Chapter Nineteen
Outskirts of Julian, California
Thursday, January 12, 8:45 p.m.
“This isn’t creepy as fuck,” Connor said sarcastically, because it was, indeed, creepy as fuck out here in the woods.
They’d turned into three driveways searching for the Suburban. That the trailer might still be with it was a long shot, but Kit was going to remain optimistic.
And it had finally paid off. The fourth driveway was unmarked, without even a signpost bearing an address. The driveway itself was over a mile long, winding through trees that weren’t dense enough to be a forest, but still dense enough to create a feel of absolute darkness.
A light fog had crept in, not as a bank but as sinewy fingers twisting through the trees. Shadows seemed to lurk on the edges of the dirt driveway, and even their high beams only allowed them to see a few feet in front of them.
Anything could be out there. Or anyone.
Creepy as fuck.
And they were there in the middle of nowhere with no cell phone signal. She checked her phone again. Still nothing.
“Oh my God,” Connor whispered, slowing the car to a stop.
Because illuminated in their headlights was the trailer. There was no sign of the Suburban. About fifty feet away sat a small cabin, maybe five or six hundred square feet and rustic. It was dark, the whole area seeming to be abandoned.
“We should have brought a sat phone,” Kit muttered. “We need to call for backup.”
“Let’s take a quick look around and then head into Julian. We can get help from the sheriff’s office there.” Connor drew his weapon, grabbed a Maglite, and got out of the car. “If he is here, he now knows we’re here, too. I don’t want him to get away.”
On high alert, Kit followed Connor to the trailer.
“Fucker,” Connor breathed as he shined the light into the empty trailer.
Kit grimaced at the sight of the blood. It was dried and brown and covered the floor, the walls, and even the trailer’s ceiling. She swallowed hard. There was an old table in the middle of the trailer with a vise at its head and restraints at the four corners. She thought of the dents in Munro’s skull. Blood covered the table as well.
There were fingers and toes littering the floor, like garbage. This was where Brooks Munro had been tortured.
“Two sets of tire tracks,” Connor said, sweeping the trailer’s floor beneath the table with the light. “There was a car in here before the table was brought in. Those tire tracks are about the width of a Ferrari. I wonder if it’s here. Behind the cabin, maybe.”
“We can come back and check,” Kit said. “One of us can stand on the main road, while the other goes to Julian, just in case he’s here and tries to run. But I don’t want to be standing here. We’ve got no cell signal and there’s no cover.”
“Yeah,” Connor agreed, but he did one more sweep of the interior. “There’s also a set of single tire tracks. He had a motorcycle in here. And Sam’s rehab contact had said Neckbeard was holding a motorcycle helmet.”
“Connor, let’s go. Now.” Kit turned for the car, hoping he’d follow. She understood Connor’s desire to catch Neckbeard—whoever he was. But being here without backup was just plain stupid.
Reluctantly, Connor stepped back from the trailer. “We need to clear the cabin.”
“We need backup.” Kit’s instincts were firing on all cylinders.
He frowned at her. “You’re normally the one to go charging inside.”
Yes, she was. Was she growing soft?
Get out of here.
The voice in her head would not be silenced. “I’ll charge inside once I have backup. Let’s go.”
She was two feet from the car door when the first shot rang out, followed by a loud thump and a grunt of pain. Immediately she dropped into a crouch. A second shot was followed by Connor’s vicious, breathless curse.
“Connor?” she called, trying to stay calm.
For a moment there was no reply. “I’m…hit,” he called back, the sound of his breathing between words louder than the words themselves.
Kit’s heart dropped into her stomach. “Shit, shit, shit.” She crawled around the front of their car to where Connor lay flat on the ground staring up at the sky, one hand pressed to his upper thigh. The other hand still clutched his service weapon.
She looked around and saw no one. The shooter—presumably Neckbeard—was somewhere behind the tree line. She pulled Connor between the back of the trailer and the front of their car, then leaned over him. “How bad?”
