Protective Duty. Jessica R. Patch

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      But was she going to take over his case? Trust him or not? That was the rest of his sentence. “Not right now, no.” She did want to poke around on her own. Besides, she needed the air. Time to process that Eric Hale was about to be her new partner in a sense. Time to escape the enticing masculine smell of soap, cologne and leather that messed with her head.

      “But you will want to.” His clipped statement said it all. He had no forgiveness, and the fact she was here to try to solve a case he couldn’t only furthered his irritation. Super.

      “I will. And I’ll need everything you’ve got on the previous victims. You can send it over to the FO. I’ll review them in the morning.” She’d rather work at the field office. Her turf. New, but still.

      His nostrils flared, and he clenched his jaw before he saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

      She ignored his sour jab, switched on her flashlight and stalked across the park. The wind bucked up, whistling through the trees. Crescent moon. Eerily quiet. Her feet sank in the soft ground. The smell of winter coming sooner rather than later enveloped her. She shone the light, hunting for anything that might have been left behind. A fairly clean park. Not much litter. A few cigarette butts. She edged toward a hedge of bushes that opened into a dense wooded area. Secluded. Interesting that he placed the victim in a more open area and not here, hidden from the parking lot and nighttime joggers. He wanted her found, and he was willing to risk being seen. Brazen...or stupid. No. Not stupid or he’d have been caught by now.

      Something nestled near the tree line. A scarf? Might be the victim’s or the killer’s. She bent over and caught a whiff of cheap, heavy cologne and cigarette smoke.

      Hair spiked on her neck.

      From behind, an arm coiled around her neck in a python-like grip. He yanked her against him, pulling her farther into the remote wooded area.

      She grabbed for her sidearm, but he was quicker and snatched it from the holster.

      “Ah, ah, ah,” he growled as his wiry beard scraped against her ear.

      Would he shoot her? Shudders rolled down her back as the scene from Ohio chiseled back into her bones. No. He couldn’t be crazy enough to squeeze off a round. Every officer on the scene would come running. They may not be able to see out here, but they’d hear gunfire.

      He tossed her Glock several feet away.

      “Who do you think you are? Miss High and Mighty-FBI.” His breath smelled of smoke, beer and mints that hadn’t done their job. “You got no business here.”

      Bryn’s heart kicked into a sprint.

      Fear slicked down her back in arctic streams; a wave of hysteria clouded her brain, stopped her from reacting.

      Spots dotted her vision.

      “You better back off before you find yourself dead like those other ones.”

      No.

      That’s why she was here. For the other ones. To fight for them.

      Adrenaline raced, and Bryn rammed her elbow into rock-solid abs. He barely flinched but tightened his grip, and a tattoo covering his hand came into view.

      Fight. She had to fight.

      She brought her foot down on his. He didn’t budge. She glanced down. Boots. Probably steel-toed.

      Her attacker dragged her even farther into the woods as he assaulted her ears with vile, hateful words.

      “Agent Eastman! Bryn! Hey...you! I’m not sure how to address you these days.” Beams of light pulsed in their direction. “Where are you? Marco!”

      Eric.

      If she could manage a sound, she’d call out to him. She dropped her legs like deadweight, refusing to make this easy for the brute.

      Bryn’s eyes burned. She needed more oxygen. With this grip, a whimper wouldn’t make it from her lips. She sank her teeth into the bionic man’s arm. His heavy coat would probably protect his arm from the bite. But she’d try. By granny, if she had to break every tooth out of her gums she would.

      “That’s your cue to holler back ‘Polo.’ Bryn? You out here? I’ll even take an ‘over here.’”

      The savage grabbed her hair, which hung in a low ponytail. “This ain’t over.”

      She rammed his rib cage again, but he thrust her in the air and into the cluster of bushes he’d been dragging her away from. Her head popped against the ground with a thud, and white-hot pain seared up her back. Boots pounding and rustling bushes sounded in the distance. He was getting away. Whoever he was. Had he been out here all along, hidden away watching from a distance? Was he the killer? She clawed breath into her lungs. Sweet, wonderful breath. Her throat ached, and pain continued to streak down her spine into her tailbone.

      “Over...over here,” she croaked.

      * * *

      Eric had needed a minute. He still needed a minute. How was Bryn Eastman back in Memphis? And not just back but an FBI agent? He had five billion questions and no time to ask even one.

      Fancy meeting you here.

      Seriously? That’s what came from his mouth the second he laid eyes on her? He’d rehearsed time and again what he’d say if they ever met again. That line had never made it into the script. He flashed his light, hunting for her through the foliage.

      “Eastman!” His voice echoed through the silent park. A secluded place to dump a body or attack someone—like Bryn.

      Bryn Eastman. FBI. Eric gave his head a good shake. Chief had said the female agent being sent to assist specialized in victimology and profiling, and had an impressive track record for such a young agent. She’d worked on the Dayton Date Rapist case, the Cleveland Creeper case, a few others in Iowa, plus one in New York.

      All successes.

      But his Bryn Eastman?

      Whoa. Where had that come from? She wasn’t even close to being his. Hadn’t been his since their relationship tanked when she was still in college and he was working as a patrol officer. When her brother had turned out to be a serial killer who had set his sights on Eric’s sister, Abby.

      Which was why they could never be together again.

      But that fact hadn’t stopped his heart from slamming into his rib cage when she cast those blue eyes on him. Long golden hair secured at her neck. Creamy skin and high cheekbones. She was the epitome of the All American Dream Girl. A California dime—if she were from Cali and not Memphis. Either way she was still a ten.

      Where was she? Was she ignoring his calls on purpose?

      “Bryn?” Cold pinpricks traveled up his spine. Why wouldn’t she call out? About twenty feet ahead, a flock of blackbirds burst from half-naked maples. He cast his light in the direction.

      Was that a figure?

      His gut tightened. His pulse galloped. God, please let her be okay.

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