Sheriff. Laura ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.

       ONE

      The low rumble of a car engine caused FBI Agent Julianne Martinez to freeze in her tracks. She quickly gave her K-9 partner, Thunder, the hand signal for stay. The Big Thicket region of east Texas was densely covered with trees and brush. This particular area of the woods had also been oddly silent.

      Until now.

      Envisioning the map in her pocket that Dylan O’Leary, the team’s technical guru, had drawn up for them, she realized she must have gone too far south, heading toward the rural road, barely paved, instead of north to the cabin where their missing colleague, FBI Agent Jake Morrow, could very well be held captive by the criminal mobster Angus Dupree.

      Moving silently, she angled toward the road, sucking in a harsh breath when she caught a glimpse of a white-and-black prison van.

      What in the world? The van abruptly halted with enough force that it rocked back and forth. Frowning, she edged closer to get a better look.

      The reason the van had stopped was that there was a black SUV sitting diagonally across the road, barricading the way.

      Reacting instinctively to the perceived threat, Julianne rushed forward. As she drew her revolver, she heard a bang and a crash followed by a man tumbling out of the back of the prison van. The large bald guy dressed in prison orange made a beeline toward the SUV. Another man stood in the center of the road pointing a weapon at the van driver, who held his hands up in the air in a gesture of surrender.

      A prison break!

      “Stop!” Julianne pointed her weapon and shot at the gunman, hoping, praying she could save the van driver’s life. Her aim was true, and the assailant flinched, staggering backward, but didn’t go down. Instead he turned toward her, a fierce expression etched on his face.

      He had to be wearing body armor.

      Seconds later, the situation spiraled out of control. The gunman shot the driver through the windshield, then came running directly at Julianne. She gave her K-9 partner two hand-signal commands.

      Hide. Stay.

      Good boy, she thought, as Thunder slinked behind a large tree. He was an English foxhound, and his brown-and-black coat, along with his black FBI bulletproof vest, worked well as camouflage. She didn’t want him to get hurt, but she also needed him to protect her back.

      Just as she’d protect his.

      She ducked behind a tree, then took a steadying breath. Tightening her grip on her 9 mm, she peered around to where she’d last seen the shooter. She fired at him once again, then ducked behind the tree.

      Keep moving.

      Julianne eased from one tree to the next as Thunder watched, waiting for her signal. Now the silence was suffocating, the slightest rustle of a leaf unbearably loud.

      When she couldn’t take the quiet for another moment, she peeked out trying to identify where the gunman was located.

      Crack!

      She ducked, feeling the whiz of the bullet miss her by a fraction of an inch, a piece of bark flying off the tree. The perp was roughly twenty feet in front of her, far closer than she’d anticipated.

      After a long moment, she was about to risk another glance, when the assailant popped out from behind a tree. He looked her square in the eye, the barrel of his gun pointing directly at her chest.

      “Stop right there,” he shouted in a hoarse voice. “Put your hands in the air.”

      Angry that she hadn’t anticipated the gunman’s move, Julianne held his gaze, refusing to glance at Thunder, hoping the thug hadn’t seen her partner.

      “Put your hands in the air!” he repeated harshly.

      She continued to stare at him, knowing if she did as the gunman demanded, he’d shoot where she stood. He’d already killed the van driver, what more did he have to lose?

      Nothing.

      So why hadn’t he shot her already? Was he looking for information?

      “Fire that gun, and I’ll plant a bullet between your eyes,” a familiar, deep husky Texan drawl came from out of nowhere.

      Brody Kenner?

      The gunman jerked and glanced to his left. In that split second she fired at the arm holding his gun. Her FBI training didn’t fail her. He screamed in pain. Blood spurted from his right arm, and he dropped the weapon.

      Then he turned and fled.

      “Thunder, fetch!” Julianne didn’t bother to look over at the man she’d once loved, the man who’d just saved her life, but remained focused on not losing the perp.

      She wasn’t nearly as fast as Thunder when it came to running through the woods, dodging trees. And it seemed like just mere moments later when she heard tires squealing as a car drove away. She slowed down, gasping for breath, knowing it was too late.

      The gunman and whoever had run from the prison van had escaped.

      Frustration clawing through her, she headed over to the vehicle to check on the driver. The poor man was dead. She murmured a prayer, wishing she had something to cover him with before turning her attention to the issue at hand.

      “Thunder?”

      Hearing nothing but silence, her heart lodged in her throat. Had the dog jumped into the getaway car? Or had someone attacked him? But then her partner came bounding back through the woods toward her. When he saw her he let out his usual, strangely musical foxhound howl.

      “Good boy,” she said, bending over to give him a good rub, scratching the soft spot between his ears. “Good boy, Thunder.”

      “What in the world was that noise?”

      Taking a deep breath, she straightened and turned to face Brody Kenner. He was taller and broader than she remembered, but had the same dark hair and brilliant blue eyes that she’d tried not to dream about after he’d broken her heart six years ago. He was dressed in a deep brown uniform with a sheriff’s star on his chest.

      So he was the Clover County sheriff now?

      Somehow she wasn’t surprised.

      Brody looked