“First shot…here.” He let go of his leg to touch his chest, leaving bloody fingerprints on his white shirt. “Vest stopped the bullet. But it hurts to breathe.”
Not good. The vest kept the bullet from piercing the skin, but it didn’t stop the bullet from breaking ribs or even puncturing a lung.
“How bad is the leg?” She pulled a pair of gloves from her jacket pocket and tugged them on. Her pocketknife was next. She closed Connor’s fingers around the Maglite. “Hold the light. I need to see.” She looked up and around, expecting to see the killer standing over them with his rifle pointed at their heads. But they were alone in the three-by-six-foot space.
As gently as she could, she cut the fabric away from Connor’s thigh. The fabric was already heavily wet with blood.
“It’s bad,” Connor gritted out. “Bleeding a lot.”
“I think he hit an artery. I need to get you out of here.” She pulled her belt from her pants and slid it under his leg, fastening and tightening it. The makeshift tourniquet was the best she could do. “Can you walk?”
Connor tried to push himself up, his face contorting in pain. “Can’t even stand.”
“Then I’ll drag you.” She hooked her arms under his and dragged him to the edge of their safe zone. She stopped at the last minute, turning her head to search for the shooter.
Another bullet whizzed past her ear, and she dropped to cover Connor’s body with her own. “Motherfucker,” she snarled.
If she hadn’t stopped to look, that bullet would have killed her.
“Just go,” Connor said, clenching his teeth. “He’s over by the cabin. Crouch behind the car and run into the woods. It’s less than a mile to the main road.”
“Not leaving you.”
Think, Kit. She needed to get Neckbeard away from the cabin, needed a clear sight line. Then she could take him down.
“You need to run, Neckbeard!” she yelled. “Did you think we came without backup? You have about two minutes before the road is blocked in both directions.”
How he’d get away was unclear, unless he had the motorcycle—or the Ferrari or the Suburban—stashed around the back of his cabin.
“Liar!” a voice called back, gravelly and deep. Like Simon Daly said the deliveryman who’d inquired about his wife had sounded.
“I heard you say you needed backup,” he added. “Don’t lie to me.”
Shit.
Kit leaned down to whisper in Connor’s ear. “I’m going around the trailer, try to draw him out. If he stays in that cabin, we’re sitting ducks.” And no one was coming to help them. “Stay here.”
“Help me sit up,” he whispered back. “I want to be able to see him if he comes through the cabin door. I can cover you from here.”
Kit helped him sit, wincing at the faces he made. But he didn’t cry out or moan. He was quiet in his pain.
Kit got down on the ground, propelling herself around the trailer with her elbows. It helped that the ground was wet. The slick mud eased her way.
When she got to the front of the trailer, she took a minute to breathe. In and out. That she could hear the words in Sam’s voice gave her a little comfort.
“You might as well run while you can,” she shouted. “We actually do have backup on the way. I called my lieutenant, told him exactly where we were going. Lots of people saw us coming this way, so there will be a shit ton of cops here soon. Considering you’ve killed a shit ton of people, I’d run if I were you.”
“Throw your gun away,” Neckbeard yelled back. “Both of you. Then we’ll talk.”
Kit inched her way to the front edge of the trailer. She could see the cabin from here. The front door was open, but all she could see was blackness. “Not gonna happen, Mr.Neckbeard. Come on out and I won’t kill you.”
Neckbeard laughed. “You won’t be killing me,” he said, his voice no longer deep and gravelly. It was melodious, almost like a song. “You’ll be too dead.”
Kit wondered if there really were two men. Multiple hands.
“Who’s your friend?”
“And they say you’re so smart.”
A glimmer of movement from the cabin caught Kit’s eye. Not from the front door where the man’s voice was coming from, but from the window on the far left. A light had been turned on, throwing a figure into silhouette.
Kit blinked in shock. It looked like a girl, and she was trying to open the window. She pushed and pulled, finally pressing her face to the glass in a silent cry for help before disappearing from the window.
The light in the window went out.
