Emergency Response. Susan SleemanЧитать онлайн книгу.
Can’t breathe. Must breathe.
“No.” Darcie Stevens clawed at the beefy arm circling her neck like a hangman’s noose, her fingernails raking over her attacker’s fleshy arm.
Scratching. Ripping. Drawing blood.
It didn’t deter him. He tightened his grip, cutting off the last of her breath. “Give it up. You won’t win.”
She worked harder to release the pressure on her windpipe. Struggled for oxygen. Any. Even the tiniest sip of cold February air. Found none.
Her vision blurred and she blinked hard.
No! Please, no!
Was this the end? Desperation set in. She had to try harder.
She elbowed his gut. One hard, firm jab to the midsection, her elbow sinking into his stomach.
He didn’t move except to constrict his arm and draw her back more tightly against his flabby body. She felt a gun tucked into his belt pressing against her back.
No. No. No.
Did he plan to shoot her if he failed to choke her? She had to get away before he drew the weapon. But how?
Her shoes. Yes, her boots had spiky heels. They could do some serious damage. She stomped on his foot, grinding, pressing, digging for concrete.
“Uhhh,” he grunted. His arm relaxed a fraction.
Yes!
She pressed her hands together like a diver and shot them up under his arm, pushing with all of her strength. Widening the gap.
One final push. She gave it her all and broke free. She gulped air and didn’t waste time waiting to see what he might do, but took off down the sidewalk. Her steps, halting at first as she dragged in enough oxygen to pick up speed.
He followed her, the sound of his heavy footfalls reverberating in her ears. Her lungs were heaving with exertion. Her body begged to stop. To rest.
No. I can’t let him catch me. If he does...
She wouldn’t let that happen.
Please help me to go on.
Rain started to fall, pelting her face, soaking through her jacket. The moss-covered sidewalk threatened to take her feet out from under her. She focused on her shoes.
Careful now, one foot in front of the other.
She was making progress, but so was he. She could hear him coming closer. Closer. Step by step. Each footfall sounding like thunder in her ears.
The wind rushed past, carrying the echo of his heavy footsteps and masking his location. Could he have closed the distance? Was he readying himself to attack again? But why was he targeting her? What did he want? She didn’t live in this part of town. He likely didn’t even know her.
Was this attack random, like the woman who was mugged just down the street last week? A gang member had beaten her badly and she was still fighting for life. Was that this man’s plan, too? Was he simply trying to subdue her then rob her?
Darcie couldn’t let that happen. She churned her legs faster, harder. Her lungs screamed for relief. She couldn’t think about that. She forced her concentration onto the rhythm of her feet.
Step. Step. Step.
Faster. Faster, she moved.
She risked a glance back. She had a small lead.
Thank You, God.
She took another quick look at her attacker, searching for details she could tell the police.
He was tall. Thick. Beefy. His skin was dark—Latino, she guessed. She returned her focus to her stride. She was running out of breath and slowing. He was panting hard, but he could still catch her.
Help me, God. Please. Help me.
The thudding footfalls suddenly stopped. Had he given up? Had she succeeded in tiring him out? Had God intervened?
Relief surged through her body, but she kept going. She had to. She wasn’t safe yet.
A gunshot suddenly broke the quiet. A bullet slammed into the tree in the median. Wood fragments splintered and peppered her face. She closed her eyes for protection. Caught a toe in the cracked sidewalk. Plummeted to the concrete.
Oomph. She landed hard.
The rough surface ripped the skin from her palms and split the knees of her pants. She stayed on the ground, dazed for a moment, her brain a jumbled mess.
Another bullet bit into the concrete near her head. A jagged shard sliced into her neck. She cried out and protected her head with her hands. Her heart stuttered, feeling like it might stop, but she wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. Couldn’t just lay there knowing the next bullet would hit the mark.
But what could she do? She couldn’t outrun a bullet.
Hide. She had to find a place to hide.
She pushed to her feet, started running again and searched the street. Run-down houses with peeling paint and weed-infested yards greeted her. No telling who lived in these houses, but she’d be safer inside. Or maybe someone would come out and help her if she pounded on a door.
Yeah, right. Not in this gang-infested neighborhood.
A bullet whizzed past her shoulder.
She glanced down the street. She could see her destination up ahead. Pilar’s house. She was almost there. Could she make it before this creep shot her in the back?
Another bullet zipped past her shoulder.
She had to try. She kept going and hunched her shoulders to make herself a smaller target. Just a little ways to go and she’d reach Pilar’s walkway where she could race inside to safety.
Shots kept flying.
Ping. Ping. Ping.
He was shooting like a madman, not even pausing to aim. She had to take cover. Now!
She dove behind a large utility box and curled into a ball. Sucking in air. Blowing it out. Thoughts zinging through her mind as fast as the bullets flying overhead.
What could she do?
Think, Darcie, think.
Help. She needed help. Her teammates on the First Response Squad would know what to do. They were all trained law enforcement professionals, but not her. She was the team’s paramedic and the only one without law enforcement credentials. Unfortunately, they couldn’t get across town in time.
Noah. She could call Noah. He was already on his way to meet her at Pilar’s house to talk to her about sweet little Isabel. As a homicide detective, he’d know what to do. He had to.
Darcie clawed through her purse until she grasped her phone. Her hands shook, blurring the screen, but she managed to press Noah’s number.
“Lockhart,” he answered.
“A man tried to strangle me,” she managed to get out. “He’s chasing after me now. He has a gun.”
“Where are you?” Noah’s voice was reassuringly cool and controlled.
“Behind a utility box close to Isabel’s house.”
The sound of her assailant’s boots beating down the sidewalk drew her attention. She came to her knees. Peeked over the box. He was running toward her, his gun in his hand.
He spotted her. Paused. Lifted the gun. He fired. She ducked. The bullet flew overhead.
“Noah, he’s shooting at me.” She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around