Smokies Special Agent. Lena Diaz

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      “Oh, no, you don’t,” a deep voice snarled behind her. Her attacker was back.

      She dived for the gun.

      He grabbed her right ankle and yanked backward.

      She cried out in frustration and kicked her legs. One of them slammed against his thigh. It was like hitting a solid rock. The impact had her clenching her teeth.

      He swore. Maybe she’d managed to hurt him, too.

      She kicked again, this time knocking his hand off her ankle.

      She lunged forward, desperately reaching for her SIG Sauer.

      Strong fingers clamped around both her calves like vice grips. He jerked her backward, so hard and fast that her jacket and shirt bunched up beneath her. Dirt and rocks scraped her belly, tracing a fiery burn across her skin.

      Twisting around, she brought up her knee toward his groin as she swung a left hook at him.

      He dived sideways, avoiding her knee, but not her fist. The blow caught him hard on his temple, making him grunt. But it didn’t slow him down. He threw himself on top of her, pinning her to the ground.

      She bucked her hips, trying to throw him off while she struggled to coil her left hand into a fist for round two. Good grief, he was strong, a powerhouse of muscles that made her Pilates workouts seem like a pathetic waste of time. She could probably outrun him. Running was one of the few things where she excelled. But she had to get him off her first. She drew back her fist again.

      He flipped her onto her stomach.

      Hot lava boiled across the nerve endings in her battered shoulder. Bile rose in her throat. She could feel him fumbling for something, his hips moving alarmingly against her bottom as he turned to the side. Was he going to rape her?

      “Let me go.” She struggled harder, pushing through the pain.

      He reared up and jerked her arms back. Agony seared her shoulder. She cried out. Dark spots swam in her vision.

      The feel of cold steel against her wrists had her stiffening. He was trying to handcuff her! She twisted and snaked against the ground, desperately trying to keep him from getting the cuffs into position. Her shoulder felt as if it was being shredded with a hot poker, but she couldn’t let up. If he got those cuffs fastened, she was as good as dead. Her vision clouded. She was close to passing out from the pain.

      “Fight, Remi. You can do this!” Her sister’s voice echoed in her mind.

      The ratcheting sound of the cuffs locking into place sounded behind her. He shoved his hands into her jacket pockets, took her cell phone. Then he ran his hands quickly up and down her body. She cursed at him and tried to arch away.

      “Stay there. Don’t move.” The command from her captor sounded more like an angry growl than an order. His weight lifted off her and once again he was gone.

      She collapsed against the ground, the fight draining out of her. There was nothing else she could do. She squeezed her eyes shut. I’m so sorry, Daddy. Please forgive me, Becca. A whimper clogged her throat. Becca. Her sometimes sweet, always impetuous, infuriating twin. Maybe it was fitting that they’d both die in the same place, together as always, cradle to grave.

      Remi lay unmoving. What was her assailant doing now? Without him weighing her down and her struggling against him, the agony in her shoulder became bearable. The black fog dissipated and the fuzziness in her head evaporated.

      A low murmur had her turning her head. The man who’d cuffed her was on his knees again beside his partner in crime, saying something to him. His neon orange backpack strained across his broad shoulders, the color contrasting sharply with his black pants and black shirt. The wounded man writhed on the ground, his teeth bared like a rabid animal caught in a trap.

       “Idiot! Stop wasting time. Get up while he’s distracted. Run!”

      Her sister’s voice was so loud inside Remi’s head that she half expected to see her forever-seventeen features twisted with fury.

       I’m so sorry, Becca. It’s all my fault. Everything is my fault.

      Pent-up grief swept through her like a tsunami, obliterating everything in its path. It drowned her in a sea of sorrow that was just as fresh now as when she was a teenager. Losing both her mother and her sister the same year had nearly destroyed her. The death of her father a little over a year later had destroyed her, or at least, the person she used to be. She’d had to remake herself into someone new just to survive. A harder, tougher Remi Jordan. Or so she’d thought. Yet here she lay, helpless, about to die. You’re right, Becca. I’m an idiot.

       “Stop feeling sorry for yourself, Remi. Get your lazy butt up and run! Now! You owe me!”

      You owe me. Her sister was right. She had to at least try. Remi tried to jerk upright, then gasped at the white-hot pain that shot through her shoulder. She shuddered and braced her forehead against the cold ground, gulping in short breaths of arctic air.

      “Get up!” Becca yelled again.

      Remi drew a ragged breath and awkwardly wiggled her body. Without the use of her hands to push herself up, it took a ridiculous amount of time to make it to a sitting position. But at least with her hands cuffed behind her back, the pressure on her shoulder was making it go blessedly numb. Maybe she could do this, after all.

      She braced herself to try to stand, and risked a quick glance at the two men. The one who’d cuffed her had his backpack on the ground beside him and had taken out a first aid kit. With one hand pressing gauze bandages against the injured man’s side, he sat back and reached his other hand toward his waist.

      Remi stiffened, expecting him to pull out a gun, maybe even hers. Instead, he lifted the edge of his jacket to reveal a thick black belt.

      A utility belt.

      With various leather holders clipped to it, like the kind that held handcuffs.

      And a two-way radio.

      A horrible suspicion swept through her, freezing her in place.

      He grabbed the radio and pressed one of the buttons on the side. As if he sensed her watching him, his gaze flew to hers. The radio crackled and he spoke into the transmitter.

      “This is Special Agent Duncan McKenzie. I located the woman the witness at the shelter reported seeing with a gun. But not before she shot a hiker. I need a medical crew up here, ASAP.”

      The blood drained from Remi’s face, leaving her cold and shaking. Her gaze flew to the man she’d shot. He was pale and still on the forest floor, his eyes closed. And beside him, hanging out of his pocket, was the gun he’d pulled on her.

      Except it wasn’t a gun.

      It was a cell phone.

       Dear God. What had she done?

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