Shit, shit, shit.
He had a hostage. The girl couldn’t be more than twelve or thirteen.
And then Kit realized.
Peter Shoemaker.
Shoemaker had raped his daughter from the time she was nine years old. Kit didn’t know who the girl in the window was, but it made sense that the man would go after other girls now that Kennedy had left the home. “Shoemaker, it’s over. I’ve talked to Kennedy. I know what Munro was really blackmailing you over.”
There was a beat of silence. “You don’t know anything.”
It was a third voice, neither deep nor melodious. He sounded like the assistant principal they’d met the night before.
Kit ran through the facts in her mind. She’d questioned Shoemaker as the killer until Bert Ramsey’s wife turned up dead. Shoemaker would have been in court at the time of Mrs.Ramsey’s murder.
He could still have an accomplice. Or…
Or he hadn’t been in court at the time. He’d arrived in a taxi just after Kit and Connor had stopped at his house to interview Aylene. Conveniently timed. And it had also been convenient that no one could get in to discover his wife’s body until he’d arrived to look shocked.
Did he think we wouldn’t look at what time he was released from court?
He probably had thought so, because they hadn’t double-checked. They’d accepted his arrival at face value.
“You shouldn’t have run away, Peter,” Kit called. “If you’d stayed at your in-laws’ house, the worst you would have been charged with is sexual assault of a minor. Now we’ve got you on seven murders.”
“Nine,” he shouted. “And it’s going to be eleven when I’m done with you two.”
“I don’t think so. The longer we stand off, the more time my boss has to get here. I really did call him not too long ago and told him where we were searching.”
“You didn’t call him. No cell signal. I heard you say so.”
“I called him from a gas station. Used their landline. You’re trapped.”
“So are you.” The front door slammed, leaving them in silence, the only sound the rain now falling on the trees.
Kit watched the cabin, squinting into the darkness. He might come out the back, but she should see him approach.
And she did, but not until it was too late. A figure dressed in black slunk around the rear of the cabin. Kit fired twice but didn’t think she’d hit him.
She ran back to where Connor sat, now shirtless. He was still sitting up, one hand clutching his gun, the other pressing his shirt to his wound.
“If you don’t bleed out, you’ll catch pneumonia,” Kit muttered.
“How’d you know it was Shoemaker?”
“He’s got a young girl in there. I saw her through the window. You can’t see from here. I think our best bet is to get into the car and drive like hell. If he’s in the woods next to the cabin, he can’t get a good shot if we stay on the driver’s side of our car.”
“We’re letting him go? No way in hell. He’s killed nine people , Kit. We can’t let him kill any more.”
“I won’t let you be the tenth.”
Connor closed his eyes. “Fucking hell. You’re so goddamned stubborn.”
“Stop arguing. We’re wasting time. Come on.” She hooked her arms under his and started dragging him out of their little safe zone. Which wouldn’t be safe if Shoemaker was walking around with a goddamned rifle.
The roar of a starting engine cut through the air and Kit froze where she crouched, her breath sawing in and out of her lungs because Connor really did weigh a ton.
A moment later, the Chevy Suburban they’d been hunting hurtled around the cabin, passing the trailer and their department car. Kit flung herself over Connor, expecting more bullets to fly.
But none came. Instead, the Suburban raced down the driveway and out of sight.
“He’s gone,” Connor fumed. “We let him get away.”
“You’re bleeding out,” Kit snapped, but her heart was still in her throat. “I need to check on the girl, to see if she’s still there. If he took her, we might never find her.”
“Then go, goddammit.”
“I will, but first I’m going to get you into the car.” She dragged him to the rear door on the driver’s side, helped by him pushing with his uninjured leg. She repositioned her hold, putting his arm over her shoulder. “Now up. Use your good leg to boost yourself.”
Connor did what she asked and was finally lying on the back seat, his brow covered in sweat. He was pale, his skin clammy.
He’d lost a lot of blood and the clock was ticking. She needed to get him to a hospital or…
No. She wasn’t going to think about that. Kit eased his legs out the way of the back door and closed it.
