Shadowing Her Stalker (Arkansas Special Agents: Cyber Crime Division #1)

Chapter One

Most of her life Cara Beckett dreamed of being one of those actors who had to wear a disguise to get through an airport undetected. Yet, here she was—rich, famous in a way she never imagined and completely incognito as she walked through Little Rock’s Bill and Hillary Clinton National Airport dressed in soft, faded jeans and a flowing white tunic.

When she booked her flight, it hadn’t even registered she’d be traveling on October 31. She’d been too wrapped up in thoughts of getting out of California to notice anything different at LAX. Then, when she changed planes in Dallas, a woman who was either dressed as a witch or channeling her inner sorceress sat down across the aisle from her in the first-class cabin. As the other passengers boarded, she noted at least three men dressed as a high-profile European soccer coach, a couple teenagers in full pop star mode and multiple women wearing sweaters or appliquéd sweatshirts with pumpkin or fall motifs. She’d forgotten all about Halloween.

For the first time in a week, she breathed easy. She was definitely not in LA anymore.

The young woman working the rental counter was wearing a wedding dress with strategically placed rips and tears and a smattering of bright red paint Cara supposed was meant to be blood. Her heart lodged in her throat as she inched closer to the counter. She was glad the girl didn’t know actual blood was darker. Thicker. And definitely didn’t smell like craft paint.

One week ago, Cara found out her personal information—full name, address and mobile phone number—had been posted on a forum favored by self-proclaimed tech wizards. Not being a techie herself, she’d never heard of the message board, nor had she thought the breach of privacy would turn out to be a real threat. She’d thought the doxing was puzzling. At first, she was annoyed. She couldn’t figure out why anyone would care who she was or where she lived. She wasn’t truly a big shot in the tech sector.

But her lack of industry credibility was exactly what angered the people coming after her. And in the last week they’d gone beyond angry to terrifying.

Someone attacked her neighbor Nancy as she walked her dog two nights ago. Nancy had paused to let her Pomeranian, Buster, use the tiny patch of meticulously maintained lawn in front of Cara’s Los Feliz property as his toilet, though Cara had expressly asked her not to. Cara found Nancy sprawled on the grass bleeding from stab wounds to her abdomen and side with her ever-faithful Buster barking his head off.

Nancy would recover, thank goodness, but the incident had left Cara shaken. She didn’t become truly terrified until detectives looking into the stabbing showed up at Cara’s door the night before asking if she had reason to believe someone would wish to harm her. They believed she had been the intended target. According to Nancy’s statements to the police, her assailant had called the name “Cara” when he jumped from the passenger seat of a nondescript gray sedan. He’d also repeatedly said, “Breathe in life,” while stabbing poor Nancy.

“Now, go out there and breathe in LYYF,” was the tagline Cara said at the end of each lesson or meditation offered by the app she’d helped create.

To some in the tech world, she was an actress who lucked into doing free voice-over work. They believed Chris Sharpe and Tom Wasinski were the geniuses behind LYYF, the lifestyle and social application downloaded on over seven hundred million mobile devices each year. She was simply the face. And the voice. Few would call her the key to the app’s success, though the truth was, the business hadn’t been going anywhere until she’d stepped in.

At times she wished she never had.

Curling her lips in, she bit down, breathing deep and evenly through her nose. She needed to keep her anxiety at bay for now. In ninety minutes, give or take, she’d be safe at home with her parents. All she had to do was get in a car and drive. Soon she’d be about as far from Los Angeles as a person could be—mentally, if not geographically. Far from a world where people measured every success against their own failures. In a place where internet and cellular service were both still spotty and the residents had more important things to worry about than whether they had Wi-Fi available 24-7.

Ahead of her, a man argued with the rental agent. Apparently the largest vehicle available was a midsize sedan and they’d reserved an SUV. She glanced over and saw a harried woman trying to keep track of three kids under the age of ten. Cara smiled sympathetically. It was clear both mother and father were fighting a losing battle.

When he finally stepped aside, resigned to shoehorning his family into the available Hyundai, she took her place at the counter with a wan smile. Holding up her phone so the agent could scan her reservation, she said, “I’ll take whatever you have.”

The young woman pulled up the reservation, asked Cara to answer the rental agreement questions on the tablet mounted to the counter and, with a relieved smile, offered her a map of the area.

Cara waved it away. “No, thank you. I know where I’m headed.”

“You can choose whichever car you like from section 104,” the agent said as she slipped a printed ticket into a sleeve and wrote “104” across the front in black marker. “Thank you and Happy Halloween.”

Cara took the paperwork from her. “Thanks,” she replied tiredly.

Making sure her massive leather tote was still riding securely atop her roller bag, she wheeled out of the line. The man behind her stepped up, peering closely at his phone, thumb scrolling frantically. “Hang on,” she heard him say to the clerk. “I can’t find my reservation email.”

Should have used the app , Cara thought as she strode toward the exit.

