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Was that what he had to look forward to? Years of the kind of sadness in his eyes that he saw in his brother’s?
Tristan steeled himself as he and Fuzz walked into the sheriff’s office. He ignored his relief at seeing her safely at her desk. “Sheriff.”
“Chief. What can I do for you?”
So this was how they were going to play it. If she could pretend his hands had never touched her skin, that his mouth had never explored her body, and he’d never been inside her, then so could he. Another layer of ice coated his heart. That was good. The thicker the ice, the deader that organ would be.
“You forgot to take your sidekick with you when you left this morning.” He put Fuzz’s leash on her desk. “Keep him with you.” He wanted to ask where she was staying, but he didn’t. It was no longer his business. “Stay, Fuzz.”
“Tristan, I...”
He stopped at the door, then turned and waited.
“I wish...” She shook her head.
Either he was fooling himself, or that was regret in her eyes. “I wish, too,” he softly said, then left.
Johnny arrived as he was walking to his car. “Morning, Chief.”
“Johnny. Glad I caught you. You’re still sticking by the sheriff’s side when she has to leave the building, right?”
“I am, whether she likes it or not.”
“Good. Remind everyone to keep their eyes open when they’re out patrolling. These people, if they are in the area, aren’t going to wait much longer to make a move.”
“I’ll do that. If any of us notices any strangers that seem suspicious, I’ll let you know.”
“Appreciate it. Catch you later.”
Before he drove away from the sheriff’s department, he called Kade and got his voice mail. “Hey, brother. I don’t know if you’re at the base or out of the country. Wish you were home, though. We have some shit going down that would be right up your alley. If you’re around, call if you get a minute. Wherever you are, you better keep your ass safe.”
Shortly after he left the parking lot, a black pickup truck crossed the no-passing line and blew by him. Tristan lit his blue lights and turned on his siren. The pickup pulled over, and before approaching the driver, he called in the plate number.
He walked up to the driver’s door, and staying back behind the handle, he tapped on the window. “Roll it down.” The man wore a ball cap and had his head turned away but obeyed. In the instant that the man showed his face and Tristan recognized the driver and reached for his gun, Homer Drake leaned out the window and tased him.
That hurt was his first thought as he fell to the ground. His second was anger that he’d let Drake trick him. It pissed him off that the asshole knew to avoid his bulletproof vest. But he had to get up before Drake got out of the truck.
He willed his hand to pull the darts out of his upper arm. God help him, he tried. If they took him, they’d use him to control Skye. He couldn’t let that happen, but he couldn’t make his hand work fast enough. Drake slapped a cloth over his face, and his world turned black.
Chapter Forty-Six
Be at 3244 Laurel Lane in three hours with my money. Come alone.
Skye stared at the text. At last, Thomas Grant was making his move. He was a fool if he thought she’d come anywhere near him alone. It seemed stupid of him to give her his location and a three-hour window, and from what she knew of him, he wasn’t stupid.
She logged on to Google Maps and entered the address. Laurel Lane was a rural area, mostly cabins and mobile homes. The aerial view of the address showed a small cabin set back in the woods. She texted him back.
I don’t have your money. Never did.
Three hours, Sheriff. That’s plenty of time to get my money from the bank or wherever you have it hidden.
Well, it was worth a try. What did Grant have up his sleeve? Before his deadline, her deputies, Tristan’s officers, and his SWAT team would have the house surrounded. At least now they knew where the man was. She called Tristan’s cell and got his voice mail. She left a message to call her, that it was urgent. She was calling the police department main number when her phone dinged with another text, one containing a photo. When she opened it, her heart fell to her stomach.
“Oh, God. Tristan.” He was tied to a chair, one eye was swollen shut, and his lip was bleeding from a cut. Someone standing out of range of the camera held a Glock 22—the kind of gun Tristan carried—to his head.
This was her fault. She’d brought these people here. The text accompanying the photo sent an ice-cold chill through her.
In case you need a reminder to come alone.