Crouching low, Kit slid behind the wheel, her gun still in her hand. She was going to drive them right up to the cabin and then check on the girl.
But she froze when more shots cracked the air. The car rocked as three additional bullets hit it. Two shots later and the car listed to the passenger side.
Two of their tires were gone.
Shoemaker had come back.
She wondered how many bullets he had in his magazine. Could be ten, could be a hundred. Either way, she cursed herself for not knowing that Peter Shoemaker was a marksman.
She’d been snowed by his “I’m just an assistant principal” persona and now they were trapped. No, not trapped. She’d get them out of here.
More shots to the back of the car had her cursing.
He was moving again. She’d taken too long. She put the car in reverse and gently pressed the gas, her head only high enough to see over the steering wheel. If they got stuck in that mud they really would be trapped.
Another shot hit the driver’s window and it spiderwebbed, the bullet leaving a hole. Stopping the car, Kit ducked her head, knowing she’d never navigate that winding driveway if she couldn’t see. Especially with two flat tires.
Another bullet hit the window, lower this time. If she hadn’t ducked, she’d be dead.
The window wouldn’t take a third hit.
But she wasn’t going to die. Nor was Connor. Not today at least.
“You okay, Connor?”
“Yeah.” It was barely a whisper.
“Good. I’ll be back.”
She was going after Peter Shoemaker.
Kit wasn’t sure if Connor had lost consciousness or he knew it was pointless to argue, because he said nothing as she maneuvered over the center console to the passenger side and slid out that door. She crawled back into that sweet spot between their car and the trailer before poking her head up to see where he’d gone.
Then froze once more at the feel of cold steel against the side of her head. A handgun. He was armed with more than one weapon.
“Throw your gun away, Detective,” Peter Shoemaker said. “And stand up.”
Fucking hell.
Outskirts of Julian, California
Thursday, January 12, 8:45 p.m.
“They’ve stopped,” Sam said, staring at his sat phone. Navarro had told him how to track the GPS on Kit and Connor’s department vehicle through the SDPD server, and Sam had never been so relieved to see a little blue dot on a screen.
They’d watched Kit’s car meander up State Route 79, stopping for ten minutes here, fifteen minutes there.
Then the two detectives had stopped, turned around, stopped again, then turned back around. That had been twenty minutes ago.
Since then, the two detectives appeared to have been checking driveways. They’d gone up and down three driveways before coming to the fourth. It was a much longer driveway than the others.
“Thank God you brought the sat phone,” Navarro said. “I haven’t had a signal in miles.”
“I hike the deserts, often alone. Just me and Siggy. A lot of the places we go don’t get good cell coverage at all. Pays to have a sat phone in your gear.”
Gear he’d grabbed from the back of his RAV4 as he and Navarro had hurried to Navarro’s department vehicle. He also had water, power bars, a headlamp, and the night-vision goggles his parents had given him for Christmas. He never figured he’d use them, but his mother had made him promise to include them in his backpack.
Now he was glad he had them with him. Just in case.
“I’m sure they’re fine,” Navarro said. “This could be just a nice drive into the countryside. But I don’t like that we haven’t heard anything since Kit left that message.”
Sam didn’t, either.
Kit had called Navarro from a gas station, leaving him a voice mail that they’d seen the tan Chevy Suburban pulling a trailer on a security camera feed. The trailer had passed by on Wednesday night, about two hours after Munro had been abducted.
Since then, neither Sam nor Navarro had heard anything.
Sam had a bad feeling about this situation, but he usually did when he thought Kit was in danger. She can take care of herself. She always does.
“Have they left that property yet?” Navarro asked.
“No. They’ve been there for two minutes now. In all the other driveways, they immediately turned around.”
“They might have found something, then. Can you call the sheriff’s office in Julian? We might need backup.”
Sam dialed the number and put it on speaker.
“San Diego County Sheriff’s Office,” a woman said. “How can I direct your call?”
