The Prey (33 page)

Remember your training!

Training. Right. She took her free hand and went for his eyes, clawing at the one closest to her hand, grabbing onto the outer lid, and pulled.

He screamed, and released her other arm to hit her. Her head jerked to the side and she instantly knew her nose was broken.

She was scared, but she was also pissed off. He was just like her stepfather. Any woman who didn’t fall to her knees and comply with whatever sick game he had in mind was ripe to use as a punching bag.

She wasn’t going to die at the hands of some sick bastard who wanted to dominate women. She took her right hand, the one with the cuffs dangling from it, and with all her strength whacked him on the side of the head with the metal. Again. Again.

His cry of rage and pain scared her more than the threat itself. This man was not right in the head. She felt his hands on her throat, his thumbs pressed into her windpipe.

He was going to kill her.

No
! She refused to die. She brought her hands up through the V his arms made and reached for his eyes again. She was gasping, her vision began to fade, but she grabbed the small bones on the outside of his eyes and squeezed. She didn’t know if the maneuver would work when Mr. Wolfe taught it to her all those years ago, but she felt the bones crack in her fingers and she held on. Barker screamed in pain and let go of her throat, reaching for her hands.

She whipped the handcuff again and it cut his face. His body shifted enough and she kicked and scrambled out from underneath. She didn’t worry about her purse. She ran straight for the door, jerked it open, and bolted down the hall. Screams failed to sound from her raw and bruised throat.

She ran to the staircase, unwilling to wait for the elevator. She didn’t know if he was chasing her, but she sprinted for her life down ten flights of stairs, not stopping until she burst into the lobby and into the arms of a very surprised hotel assistant manager who just happened to be walking by.

“Good God, ma’am, what happened?”

Her voice raw, blood from her broken nose clogging her throat, she sputtered, “My. Date. My date tried to kill me.” She gave the room number and the assistant manager carried her to the couch in his office while calling security to the room.

And fifteen minutes later, he was the one to tell her the man was gone.

Rowan didn’t see John after the funeral. She didn’t understand why she felt oddly empty. After all, John had family and friends in from all over the country to pay respects to his brother. And Tess needed comfort and strength, something that John had in abundance.

But at three in the morning when Rowan woke from another nightmare, she wished he were there to hold her.

Foolish
, she thought as reached under her pillow for her Glock and sat up in bed. She’d lived with her nightmares on and off for twenty-three years without relying on a man to comfort her. Why now? Why John?

She held the cold gun in her hands and stared into the darkness outside the large picture window. It was a moonless night, but the stars were so bright they seemed touchable.

Bobby, come for me. Please. I need this to be over.

Her inner strength began to melt. The carefully constructed wall that had protected her for so long crumbled at her feet. She was a trapped animal, pacing, pacing, pacing. Waiting for someone to come and shoot her. A mouse being toyed with by a cat. As soon as the mouse lost hope and cowered, the cat killed its prey.

Was that what Bobby was doing? Toying with her until she broke? Playing with her until she screamed with rage or retreated into her mind with insanity?

Did he want to turn her into their father? A hollow shell of a man, a victim of his weak mind and guilty conscience?

What if she didn’t give him what he wanted? What if she didn’t plead for mercy or beg for death? What if she simply stood there and took whatever he intended to give her?

It wasn’t John she thought of just then. It was Michael.

And Doreen and the Harpers and the florist and pretty Melissa Jane Acker.

She wouldn’t let Bobby win. Not for herself. For
them
. The victims of his glee, the down payment for his plans. They deserved justice. They deserved peace in the grave.

Peace would only come when Bobby was dead and buried and rotting in hell.

Sleep wasn’t going to come, she realized, as she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side. She slipped into the running shoes that always had a place by the side of her bed and laced them in the dark.

Four in the morning. She couldn’t wake Quinn now for a run, but she’d love one as dawn crested over the Malibu mountains and lit the ocean. Five-thirty. Until then, maybe she could get some writing done. It had been weeks since she’d been able to write a word.