She spotted a ladies’ room and decided to stop. She had a long drive ahead and too much coffee in her system. After washing her hands, she flicked a few drops of cold water at her face in hopes of freshening up. By the time she exited, she saw a brown-haired man dressed in the Midwestern male uniform of khaki pants and a polo shirt making a beeline for section 104. There were only two cars parked there—identical silver subcompacts.

She smiled as he slowed to a halt behind her. “Should we flip a coin?” she asked.

He shook his head, but barely glanced in her direction as he held out a hand. “Ladies first.”

“Thanks.”

Too worn out to do anything but keep moving, Cara approached the vehicle on the left. Not bothering with the trunk, she stowed her roller bag in the back seat, then tossed her tote into the wheel well on the passenger side. The fob for the ignition was in the cup holder. She put her foot on the brake and pressed the button and the engine purred to life.

She saw the man move to the driver’s side of the rental beside hers as she pulled her door shut. Mentally mapping her route out of Little Rock, she was fastening her seat belt when the passenger door opened and the khaki-clad man dropped into the seat beside her.

“Don’t scream, no one’s around anyhow,” he said in a gruff whisper.

Wide-eyed, she stared at the gleaming weapon pointed at her. Gunmetal gray , her brain supplied unhelpfully. She looked up to find her new passenger had pulled a safety-orange balaclava down over his head and topped it with a leaf-and-twig-printed cap.

A flash of a long-forgotten trip to the feed store with her father came to mind. Home from California for Thanksgiving, she’d been about the only person in town not dressed in forest browns and bright orange. Her father had cracked himself up musing about how camouflage was never more effective than in the fall in Arkansas.

It was true. Too true.

“What do you want?” She pointed a trembling finger at the tote half-crushed under his feet. “There’s cash in my wallet. Take it. Take what you need.”

The man gave a derisive snort. “I am taking what I need. Now drive, or I’ll shoot you right here.”

In the moment, the notion of being left for dead in a subcompact rental parked in section 104 of a nearly deserted parking deck sounded like the worst possible fate. So she shifted into gear, and pulled out of the space.

“Where do you want me to go?”

“Get us out of here,” he ordered.

She chanced a glance at her passenger as she pointed the car toward the exit. No, she hadn’t imagined the gun. Or the khakis. Or the polo shirt. But even if she could describe them down to the weave of the cotton of his shirt, the police would still be looking for a needle in a haystack.

There was absolutely nothing notable about the man beside her.

Cara eased out of the parking deck and into the lane leading to the airport exit. There’d be a gate to clear. Someone would see them. She’d be able to get help.

Consoling herself with the knowledge they were in a well-populated area, she headed for the parking attendant. But as they rolled to a stop behind another car, she saw none of the white booths with their sliding glass windows were manned.

To her horror, she saw the velvet-cloaked arm of the wizard family patriarch wave his rental agreement at a scanner attached to the side of the booth. The electronic gate lifted, and the overstuffed sedan rolled away.

When Cara pulled up to the booth, she gazed up into its emptiness in bewilderment. The man beside her bumped her elbow. She jumped and looked down. Had he nudged her with the gun? No. His hand. He shoved the rental envelope she’d tucked into her tote at her.

“Stop messing around,” he growled.

She blinked back a hot rush of frustrated tears as she took the sleeve bearing the printed barcode and held it up to the scanner.

The barrier lifted, but she couldn’t seem to take her foot off the brake.

“Drive,” her abductor ordered.

“Drive where?”

He turned in his seat to square up with her, the gun clutched in his right hand. “Go. Now.”

He uttered the commands through clenched teeth, and Cara’s brain engaged. She hit the gas and the small car lurched forward, engine revving. The road leading away from the single-terminal airport was nearly deserted. As she approached the entrance to the major arteries surrounding the capital city, she instinctively lifted her foot from the gas.

“Take the ramp,” he ordered.

She put on her signal, but took the right turn at a high rate of speed. Cara chanced a glance at her passenger. He gripped the console between the seats to keep his equilibrium, but kept his weapon pointed in her direction.

The bypass ended a few miles from the airport, one lane leading to downtown Little Rock and Interstate 40. She gravitated toward it, intent on following the route to her parents’ ranch in a snug valley of the Ozark Mountains, but the man beside her had a different plan.

“Stay in the middle lane,” he instructed.

“But—” she began to protest.

“Middle lane,” he repeated, cutting her off as an eighteen-wheeler forced its way out of the merge lane, neatly boxing her in.

She followed the flow of traffic onto Interstate 30 South. The other lane circled the south side of the city on its way to Texas. Cara’s mind raced across the miles ahead. She wasn’t overly familiar with the southwest corner of the state. She’d never been to Texarkana or any of the other towns between Little Rock and Dallas. And the only times she’d been to Dallas, she’d flown.

“Where are we going?” she asked, speaking only to fill the silence. Perhaps, if she got him talking—

“We’re going to drive until I tell you to stop.”

She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles glowing white against her skin. “You can take the car. I don’t care,” she offered. “Take it.”

“I am,” he said, a note of smug amusement in his tone. “And I’m taking you with it.”