“This is Lieutenant Navarro, San Diego Homicide. We’ve got two detectives searching for a suspect’s vehicle along State Route 79. A colleague and I are en route to provide support. Requesting backup.”
“Location?” the woman asked.
Sam gave her the coordinates. “Sorry, we don’t have an address.”
“No problem. I’ll get someone out there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you,” Navarro said. “We’ve got nine people in our morgue. We think we may have found one of the killer’s hiding places.”
“Oh,” the woman said. “That’s the Munro case in San Diego. I’ll make sure this is put at the highest priority.”
“Thank you,” Navarro said again, then nodded to Sam.
Sam ended the call and went back to the GPS tracking screen. “They’re still there. We’ll be there in three minutes.”
Navarro stepped on the gas. “Less than that.”
They were silent until Sam saw the driveway. It was unmarked and he would have missed it had he not watched the blue dot that was Kit and Connor’s car turn that way. “There.”
Navarro slowed to turn, and then they both froze at the sound of rapid gunfire.
“Shit,” Navarro hissed, flooring the car.
Which lasted for all of ten seconds. The driveway—if that was what it really was—wound dangerously through the trees, and the car’s back tires slid on the wet dirt. Navarro swerved so that they didn’t plow into a tree.
“Dammit.” Navarro was white-knuckling the steering wheel.
More shots were fired and Sam had to fight not to be sick.
She’s okay. She has to be. Connor too, of course.
But Kit. She was Sam’s. Or she would be someday.
Let her be okay. Please.
Navarro drew a breath and began more carefully navigating the curvy road. The shots grew louder.
“If we keep going,” Sam said, “he’ll know we’re coming.”
“That might make him stop.”
“Or it might make him desperate.”
Navarro scowled. “I’m getting out. You wait here for the sheriff.”
That felt like a bad plan, but Sam wasn’t going to argue with the Homicide lieutenant. He was unsurprised when Navarro reached into his coat and drew his service revolver from its shoulder holster. He was surprised, however, when Navarro pressed the gun into Sam’s hands.
“But you need this,” Sam said.
“I wear a double shoulder holster, so I’ve got two handguns, and there’s a rifle in the back. You know how to use that?” Navarro pointed at the gun.
“I do. I practice with Connor at the range.”
“Good. Use it to defend yourself if you have to. Just…don’t shoot anyone.”
Sam wanted to ask why Navarro was handing a gun to him if he wasn’t allowed to shoot anyone with it, but he bit his tongue. “You want to take the sat phone?”
“Keep it in case the sheriff’s office calls.”
Navarro took off, leaving Sam sitting alone in the car.
More shots cracked the air and Sam’s stomach clenched.
He couldn’t just sit here.
He wouldn’t just sit here.
Climbing across the console of Navarro’s car, Sam got behind the wheel and searched for the EV mode button. Navarro’s vehicle wasn’t a Toyota like Sam’s, but it was a hybrid. Switching to the electric motor would allow him to approach silently.
He found the switch and put the car in drive, navigating the winding road while watching for a glimpse of Navarro, Kit, or Connor.
Instead, he came up upon the tan Chevy Suburban, parked diagonally across the road, blocking his path. He couldn’t get through.
And Kit and Connor wouldn’t be able to get out.
Shoemaker was here and he’d trapped them.
Grabbing the sat phone, his hiking backpack, and Navarro’s handgun, Sam left the engine running and jogged through the woods. And then his steps slowed.
There was the trailer.
And there was Kit and Connor’s car. The driver’s-side window was shattered.
Sam had to force his feet to keep going, staying just inside the tree line. His heart was beating so hard, he felt dizzy. And when he got closer, he was so glad he had kept going.
Kit was slowly standing. It was so dark that he only knew it was her because of her blond ponytail, which was in the hands of a man dressed in black. It had to be Shoemaker, but it was too dark to see anything clearly.
