Ambushed At Christmas. Barb Han

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      Deacon was already investigating. He’d covered the distance between them and the brush in seconds. He was fast.

      Leah swept the area and then moved behind him.

      “It’s nothing. Animals,” he said, sitting back on his heels. His hands were on his knees when he turned his head.

      A scream split the air.

      Deacon hopped to his feet and started toward the cry for help as Leah darted to his side. She’d drawn her gun and was sweeping the area from side to side with it as she tore toward the sound.

      Around the next turn, a man stood over a woman who was rocking back and forth on the ground.

      The cowboy ducked behind a tree almost at the same time as Leah. She noted his familiarity with law enforcement tactics.

      “Get your hands in the air where I can see them and stay right where you are,” Leah commanded.

      The man, who wore a hoodie, took a couple of steps back and thrust his hands in the air.

      “Freeze,” Leah said. She appreciated Deacon not going rogue and trying to take over the situation. Some people would. She kept one eye on Hoodie while she asked the woman, “Where are you hurt?”

      “My leg. I tripped over something,” the woman managed to shout in bursts through forced breaths. “Didn’t see those rocks and rolled my ankle.”

      “I’m going to get you some help. First, I need a little more information.” She could see the woman was in agony. One of the first rules of good policing was never run to an injured party. The man standing over her could use the move to his advantage and attack. Or, this could be a setup to throw her off base where she could be ambushed. There could be others waiting to jump out from the nearby brush. Leah had been trained not to take the chance. Given that she had a three-year-old son who’d be orphaned if anything happened to her, she doubled down on cautious police work. Her primary goal at the beginning of every shift—like most officers she knew—was to make it home to loved ones safely.

      “You, sit down and keep your hands where I can see them,” Leah demanded of the man.

      He dropped down.

      Leah wasn’t quite ready to holster her gun. “What’s your name, ma’am?”

      “Stacy Rutledge.” She was rocking back and forth faster.

      “Mind if I check on her?” Deacon asked.

      “Go ahead,” Leah stated.

      “You with the hoodie. What’s your name?” she asked the man sitting back on his heels with his hands folded around the back of his neck.

      “Kevin Lee,” the man said.

      For all she knew, Kevin wasn’t really his name. He might’ve intended to take advantage of a woman who’d been injured on her run. Of course, he didn’t have to be the murderer from last night in order to be a criminal. There were plenty of other types of crimes against women. Her imagination was running wild, getting the best of her on this one and she knew it.

      She thought about the fact that there’d been no witnesses to the crime last night, no description of the perp.

      Tonight’s run had been a bad idea from the start.

      No matter how hard she’d tried, she couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

      “Show me your face,” Leah demanded.

      “I need to move my hands to do that.” Kevin sounded scared and confused. His reaction said he was caught off guard and most likely didn’t have criminal intent.

      “Only enough to remove your hoodie,” she stated with authority.

      He complied, revealing short black hair. He had a prominent nose set on an otherwise average clean-cut face. No warning bells sounded based on his looks but she had no description of the man from last night’s deadly attack to work with and no criminal profile yet. Whoever had attacked Jillian Mitchell had been strong enough to drag her off the trail, subdue her and then sever her right ankle. Her body had been carried deeper into the brush. Dirt underneath her fingernails indicated she’d put up a good fight. There were other signs, bruises on her body.

      Maybe the investigator would get lucky and get a DNA hit.

      It was presumed the suspect had worn gloves.

      Investigators were still trying to determine if Jillian was murdered by someone she knew—which was the most likely case for a female—or if the attack had been random. Someone close to her would know her evening routine. The person had to be strong enough to subdue Jillian, drag her off the trail and carry her through the trees based on the fact that there were no signs of her being dragged there. Leah was certain she’d seen the woman before. The same people came out night after night. She’d found the same to be true in the mornings, too. After her rookie year she’d been placed on the deep night shift. The excitement and stress of the job caused her to start jogging in order to wind down enough to sleep during the day. Her clock had been turned upside down in those years. The routine comforted her.

      “What are you doing here, Kevin?” An obvious question but one that had to be asked.

      “Jogging.” His voice was incredulous.

      Of course, everyone feared a serial killer in the making but a next-day attack would have been unlikely in this scenario. Seasoned serial killers took time to bake.

      The lead investigator happened to be her ex and although she’d believed the split was amicable—it had been a long time coming—Charles Dougherty had been short with her ever since. Six months had passed now. With his attitude, she was beginning to question whether or not he’d agreed with her assessment or if he’d been playing along so she wouldn’t realize how much the breakup actually had hurt.

      She’d overheard a fellow officer refer to her as Cold-Fish Cordon when she’d walked past the men’s locker room. Charles had laughed, not defended her.

      And that was just the beginning of the cold-shoulder treatment she’d been getting from him ever since.

      “Any other reason you’re out here tonight, Kevin?” she asked.

      “Other than my nightly run? No,” he said with a quizzical look.

      A good investigator asked every question, and especially the ones she thought she knew the answers to. Because every once in a while a witness answered wrong and gave her the leverage she needed to keep digging.

       Chapter Three

      Kevin Lee was innocent. All Leah had needed was five minutes to assess his guilt or innocence. Her years of experience had honed her instincts. As much as she trusted them, she never took them for granted. But the man was as clean as Sunday’s sheets on a freshly made bed.

      An officer had arrived, followed shortly after by paramedics. The scene bustled with activity. Between the detour with Deacon Kent and the injured СКАЧАТЬ