She quietly walked down the stairs and let herself into the den. She closed the door and booted her computer.

She wasn’t working on a fictional
House of Terror
. At least, she wasn’t writing the book she’d started three months ago. She’d realized after Doreen Rodriguez was killed she couldn’t write fiction anymore, at least not now. Maybe not ever. Not pretend murders and unreal evil.

But her new work was still called
House of Terror
. And her new work had the same crime.

Only the victims were real, the murderer real, the survivors real.

For the first time, she was writing true crime.

A huge weight lifted from her heart.

It was seven when John knocked on Rowan’s door. Quinn Peterson answered immediately, expecting him.

“Collins talk to you?” Peterson asked as he locked the door and reset the alarm, his voice rough from lack of sleep.

“Yep.” John glanced around the room, not realizing he was looking for Rowan until he didn’t see her. “Where’s Rowan?”

Peterson nodded toward the closed den door. “She’s been in there since four this morning.”

John frowned. He didn’t like Rowan’s habit of locking herself in her den. “Have you checked on her?”

The agent nodded as he led John into the kitchen. “I was sleeping on the couch and the sound of the computer woke me. She said she was writing and wanted to go running at six. But when I went in then, she hadn’t moved and told me to give her ten minutes. But then Roger called, and—” he ended with a shrug.

“You told her?”

“Oh, yeah. She’d strangle me if I kept any news from her. I told her everything we know about Bobby and the woman in Dallas.” He handed John a cup of hot, black coffee and refilled his own mug.

“And her reaction?”

“At first angry, then pleased that the woman got away. Almost emboldened. Then she went back to writing.”

“I’m going to talk to her.”
I need to see her
.

“Did Collins ask you about going to the safe house?”

John nodded. “I agreed.”

“Good.”

“I don’t think Rowan is going to feel the same.”

John walked down the hall and stood outside the den. Faintly, he heard fingers tapping on the keyboard in spurts of speed.

He hadn’t wanted to agree with Roger Collins’s request that he escort Rowan to a safe house while the manhunt for Bobby MacIntosh raged. He wanted—needed—to be there when they caught Bobby. The bastard who’d killed Michael. The bastard who had been tormenting Rowan until she almost broke.

He almost wanted Bobby to break into the house so he had an excuse to kill him.

But he didn’t want to endanger Rowan. Keeping her safe had become more important than anything else. Keeping her alive until Bobby was caught or killed, then keeping her by his side. How, he wasn’t sure. These feelings were new to him, confusing. Disconcerting.

He couldn’t just walk away with a kiss and goodbye.

She had become important to him in a short period of time. If anything happened to her, he’d never forgive himself. He trusted no one else to protect her, no one else to ensure her safety. So he agreed to escort her to the safe house and stay with her until MacIntosh was caught. It was one of the hardest decisions in his life, but he felt it was right. Keep her safe.

After the fiasco in Dallas, MacIntosh would be enraged. More likely to make mistakes. So it was only a matter of time.

The prostitute was under twenty-four-hour protection as well, Collins told John, in case MacIntosh went after her to finish the job. Apparently, she’d taken extensive self-defense training and had been warned by a friend that the man she knew as Rex Barker might be dangerous.

That knowledge probably saved her life.

John stared at the door, dreading talking to Rowan about the safe house, but the clock was ticking. It had to be done. He knocked once on the door and opened it.

Rowan sat at her computer, hands poised above the keyboard as she glanced over her shoulder. She caught his eye, and John saw a side of Rowan he’d never seen. A spark in her eyes, a light in her face—something was different. Maybe it was the slight smile on her lips—was she happy to see him?

He’d missed her. The realization hit him with an almost physical force and he would have taken a step back if he hadn’t stopped himself.

Yesterday, he’d seen her in the back of the church and wanted her at his side. For comfort. Had she been with him, the entire day would have been a little easier. But she’d left at the end of the service, and he had too many obligations to follow her.

It left a hole in his heart. Something he desperately wanted to fix now. Seeing her this morning almost made up for being apart the night before.

She’d said something, but he’d missed it.

