police officer behind him was bluffing?
Ashley stared into his dark eyes. They were no longer cold and dead. Instead, they shined with an unholy gleam and his mouth tilted in anticipation.
He knew. He knew Dillon didn’t have a gun. He must have seen it fall into the river when Dillon was trying to pull Ashley out the truck window.
“Move away from her and lie on the ground. Now,” the detective repeated, his deep voice authoritative and confident.
The cord of muscles in Iceman’s thick neck pulsed, reminding her of a snake coiling to strike.
She whipped a glance at the detective, trying to warn him with her eyes. But it was so dark. He probably couldn’t see her eyes any better than she could see his.
A vile curse flashed through her mind, the kind of curse that would have had her mama looking for the biggest, thickest switch she could find, if she ever actually heard Ashley say it—regardless of how old Ashley was.
The detective was a big man, tall and thick with muscles, but just like at the Gibson and Gibson office building, the thug he was facing was even bigger. Dillon had come out the winner in the earlier confrontation, but he’d had a weapon, and a team of officers to distract the bad guy.
The man crouching in front of Ashley had the only advantage that mattered right now. A gun. One little bullet was all it would take to end this standoff. Even if the vest protected Dillon, the force of the bullet would probably knock him flat on his back. Then all the gunman had to do was calmly stand over Dillon and shoot him in the head.
She needed to do something. But what? The last time she’d interfered with this same police officer she’d nearly gotten him killed.
Suddenly the gunman whirled around.
As if anticipating the move, Dillon lunged to the side. He rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet.
Bam, bam — Iceman fired off two quick shots, flames shooting out of the muzzle like a warning flare.
Dillon grunted and fell to the ground. His body jerked, then lay still.
Ashley’s nails bit into the backs of her tied fists. She silently urged Dillon to move, to run, but he lay facedown on the ground—stunned, or worse.
The gunman stalked toward him.
Ashley frantically looked around. There had to be something she could use as a weapon. But even though the icy rain was still dripping through the heavy canopy overhead, and the wind clacked the branches against each other, there wasn’t even a large twig on the ground anywhere within reach.
Thunder sounded. Lightning lit up the clearing, illuminating Dillon. He still wasn’t moving.
Oh, dear God, no.
Ashley jumped to her feet. If nothing else, she could swing her tied fists at the gunman and try to knock his gun out of his hand before he could shoot Dillon again. She charged forward.
The gunman stopped beside Dillon and raised his gun.
Ashley pulled her tied hands back like a bat to swing at him. Dillon suddenly jerked to the side and kicked Iceman’s legs, knocking him to the ground. Ashley yelped and scrambled out of the way. The two men grappled with each other, locked in combat.
The storm was getting worse. Sheets of rain pelted them through the gaps in the trees. Ashley shoved her wet hair out of her face. Lightning cracked overhead in short bursts, a strobe light revealing the men’s movements every few seconds, like a projector showing every other frame in a movie.
They rolled back and forth, grunting, twisting as they each strained for the advantage over the other. One of them got his arm free and swung his fist with massive force against the other man’s jaw. A loud crack echoed in the clearing. His opponent screamed and fell to the side, clutching his face, shaking his head as if in a daze.
The victor climbed to his feet. Moonlight glinted off the gun in his hand.
Ashley pressed her hand to her throat. Who was lying on the ground? And who was holding the gun? Lightning flashed again, revealing the face of the man who was
Ashley stared into his dark eyes. They were no longer cold and dead. Instead, they shined with an unholy gleam and his mouth tilted in anticipation.
He knew. He knew Dillon didn’t have a gun. He must have seen it fall into the river when Dillon was trying to pull Ashley out the truck window.
“Move away from her and lie on the ground. Now,” the detective repeated, his deep voice authoritative and confident.
The cord of muscles in Iceman’s thick neck pulsed, reminding her of a snake coiling to strike.
She whipped a glance at the detective, trying to warn him with her eyes. But it was so dark. He probably couldn’t see her eyes any better than she could see his.
A vile curse flashed through her mind, the kind of curse that would have had her mama looking for the biggest, thickest switch she could find, if she ever actually heard Ashley say it—regardless of how old Ashley was.
The detective was a big man, tall and thick with muscles, but just like at the Gibson and Gibson office building, the thug he was facing was even bigger. Dillon had come out the winner in the earlier confrontation, but he’d had a weapon, and a team of officers to distract the bad guy.
The man crouching in front of Ashley had the only advantage that mattered right now. A gun. One little bullet was all it would take to end this standoff. Even if the vest protected Dillon, the force of the bullet would probably knock him flat on his back. Then all the gunman had to do was calmly stand over Dillon and shoot him in the head.
She needed to do something. But what? The last time she’d interfered with this same police officer she’d nearly gotten him killed.
Suddenly the gunman whirled around.
As if anticipating the move, Dillon lunged to the side. He rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet.
Bam, bam — Iceman fired off two quick shots, flames shooting out of the muzzle like a warning flare.
Dillon grunted and fell to the ground. His body jerked, then lay still.
Ashley’s nails bit into the backs of her tied fists. She silently urged Dillon to move, to run, but he lay facedown on the ground—stunned, or worse.
The gunman stalked toward him.
Ashley frantically looked around. There had to be something she could use as a weapon. But even though the icy rain was still dripping through the heavy canopy overhead, and the wind clacked the branches against each other, there wasn’t even a large twig on the ground anywhere within reach.
Thunder sounded. Lightning lit up the clearing, illuminating Dillon. He still wasn’t moving.
Oh, dear God, no.
Ashley jumped to her feet. If nothing else, she could swing her tied fists at the gunman and try to knock his gun out of his hand before he could shoot Dillon again. She charged forward.
The gunman stopped beside Dillon and raised his gun.
Ashley pulled her tied hands back like a bat to swing at him. Dillon suddenly jerked to the side and kicked Iceman’s legs, knocking him to the ground. Ashley yelped and scrambled out of the way. The two men grappled with each other, locked in combat.
The storm was getting worse. Sheets of rain pelted them through the gaps in the trees. Ashley shoved her wet hair out of her face. Lightning cracked overhead in short bursts, a strobe light revealing the men’s movements every few seconds, like a projector showing every other frame in a movie.
They rolled back and forth, grunting, twisting as they each strained for the advantage over the other. One of them got his arm free and swung his fist with massive force against the other man’s jaw. A loud crack echoed in the clearing. His opponent screamed and fell to the side, clutching his face, shaking his head as if in a daze.
The victor climbed to his feet. Moonlight glinted off the gun in his hand.
Ashley pressed her hand to her throat. Who was lying on the ground? And who was holding the gun? Lightning flashed again, revealing the face of the man who was
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