Sam ran to the side of a rustic cabin, dropped to his knees, and, as silently as he could, searched his pack. Thanks, Mom, he thought as he found the night-vision goggles he’d thought were such a joke. Slipping them on, he slowly stood, taking in the scene, staying in the shadows.
Shoemaker stood behind Kit, his gun to her head, his finger on the trigger.
No, no, no. Sam looked around, frantically searching for Navarro.
Oh. Sam shuddered in relief. There he was. The lieutenant had come through the trees on the other side of the cabin.
Navarro was focused on Shoemaker, who’d dragged Kit a few feet into the open. She’d been wedged into a small space between Shoemaker’s trailer and her department car but was now standing, her arms at her sides. Her hands were empty.
Shoemaker had forced her to drop her gun.
Sam could see the expression on her face. Stoic and defiant and…resigned. She thought she was about to die. Panic closed Sam’s throat and he had to drag air into his lungs.
Shoemaker yanked Kit’s head back by her hair, exposing her throat. Her head was right up against Shoemaker’s chest. “I wish we had more time together,” Shoemaker said, his voice carrying in the quiet of the night. “Although you’re a bit old for my taste.”
“So sorry,” Kit said, her breaths sounding choppy. Then her expression changed, her vision zeroing in on where Navarro stood with his rifle. “Wait,” she blurted. “Tell me something first.”
She knew help had arrived and, in true Kit fashion, she was stalling, giving Navarro time to set up his shot.
“Why?” Shoemaker asked, looking over his shoulder.
Sam moved deeper into the shadows. Navarro did the same.
“Because I’m curious,” Kit said. “And you’re going to kill me anyway. Was it just you?”
“Of course it was just me,” Shoemaker said with contempt. “You’re supposed to be so smart.”
“I didn’t think there were multiple doers,” Kit said. “Maybe I’m smarter than you think. Did you make all those different stab wounds because you were trying to throw blame on the others?”
“No. I was trying to make each of them think that the others had gone through with it. No one was going to come forward because they’d have to explain how they knew. Foolproof way of keeping everyone quiet.”
“Why not let Juanita Young’s hit man boyfriend do the dirty work for you?”
“And let him get his hands on Munro’s list? Until Hugh Smith brought us all together, I didn’t know how many people Munro was blackmailing, but once I did…”
“You knew you could recoup what you’d paid him.”
“And a helluva lot more.”
“Now you can’t.”
“Sure I can. I still have the list, and all you have is a bunch of he-said-they-said. And you don’t know what they actually did to get on the list to begin with, so they won’t go to jail for that. They’ll walk free. Just like me. They can wire me the money when I get to where I’m going.”
“Which is?”
“Somewhere very far away. Enough questions. You’re done.”
“ Wait. My parents.” Her voice cracked and Sam didn’t know if her emotion was real or feigned. “I won’t get to say goodbye.”
“Neither did any of the others. Now down on your knees. Unlike Munro, yours will be quick.”
Sam’s panic rose higher. He couldn’t watch Kit die. Why wasn’t Navarro shooting?
Sam glanced the lieutenant’s way to see that he was repositioning the rifle he held, moving a few feet to his left. Navarro didn’t have a good line of sight. He couldn’t safely shoot while Shoemaker had Kit in that position. He might either shoot Kit or cause Shoemaker to pull the trigger.
Either way, Kit would be dead.
They needed a distraction.
“Hey!” Sam yelled, before he knew he was going to do it. “Hey, Shoemaker, you fucking sonofabitch!”
Shoemaker spun, taking Kit with him, but at that moment, his gun was no longer pressed to her head.
Kit’s eyes widened at the sight of Sam, and then her eyes narrowed. She was pissed . But she was smart and she dropped to her knees.
Shoemaker was swinging his gun back up to Kit’s head when someone fired. Startled, Sam turned to look at Navarro, who looked equally stunned.
It was then that Sam noticed the window in the back seat of Kit’s department car was partially rolled down, a gun resting on the window’s edge.