“I’m sorry, what?” he asked, feeling like a lovestruck teenager.

“Is the girl okay? Sadie Pierce?” Rowan swiveled the chair to look at him. She wore gray sweats and a faded blue T-shirt, her hair pulled back, and she had on no makeup, but Rowan couldn’t have looked more appealing to him.

What was wrong with him? He didn’t form romantic attachments, especially with women he worked with. Or protected. That wasn’t his M.O., and he didn’t want to start now.

“She’s under protection,” he said. “Spent the night in the hospital and was released, minor injuries. She’s resilient.”

Rowan closed her eyes and smiled. “Good. I can’t tell you how happy I am that she got away.” She paused, looked pointedly at him. “Roger told you about the medical bag. The book. The book Bobby stole from my shelf.”

John nodded. “There’s no word on Bobby.”

“I’d hoped. Roger pulled out all the stops.” Her voice held a tremor.

He shook his head. “The cops are out full-force in Dallas; L.A. transportation hubs are looking for him. It’ll be hard for him to get back here undetected.”

“But not impossible,” she murmured.

“No, not impossible. He’s proven to be pretty smart, so unless he does something stupid, he’ll be here. For you, Rowan. We have to protect you.”

“You are. There are two unmarked sedans on the highway, and Quinn is holed up in my living room. We’re ready for him.”

“We need to do more.”

“What?”

“I spoke with Collins this morning.”

Her body stiffened. She was still raw over Roger lying to her. John didn’t blame her. He’d had a hard time being civil to Collins over the phone.

“And?”

“He wants you in a safe house.”

“No.” She crossed her arms as if her answer were final.

“You don’t have a choice.”

“Like hell I don’t!” She tossed her arms into the air and crossed over to the phone, picking it up and pointing it at him. “I will not run away and cower. Bobby’s going to come for me now. Good. We’re prepared. We’ll catch him, and that will be the end of that.”

She started punching numbers into the handset. John reached over and tried to pull the phone away, but she karate-chopped his arm.

“Dammit, Rowan,” he said, rubbing his wrist. “You know it’s for the best. They’re going to put a lookalike in the house, set a trap.”

“I want to be here. I need to be here!”

“You can’t. You’re too close to this.”

“I’m a trained agent, dammit.” She said into the receiver, “Roger, I’m not going to a safe house.” She listened, her face registering her anger. “You can’t do that!” A moment later, she yelled, “Damn you!” and slammed down the receiver.

She whirled on John, hit him in the chest. “You’re in on this!”

“I think it’s a good idea.”

“Like hell it is! I want to be here when they take him down. I can’t believe you’d rather run away.”

John steeled his jaw, his anger building. He grabbed her wrists and held them tight, pulling her close. His lips were inches from hers.

“I’m not running away, Rowan,” he said, keeping his voice low and calm. “I’m protecting you. Collins put you in protective custody for your own good.”

“Don’t tell me what’s for my own good,” she said, her voice vibrating, her eyes dark with pain and anger.

“Look at your behavior right now, Rowan. You’ve just proven you’re too close to the case. Don’t do this.”

“After everything that’s happened, I deserve to
be here
!” Her body shook, her eyes pleading with him.

John didn’t disagree with her. How could he? He understood vengeance. Justice. Doing something yourself because he was
your
enemy.

But Bobby MacIntosh had proven to be shrewd. He’d planned four of his murders perfectly. The escape of the last victim was partly his bad luck and partly his choice of Sadie Pierce.

John didn’t doubt that MacIntosh had a plan to get Rowan alone and kill her. After hurting her.

He couldn’t let that happen. John was confident in his abilities, but more important, he trusted his instincts. MacIntosh would blow up the damned house if he could. Anything to get Rowan. And John wasn’t going to lose her.

“Well, you don’t have a choice,” he told her quietly. “You have one hour to pack your things and then I’m taking you away.”

She stared at him with a savage look of betrayal. Why couldn’t she understand this was for the best? It wasn’t perfect, but it would keep her alive until they caught her brother.