Credible Threat. Heather WoodhavenЧитать онлайн книгу.
statistics of survival wouldn’t be in her favor.
An oval mirror hanging on the wall opposite the desk in the living room showed her struggle. Her hazel eyes bulged against her taut, pale face, and the man’s lips formed a snarl over bared teeth surrounded by the black fabric of the mask. The visual image simultaneously horrified and cleared her mind.
She flung her legs out in a wide squat and dropped her weight like she’d seen her toddler nephew do a dozen times. The man grunted at the sudden change. His left arm pressed against her ribs so hard she cried out. He yanked her back again, but she sunk into her squat and he managed only to slide her another foot.
Rebecca twisted her hips to get her right foot behind the man’s left leg. She shoved her knee into the back of his leg in the hope it’d throw him off balance, but he didn’t budge. She bent her torso over fast, and his hand slid off her mouth for half a second before he yanked her hair instead. She screamed at the ripping sensation of her scalp, but as her chin lifted she saw a patch of exposed skin.
Her hand curled into a fist and she punched his neck. He gagged and released her long enough for her to elbow him in the stomach.
The cat screeched and the man bellowed. Rebecca didn’t look up long enough to see what the cat had done. She grabbed the shiny gold letter opener on the desk with her left hand and spun around, not even watching where she was going. The sharp edge slit across his arm and stomach. He jumped back with a roar.
“Get back!” She gripped the opener with her entire fist and shook it at him. His dark eyes watched her. He seemed more angry than hurt, with an air of confidence that he could overtake her again if he wanted. She didn’t wait to find out.
She bolted for the front door, an unbidden screech tearing from her lips. The front door had been left ajar. She slapped the panic button with her free hand as she flung the door fully open with her left shoulder.
She sprinted down the long driveway, listening for the slap of feet behind her. Silence only followed. The panic alarm never sounded. In fact, the alarm should’ve gone off when the intruder had entered.
Hidden in between the two evergreen trees in the yard was a black SUV-shaped vehicle. She flinched and ran to the far edge of the driveway, wondering if another attacker sat inside the vehicle. No headlights or engine sounds greeted her. The license plate on the vehicle was too dark to see, and there was no way she was going to investigate.
Her instinct demanded she yell “fire,” although she couldn’t remember why, only that she’d been taught to do so if in danger. “Fire!” she yelled so hard it stung her throat. She shouted repeatedly and ran down the quarter-mile drive to the main road. No one came to her aid.
Her feet stung from the loose chips of asphalt pressing into the thin layer of her socks. Her grandfather had no close neighbors. The lot sat on a two-acre hill overlooking the lake. She rounded the corner and ran into the street.
She chanced a glance over her shoulder but didn’t see anyone following her. Her attacker had worn all black. Or was she remembering correctly? It all happened so fast. It was possible he was out there, following her, watching her, waiting to pounce. That beast of a vehicle could suddenly come to life in a heartbeat.
She screamed for help, as if on a repeating loop, while she ran down the road. Her head swiveled constantly, searching for safety and possible threats. Headlights rounded the curve. She rushed toward them, flailing her arms.
At the last second, she realized it looked like she was waving a knife. She flung the letter opener to the side of the road and clasped her hands in front of her chest, pleading for help. The car didn’t so much as slow as it bared down on her.
Please, Lord.
It kept coming. The bumper barreled toward her. The headlights blinded her and she jumped out of the way. Pain rushed up her leg as gravel at the side of the road shifted underneath her toes.
Her balance lost, her fingers reached to grasp for something but met only air as she fell backward into the ditch.
* * *
Deputy United States Marshal Kurt Brock lengthened his stride down the hospital hallway. The smell of antiseptic burned the back of his throat. Tension in the back of his neck begged for some time in his massage chair at home, but time didn’t allow it.
He had made it home at midnight, after a successful capture of a fugitive in Montana, only to be beckoned by a federal judge at five in the morning. Hopefully the visit would be quick and he could go back to a much-needed couple days off. While he didn’t work for the judges, he served them. When a federal judge had a need, the Marshals jumped to try to accommodate.
He stepped in front of a closed hospital door where his coworker, Deputy Delaney Patton, stood guard. Kurt nodded and straightened his tie. They didn’t know each other well enough to chitchat—not that he was one to shoot the breeze—as their paths didn’t cross very often. Kurt usually worked alone. He lifted his chin and searched for any sign of the stocky judge.
“The judge went to the cafeteria to get coffee.” Delaney shook her head, the light brown hair from her ponytail swishing in an arc. “He won’t let anyone take a statement from her but you. Word from the boss is he wants you to lead the investigation. I’m to assist in any way you see fit. She’s ready to bolt, so the sooner you talk to her the better.” Delaney stepped to the side.
Kurt inhaled. Without a full briefing, all he knew was that the judge’s granddaughter had barely escaped a kidnapping attempt. He steeled himself for the worst. Seeing a child hurt was the worst part of his job. He pressed the swinging door. “US Marshals. May I come in?” he asked softly.
“Yes,” a soft, sweet voice replied.
He stepped past a curtain and felt his eyes widen as he stared at the gorgeous woman before him. This was no child.
She pulled her chin inward at the sight of him. She worried her lip and pulled up the hospital sheet with one hand. Her other hand brushed her curly brown hair, marred only by an oddly positioned gauze headband of sorts, away from her face.
Kurt realized his surprise at her appearance had likely caused the self-conscious actions. “I don’t mean to stare.”
“It’s okay. I know I must be a sight.”
“No, no, you look...uh—” He exhaled loudly. Sleep usually helped with foot-in-mouth disease and he was sorely lacking. He needed to start over and hope the deputy outside hadn’t heard his social blunder. “When I heard Judge Linn’s granddaughter was here, I expected someone younger. I’ve never come right out and asked the judge’s age—” Oh, great. First the granddaughter thought he was appalled by her appearance and now it sounded like he had opinions about how soon the judge had started having kids.
Her eyebrows rose before she nodded, a small laugh escaping. “He’s eighty-six. He’s almost got sixty years on me.” Her fingers rolled the edge of the blanket like a scroll.
“Judge Linn looks young for his age, then.” Kurt hoped that cleared the air so he could begin again. Over 10 percent of the sitting judges were in their eighties, but Judge Linn had more drive and passion than most sixty-year-olds. “Are you up for talking about what happened?”
She dropped the sheet from her fingertips. “Oh, yes.” She gingerly touched the gauze underneath her hair. “I could’ve gone home last night, according to one of the nurses, but Grandpa insisted the doctors keep me overnight as a precaution.” She eyed him as if trying to decide whether to trust him. “When Grandpa wants something, he usually gets it, so I didn’t argue.”
Kurt ignored that potential minefield. “Concussion?”
“Maybe. I didn’t pay much attention to what the doctor said after the events of the night. I...uh...kept trying to remember more. Identifying factors.” She turned her attention to the window. “The headache wasn’t much fun, either, but that’s gone away. Just a little stiff and sore.” She let her head sink back into the stack of pillows behind her. “I hit a rock near the base