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He turned, still aiming his pistol, ready to fire. But at what—the vehicle or the bushes?
The numbness started in his legs, then crept up his body, until keeping his arms raised was too much of an effort. His head began swimming, and he rubbed his eyes, trying to erase the cobwebs. Dammit. He had to get this guy before whatever drug he’d injected into his bloodstream took over.
Hank glanced back at the bushes, which were now totally still. And the sound of the approaching truck or van was gone, too. So he had no idea where the hell this maniac was.
His only hope was to warn Sloane—now, before she got too close to the assailant to escape. He’d also call for backup. That way, the local cops would be here within minutes.
He twisted around in the direction Sloane was coming from. His turn was executed in slow motion. He could feel it. And Sloane was still way off in the woods, too far away to spot him unless he gave her reason to.
He tried to yell. Nothing came out. His lips were numb and unmoving. So was his brain. The dizziness was winning. He couldn’t feel his fingers, so he groped wildly for his cell phone. If he touched it, he never knew.
He raised his other arm to wave Sloane down. It only made it up halfway.
With a choked sound, he fell to his knees, then collapsed onto the street, unconscious.
Once I see Mr. Ford Focus hit the ground, I know I’m home free.
I press my foot to the accelerator, closing the distance to Artemis’s house. I park adjacent to her driveway.
There’s no time to waste. I jump out of the van, and run over to the stocky bodyguard, who’s crumpled in the road. I grab him by the legs and drag him over to his car. He’s a heavy SOB. But I’m more than up for the challenge.
Once I complete my job, I step back and admire my handiwork. To any passerby, it looks as if Mr. Ford Focus is taking a nap.
Which he is. A long, long nap.
Lost in thought, Sloane rounded the final curve of her run. As she neared her property, the hounds abruptly began barking and whining, running back and forth in an intertwining fashion until their leashes were tangled. Sloane squatted down to untangle them, her brows drawing together in puzzlement. It was unusual for her dachshunds to be so hyper. Especially after a three-mile run. No, not hyper. Agitated. Clearly, something was wrong.
She raised her head, surveyed the area.
There was a strange van parked next to her driveway. But that wasn’t unusual. Landscapers and other outdoor laborers who had projects on her block often left their vehicles wherever it was convenient. From where she stood, she couldn’t tell what type of tradesman the van belonged to, but she could tell that the van looked empty.
Nonetheless, she exercised caution. She approached the vehicle slowly, circled it, and confirmed that it was, indeed, devoid of passengers. She peered through the tinted glass, holding her hands on either side of her face so she could see better. Not that there was much to see. Just the usual trunk-type stuff—a gym bag, something that looked like a collapsed bicycle, some tools, a cooler, and two cases of bottled water. Nothing threatening there.
She glanced across the street. Hank was in his car, obviously too tired between quarter-mile sprints to check up on her with his binoculars. The poor guy. Twelve-hour shifts with a combative subject and a royal pain in the ass—namely, her—were rough.
Hank was a pro. He’d obviously checked out the van before returning to his car. So it was clear that he didn’t view it as a threat either.
The hounds, on the other hand, were still riled up. They were tense and growling, but they were staring away from the van and Hank’s car, their gazes angled toward a different spot on the street. Hank himself wasn’t a dog person, so he didn’t place much stock in the hounds’ superior awareness. But Sloane knew better. She knew how keen their instincts were. She wasn’t about to ignore their warning—even if it turned out that the only thing they were alerting her to was a nearby skunk on the verge of spraying her.
Sidestepping the van, she tightened her grip on their leashes, and began sprinting toward her house.
She was a short way down her driveway, when she felt the sharp sting in the back of her left thigh. She started, her first thought being that she’d been stung by a wasp. It hurt, a lot, and the sticking sensation warned her that the stinger might still be in there.
Carefully, she reached around, her hand coming in contact with something more cylindrical and substantial than a bee’s stinger.
It was a dart—the kind that was shot from a tranquilizer gun.
Someone wanted her unconscious. And there was only one someone that could be.
Her first instinct was to go for her pistol. She reached for it—simultaneously recalling that it was nonexistent. Her days of carrying a weapon were temporarily suspended.
She turned toward Elsa’s house, trying to peer through the thick cluster of evergreen trees that separated their properties. She couldn’t see anything—or anyone. But she did remember that Burt’s car had been parked in the driveway when she ran by earlier.
Could he really be their Unsub?
Feeling a wave of dizziness, she realized she was wasting precious time. Wrapping the hounds’ leashes around her wrist, she reversed her steps, weaving her way toward Hank’s car. She needed help—and she needed it now. Already her body felt as if it were moving in slow motion. She was on the verge of passing out, and she had no intention of doing so on a secluded parcel of land where her attacker could kidnap her and take off without being seen.
“Sloane!”
