Protective Instincts. Shirlee McCoyЧитать онлайн книгу.
years as a U.S. marine hadn’t taught him about it, five years working for HEART had.
Someone was in the car.
He was as sure of it as he was of his own name.
He kept his firearm loose in his right hand, tucked the flashlight into his coat pocket and pulled out his cell. He snapped two pictures of the Jeep and was getting ready to take a third when the engine coughed. Black exhaust poured from the muffler, but instead of speeding out of the parking lot, the driver backed up and pointed the Jeep straight at Jackson.
He dove for cover, tree branches snagging his coat and ripping into his face as the Jeep slammed into the trees behind him. Leaves and water rained down on his head, blurring his vision as he dropped the cell phone, pivoted and fired his Glock.
TWO
If the perp escapes, Chance isn’t going to let me live this down. I’m not going to let myself live it down.
Those were Jackson’s first thoughts as he fired a second shot at the tires of the fleeing vehicle. The tire blew, the Jeep swerving and righting itself as the driver stepped on the gas and raced away.
He wouldn’t get far.
Not in the Jeep.
He might get somewhere on foot. Jackson didn’t know the area well, and he wasn’t sure how far they were from a main thoroughfare. He ran out into the street, watching as the Jeep’s taillights dipped and swerved along the country road. No streetlights to speak of, but Jackson could see a small town in the distance.
If the Jeep was heading in that direction, it should be easy enough to track down. Jackson jogged back to the tree line, flashing his light on the giant oak the Jeep had hit. Bits of bark had sheared off and specks of dark blue paint stuck to the wood. Evidence for the police to collect. Jackson left it alone, careful not to step on tread marks deeply engraved in the muck at the edge of the blacktop. The last thing he needed was to get in deep with the local P.D. The fact that he’d fired his Glock was going to cause problems enough.
Problems that Jackson wanted to handle without any help from Chance.
Not that he didn’t appreciate his older brother’s input and advice, but Chance got a little too involved sometimes. He worried a little too much. Since they’d lost Charity, everyone in the family did.
His cell phone rang, the sound muffled. He followed it to a pile of ice and leaves, dug through the dirty mess and pulled out the phone.
“Hello?”
“Where are you, Jackson?” Chance’s shout cut through the quiet.
“In a church parking lot just outside of a little town called—”
“River Valley,” Chance cut him off. “Where’s the church? Stella said—”
“You two are finally on speaking terms again?” He tried to change the subject, because he wasn’t in the mood for one of his brother’s lectures, and because a police car was pulling into the parking lot. Sirens off, lights on, it moved toward him slowly.
“We’re always on speaking terms when it comes to work. Delivering Samuel Niag to Raina is work. Chasing people through the woods in unfamiliar territory is not.”
“Maybe not,” Jackson responded lightly. No sense in getting into it with Chance. Not when he was pretty certain he was about to get into it with River Valley law enforcement.
The officer got out of the car, face shrouded by the rim of his uniform hat. “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he growled.
Jackson obliged, lifting both hands in the air, his brother’s voice still audible.
“You have any weapons on you?” The officer asked, his gaze on Jackson’s shoulder holster and the gun that was visible in it.
“Just my Glock,” he responded.
“You have a permit?”
“In my SUV.”
“Which is where?” The officer stayed neutral, but he was moving in closer, and Jackson could sense the tension in his shoulders and back, the nervous energy that wafted through the darkness.
Jackson rattled off Raina’s address, and the officer nodded. “I’m going to have to take your firearm until your permit can be verified.”
Apparently the officer also had to handcuff Jackson and stick him in the back of the police cruiser while he looked around, because that’s exactly where Jackson found himself. Sitting on a cold leather seat, the smell of urine and vomit filling his nose. He’d been in worse situations, been in a lot more danger, but he still didn’t like it. Not when the guy who’d tried to run him down was making his escape.
He would have been happy to tell the police officer that, but the guy was a few feet away from the cruiser, speaking into his radio as he scanned the parking lot.
An SUV pulled in. Not just any SUV. The brand-new one Jackson had purchased to replace his old Chevy truck. Chance must have called Stella. She got out of the vehicle and stalked to the police officer’s side, her close-cropped hair barely moving in the wind. Used to be, she’d had shoulder-length hair. That was before she and Chance had called it quits. Seconds later, Raina exited the SUV and opened the back door. Samuel slid out, an old wooden crutch under one arm, a giant coat wrapped around his shoulders.
He was tiny for ten, his cheeks gaunt from illness, his jeans hanging loosely, one pant leg rolled up and pinned beneath his stump. Seeing him after so many months had only made Jackson regret leaving him in Kenya more than he had the day he’d flown home. He’d left hundreds of dollars for the young boy’s care, and he’d planned on keeping tabs on Samuel, making sure that he got what he needed to survive and thrive.
Raina had stepped in first, making phone calls from her hospital room, transferring money, doing everything a mother might do for a child stuck in a foreign land. Jackson had heard all about it, had followed the news stories about Raina’s fight to get a medical visa for Samuel, about the offers from medical experts in D.C. who’d promised surgery and state-of-the-art prostheses for the child if he could be brought to the United States.
Raina put a hand under Samuel’s elbow, but the boy shrugged away, determined, it seemed, to make his way across the still-slick parking lot himself. The police officer moved toward them, said a few words that Jackson was really desperate to hear.
Raina nodded, then gestured to the church.
Seconds later, she and Samuel were moving toward the building. She opened the church door, allowed Samuel to walk in front of her. The door closed, and they were gone, lights spilling out from tall windows and splashing across the parking lot.
Jackson wanted to follow. It was impossible to know if the church was empty. If it was always left unlocked, anyone could be inside, sleeping in the sanctuary on a pew, hiding in a restroom until dawn. Lying in wait for a victim.
The cruiser door opened, and Stella peered in, her eyes gleaming with amusement. “I see you’ve found your way into trouble again.”
“I didn’t find it. It found me.” He glanced at the officer standing behind her. The guy seemed more focused on the notebook he was writing in than on the crime scene.
“That’s always your story, Jack.” Stella sighed, grabbing his arm and tugging him from the car. “Hear you lost your Glock.”
“I had it confiscated, and I wouldn’t mind having it back.”
“I wouldn’t mind knowing exactly why you decided to fire it,” the officer responded without looking up. “I found two bullet casings. You forgot to mention that you’d fired shots.”
“You didn’t give me a chance.”
“You’ve got one now.” He finally met Jackson’s eyes. “Want to explain what happened?”
“Someone