Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Brandon slows the footage back to normal speed when the lady taps on Macy’s window, scaring her.
“What did she ask her?”
Brandon groans in frustration. “She was too quiet for the mics to pick up.”
“Zoom in on the back window. If I can see her lips, I’ll know what she said.”
When Brandon does as asked, I interpret the elderly lady’s request.
She asked Macy to jump-start her car.
“Stay with her,” I demand when Macy agrees to the lady’s request.
They walk five rows back before stopping at a dark hatchback. While Macy untangles jumper cables, the stranger sinks out of view.
I shift my eyes away from the laptop and count five rows back. My eyes land on the sedan Macy approached as a hiss whistles through my cell phone. I rocket my eyes back to the footage so fast that my head spins. I can’t see what made Brandon balk until he replays the footage. Macy got struck across the back of the head with a truck-sized tire wrench. She stands for three heart-thrashing seconds before the color drains from her face and she slowly slumps to the ground.
I’m already sprinting toward the sedan when Brandon shouts that he’s calling in backup. Halfway there, I remove my gun and then scan the rows of cars on each side of the sedan, searching for any signs of Macy between the parked vehicles.
My teeth grit when I spot a body-sized shadow under a car next to the crime scene.
I slowly approach it while silently praying that my eyes are playing tricks on me. The lump isn’t moving. Not even its extended midsection shows any signs of life.
The fear clutching my throat cracks my voice when I murmur, “Mace.”
I’m not solely seeking signs of life. I am ensuring she knows who is approaching. Friendly fire is a constant danger for agents, and I won’t do anything that will add to the guilt Macy is unfairly carrying.
A flash of relief darts through me when I round the corner. The body isn’t Macy. It’s Samuel. He’s dead. Blood pools out from beneath him, and his lifeless eyes stare up at the starless sky.
While instructing Brandon to bring the coroner in, I follow a trail of blood that’s bright and fresh against the asphalt. The blood trail heads away from Samuel, and it doesn’t have brain matter in it like the blood from Samuel’s head.
My senses are on high alert when I enter the alleyway that borders Cameron’s building. The lady from the surveillance footage is braced against a dumpster, holding her bloody stomach with her uncuffed hand.
“Which direction did she go?”
Blood collects at the corner of her sniveling mouth as she tries to maintain a brave front.
It puddles around the collar of her cardigan when I split her lip with a backhanded slap.
“Which direction did she go?” I ask again, louder this time.
When I hold my hand in the air, ready and willing to strike again, she nudges her head to my left.
After tightening her cuffs, ensuring there’s no chance of escape, I head in the direction she suggested. She could be leading me astray, but even before I spotted her, my intuition was pulling me in that direction, so I need to trust it.
The dark, stinky alley holds threats in every shadow, yet I search them all. I scope the premise as trained to do, and my dedication pays dividends when gunfire cracks in the distance as I near the end.
With my gun held high, I move toward the sound, careful not to trample on any evidence. Even though Samuel was a known criminal, they will investigate his death. I won’t mention the possible charges I could face for hitting a cuffed witness. My focus is on one thing and one thing only—finding Macy.
When I reach a loading bay in the alleyway, I locate another body. A man is sprawled face-first near a blacked-out SUV. His eyes are devoid of life.
My eyes jerk up when a honk booms out of the SUV. Macy is zip-tying an unconscious man’s bloody hands to the SVU’s steering wheel.
Once she has him secured, she stumbles down from the hanging-open driver’s side door before she kicks away a gun lying haphazardly on the ground. When she senses my approach, she grasps her gun in two hands, as if it is too heavy to hold with one, before she swings to face me.
Relief blisters through her eyes when our eyes collide. She lowers her gun as she struggles to catch her breath. It looks like someone dragged her, leaving her clothes scuffed and her hair matted with blood. She’s battered and bruised and looks on the brink of collapse, but she’s alive.
Thank fuck.
Relief hits me so hard and fast that I nearly collapse, but I keep a cool head—just.
“Are there any more perps?” I ask, struggling not to race to her side. I can’t let my guard drop just yet. It’s not safe. I need to secure the premises, but I’d be a lying piece of shit if I said my feet weren’t itching to run to her side.