Connor. That the detective wasn’t getting out didn’t bode well. He had to be hurt, and his injuries had to be bad or the man would have been running to Kit’s side. But for a long moment, no one moved.
Shoemaker had dropped to the ground, falling to his side, one hand clutching at his hip. But he wasn’t dead and he hadn’t dropped his gun. Kit was twisting in the mud to grab her gun, but Shoemaker was already pointing his weapon at her again.
Sam didn’t even pause to think.
He lifted Navarro’s handgun, pulled the trigger, and shot Shoemaker in the head.
The sound of the gun firing left his ears ringing, but Sam swore he heard other shots going off as well. Shoemaker didn’t move after that, his gun hand open, his weapon on the ground beside him.
Ripping the goggles off, Sam ran to Kit, making sure she wasn’t injured before kicking Shoemaker’s gun out of the way. Just in case the man tried again.
But…Shoemaker would not be trying again. Ever.
His head was…not there. Blood and brain matter were everywhere.
I killed a man. I just killed a man.
But Kit was alive. She knelt in the mud, her gun in her hands, which had started to tremble. “Sam?”
Sam dropped to his knees at her side, not looking at what was left of Peter Shoemaker. “I’m here. Are you hurt?”
“No. But Connor is.”
Navarro had run to join them. He took one look at the scene before him, then gently took the gun from Sam’s hand.
“You okay, Sam?” he asked.
I killed a man. “Yes,” he said aloud. “I’m fine.”
I’m not fine.
Kit climbed to her feet and held her hand out for Sam. “You’re not fine,” she said knowingly. “But you will be. You guys saved my bacon. Thanks.”
It’s worth not being fine. Kit’s still breathing.
Navarro grunted. “That’s worth the paperwork I’ll have to fill out for having our civilian consultant kill a suspect.”
“I’ll give my statement later,” Kit said, handing her weapon to Navarro.
Standard operating procedure, Sam thought. She’d fired it and there would be paperwork.
He’d fired, too. Bile rose to burn his throat. He hadn’t just fired.
He’d killed a man.
“Connor’s hurt bad,” Kit said. “I need to get him to the hospital.” She ran to the back of her car and cursed. “He’s unconscious. Goddammit.”
“Connor fired the first shot,” Sam said. “The one that hit Shoemaker in the hip.”
“Then he saved my life.” Kit swallowed hard and glanced at Navarro, who’d joined her at her car. “He’s bleeding out. We have to get him help.”
“Get him to Julian,” Navarro said. “Use Sam’s sat phone to call the police. They’re standing by to provide assistance. Ask them to get a medevac to meet you there. They don’t have a hospital, but hopefully they can get a doctor to meet you there as well to do…whatever they can do. I’ll stay here with the scene. Have them send me backup ASAP.”
“But we can’t get out,” Sam said. “Shoemaker left the Suburban parked across the driveway. Your car is just behind it, Navarro.”
“Then I’ll drive as far as I can,” Kit said, “and then you and I, Sam, can transfer Connor to Navarro’s car. I don’t think this car would get us far anyway.”
The tires were flat. Sam could see that now.
If we’d been a few seconds later…
“Come on, Sam,” Kit said gently. “I think you’re in shock. Come with me.”
Kit put him in the front passenger seat of her car as the numbness washed over him.
I killed a man.
Not just him. But I helped. He stared at his hand that had held the gun. It was empty now. But he’d fired. I shot him in the head and he’s dead.
Kit put the car in gear, rolling down the window to call to Navarro, who’d stepped away from the car. “Boss, there was a girl in that cabin. She might still be in there. I think Shoemaker abducted her, too.”
“Daniella,” Sam mumbled. “Her name is Daniella.”
“I’m gonna want to know how you know that,” Kit said. “And how you all came to save the day. But later.” She began slowly driving down Shoemaker’s long driveway, the car barely limping along.
I killed a man.
But then Sam looked at Kit, who held on to the steering wheel like it was a life preserver. She was pale and trembling, but still fierce.
And still breathing. She was alive.
I killed a man.
And I’d do it again.