His insouciance annoyed her, but she kept her eyes glued to the traffic ahead of her. The last thing she needed was to tick off the man with the gun. Traffic was light as they raced past the small bedroom communities flanking the highway on the other side of the county line.

They flew past strip malls and chain restaurants, budget hotels and car dealerships. Logic told her the thriving commercial areas denoted miles of civilization beyond. They were driving through what passed for urban sprawl in a sparsely populated state. But it wouldn’t last long. Soon, there wouldn’t be anything but large tracts of forest dotted with tiny towns. Sleepy, slightly run-down communities with a post office, possibly a diner or barbecue joint and, if they were lucky, a gas station.

Sure enough, shopping centers gave way to a few edge-of-town motels. A billboard advertised a travel plaza at the next exit. Green highway signs listed the mileage to Hot Springs, Arkadelphia and Texarkana.

As the highway narrowed to two lanes in each direction, Cara forced herself to take three deep, deliberate breaths, counting in her head as she cycled through each one.

“There you go, breathe in life,” the man beside her said, his voice faintly mocking.

Cara’s blood ran ice-cold.

Breathe in life. Breathe in LYYF. She’d ended every recording she’d ever done for the LYYF app with those soothing words.

Now they terrified her.

The guy who’d pointed a gun at her in an airport parking deck had twisted them. Taunted her with words meant to reassure. He knew who she was. This wasn’t some random carjacking. Had he been waiting for her. Why? This could not be happening.

Clutching the steering wheel, she turned to look at him, wide-eyed. “What did you say?”

“You heard me,” he answered, waving her disbelief away.

“You know who I am?”

She cringed as the words came out of her mouth, but her brain was blown and she wasn’t feeling up to playing cat and mouse. What was the use when the cat was holding her at gunpoint.

“Do you buy into all the woo-woo meditation stuff, or do you do it because they pay you to say it?”

He sat there pointing a gun at her and he expected her to answer questions about her job?

She clenched her jaw as one of the three semis boxing her in decided he wanted to work his way into the right lane. She slowed to avoid being clipped as the big rig edged over. A sign advertising a gas station with a fast-food franchise flashed past her window. The truck ahead of her slowed. Cara looked to her right and spotted the brightly lit station.

The driver ahead of her sped up as they approached the ramp. Cara accelerated too, but when she checked her mirror, she saw the semi on her rear bumper was signaling his intent to exit.

They were almost past the ramp when Cara jerked the wheel hard to the right, throwing her passenger against the door.

The tires kicked up loose gravel from the shoulder.

The man beside her cursed a blue streak.

The driver behind them indicated his displeasure by blowing his horn at her.

A trailer hauling wood chips sat stationary at the bottom of the ramp, right turn signal flashing. Cross traffic on the county road at the bottom of the ramp did not let up.

“What do you think you’re doing?” the man holding the gun yelled, reaching across to grab the steering wheel.

Cara jammed on the brakes, her arms locked against the steering wheel to counteract the laws of physics. Her passenger boomeranged into the dash. Behind them, brakes screamed in protest and the driver laid on his horn.

The moment they jerked to a halt, she thrust the gearshift into Park, popped the latch on her seat belt and rolled out the driver’s door onto the gritty berm.

The man shouted, but she didn’t look back.

She ran.

Cara ran flat out, streaking down along the side of the trailer filled with fragrant wood shavings. Oblivious to the drama playing out behind him, the driver let off his brakes enough to make the hydraulics sigh with anticipation. Cara skidded into the ditch running alongside the ramp, thanking the stars above she’d had sense enough to wear sneakers for the plane ride.

She watched as the truck crept forward a few feet, then jerked to a stop again. Glancing behind her, she saw a battered pickup hurtling down the county road. She heard another shout, followed by a terrifying pop.

Cara didn’t wait for the man to get a second round off. Using the pickup as cover, she darted across the ramp in front of the semi, praying the driver wasn’t tempted to inch any farther into the intersection.

Breathless, she slid down the slope on the other side of the ramp. Peeking over tall grass, she saw her passenger sliding behind the wheel.

Flattening herself in the damp grass, she held her breath as she heard the rev of engines. Another blast of impatient honking told her the driver stuck behind her abandoned rental had had enough shenanigans for one day. Seconds later, she heard the rumble and sigh of air brakes again.

Cara raised her head enough to peer over the edge of the culvert. Beyond the beams of a tractor hauling a flatbed filled with spooled steel, she saw the taillights of a silver subcompact flash as it sped up the entrance ramp on the opposite side of the country road.

He was taking off without her.

Relief pulsed through her veins.

He was gone.

Panting, Cara lowered her head to rest on the backs of her trembling hands. Cold dampness seeped into the knees of her jeans. Her palms throbbed. She had no doubt she’d find them speckled with glass and gravel from her dive for safety, but she didn’t care.

He was gone.

She was alive.

She was safe.

“Breathe in life,” she murmured. And she did. She drank in the cool, damp air until her lungs were full to bursting, and held it there.

Then, a pair of battered boots tramped down the grass right in front of her. Every oxygen molecule she’d ingested exploded out of her when a man spoke.

“Do you have some kind of death wish or something, lady?”