, using shadows as cover. Foreboding gripped his stomach as he approached the car and saw the silhouette slumped in the front seat. Martinez wasn’t the type to sleep on surveillance duty.
The streetlight illuminated the front of the car, and John recoiled at the sight of Martinez’s staring eyes, blood spilling from the wide gash at his throat. He didn’t have to check to know that Lanie’s partner was dead or that his weapon was gone.
As badly as he wanted to burst into the house and kill Mitchell with his bare hands, the reality remained that John was barefoot and unarmed. Mitchell wouldn’t have any qualms about killing again. John needed backup, someone who wanted Lanie safe as much as he did.
Easing into the shadows, he slipped back up the street. Around the corner was a small convenience store, and once out of sight of the house, John jogged to the payphone against the store’s wall, ignoring the slice of gravel and broken glass under his feet and the stabbing pain in his ribs. He punched in nine-one-one and waited.
“Haven County Emergency. How can I help you?” The female voice was pleasant, impersonal.
“This is Detective John O’Reilly, Houston P.D., badge number three-zero-four-seven-nine.” His own voice sounded raw, like an open wound. “I need you to patch me through to Agent Caitlin Falconetti.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but—”
Anger spurted through his veins in a hot rush. “Listen, damn it. Your kidnapping suspect is in my house. Now patch me through.”
Silence clicked over the line. “Please hold.”
In the seconds that passed, images of what could be happening to Lanie surged through his mind. John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to block the horrific pictures. Nothing would happen to her. He wouldn’t let it.
Wouldn’t let it? He already had. Resting his head against the wall, he swallowed a moan.
“Falconetti.” Even through the static, the ice was apparent.
“Martinez is dead. Mitchell’s in the house,” John grated without preamble. “I think he has Lanie.”
“Where are you?” The ice receded, urgency rising to the foreground.
He rattled off the address. “Don’t bring in the cavalry. I don’t want him tipped off that we’re here.”
“Give me some credit, O’Reilly. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
* * *
“Lanie?” Strong fingers gripped her chin, forcing her back to awareness. “Lanie, talk to me.”
She lifted heavy lids, staring into
“Isn’t this touching?” Mitchell swung the door open, sneering.
“Doug, do what you want with me.” Beth’s voice trembled over the words, but a note of iron lay beneath them. “But you’ve got to get her some help. She’s bleeding. And her head… Call an ambulance, and we’ll leave. I’ll go anywhere you want, do whatever you want—”
“Nobody’s going anywhere.” Pain edged Mitchell’s voice, and blood oozed from his shoulder. One of her bullets had found its mark. On a wave of woozy satisfaction, Lanie let her eyes drift closed again. “We’re waiting for O’Reilly to join the party. Meanwhile, you’ll do whatever I want anyway, won’t you, babe?”
“You sick bastard.”
The voices wafted away as the darkness swallowed Lanie once more.
* * *
Parked up the street, John surveyed the house. Lights blazed in the windows, but the outdoor lights remained dark. The sheer curtains were drawn, and no shapes moved behind them. His gaze zeroed in on the upstairs windows. Even the extra bedrooms were lit.
John’s gut clenched. The two guest bedrooms were shut off to save electricity. Lanie had not turned on those lights; he was sure of it. Mitchell was already in the house, possessing all the advantages. John scanned the street, his gaze lighting on Steve Martinez’s Honda parked a few vehicles away.
Maybe Martinez was in the house as well. John slipped from the truck and eased toward the car, using shadows as cover. Foreboding gripped his stomach as he approached the car and saw the silhouette slumped in the front seat. Martinez wasn’t the type to sleep on surveillance duty.
The streetlight illuminated the front of the car, and John recoiled at the sight of Martinez’s staring eyes, blood spilling from the wide gash at his throat. He didn’t have to check to know that Lanie’s partner was dead or that his weapon was gone.
As badly as he wanted to burst into the house and kill Mitchell with his bare hands, the reality remained that John was barefoot and unarmed. Mitchell wouldn’t have any qualms about killing again. John needed backup, someone who wanted Lanie safe as much as he did.
Easing into the shadows, he slipped back up the street. Around the corner was a small convenience store, and once out of sight of the house, John jogged to the payphone against the store’s wall, ignoring the slice of gravel and broken glass under his feet and the stabbing pain in his ribs. He punched in nine-one-one and waited.
“Haven County Emergency. How can I help you?” The female voice was pleasant, impersonal.
“This is Detective John O’Reilly, Houston P.D., badge number three-zero-four-seven-nine.” His own voice sounded raw, like an open wound. “I need you to patch me through to Agent Caitlin Falconetti.”
“Sir, I’m sorry, but—”
Anger spurted through his veins in a hot rush. “Listen, damn it. Your kidnapping suspect is in my house. Now patch me through.”
Silence clicked over the line. “Please hold.”
In the seconds that passed, images of what could be happening to Lanie surged through his mind. John pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, trying to block the horrific pictures. Nothing would happen to her. He wouldn’t let it.
Wouldn’t let it? He already had. Resting his head against the wall, he swallowed a moan.
“Falconetti.” Even through the static, the ice was apparent.
“Martinez is dead. Mitchell’s in the house,” John grated without preamble. “I think he has Lanie.”
“Where are you?” The ice receded, urgency rising to the foreground.
He rattled off the address. “Don’t bring in the cavalry. I don’t want him tipped off that we’re here.”
“Give me some credit, O’Reilly. I’ll be there in five minutes.”
* * *
“Lanie?” Strong fingers gripped her chin, forcing her back to awareness. “Lanie, talk to me.”
She lifted heavy lids, staring into
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