Chapter 48
“Sheriff! Over here!”
Wyatt ran forward, cutting through the knee-deep saw grass.
Two of his deputies were crouched down . . . someone was on the ground.
Oh hell.
He lunged toward the huddle.
Clay Cooper lay there. He was talking. Wyatt surveyed the area. A shack—the one his contact had said he used for making drug deals—sat in the distance.
Wyatt shoved his deputy out of the way. He grabbed Clay by the shirt and shook him hard. “Where is Addy?”
“He . . .” Clay shook his head as if to clear it. “He took ’em to the river. He’s gonna drown them. He’s got a gun.”
Wyatt dropped the bastard, drew his weapon, and started forward. “Fan out, head for the river,” he shouted to the dozen deputies running toward them.
“He’s crazy,” Clay called after Wyatt. “I couldn’t stop him. I crawled out here and tried to do something, but I passed out again.”
The river’s song buzzed louder and louder in his ears. Wyatt’s heart thumped harder and harder. His feet wouldn’t move fast enough. He had to hurry! He couldn’t be sure how long the bastard had been gone with her . . . with them.
The crash of water reached his ears. He adjusted his direction . . . held up a hand to let those behind him know to go silent.
Muffled cries or wails were coming from the water.
He pushed through the brush and saplings. The moon’s full glow spotlighted the tangle of figures struggling in the water.
Wyatt took a bead on the tallest of the tangle.
One of the women shifted into the firing line.
“Dammit.” The women . . . Prescott he could make out and maybe Arnold .
. . were fighting against Jamison’s efforts to shove them back under the water.
The way they were moving . . . tangled up . . . he couldn’t risk taking the shot.
Where was Addy?
Wyatt counted the bodies again. One . . . two . . . three . . .
Fear jammed into his throat.
He ran toward the water.
Jamison whirled around, dragged Prescott in front of him. “Stop right there!” He held something against the back of her head.
Shit. Wyatt couldn’t tell for sure if he had a gun. Clay said he had one. “Don’t move, Jamison,” Wyatt ordered, inching closer.
“One more step, Sheriff, and I’ll blow her head off.”
Prescott kept screaming or crying . . . hell, Wyatt couldn’t tell. The sound was muffled by whatever the bastard had stuffed in her mouth.
“Where’s Detective Cooper?” Wyatt demanded. He divided his attention between Jamison and the water’s murky surface.
“She’s dead, Sheriff.” Jamison laughed. “You’re too late to save that princess.”
The water suddenly split in front of Prescott.
Adeline rose like a ghost, her arms leveled in a firing posture.
The discharge of the weapon echoed through the night.
Jamison’s head jerked back. He fell backward. Splashed into the water and sank.
Wyatt rushed forward.
Addy jerked at something that looked like a chain, took two steps toward where Jamison had fallen and unloaded the weapon into the water.
Two . . . three . . . four . . . five and six shots resonated, shattering the river’s hum.
The women surrounded her, hugging her against them. Wyatt had to push his way between them to get to Addy.
She turned to him, her face pale, her teeth chattering. “I told you that bastard wasn’t killing me.” She sucked in a shaky breath, then fell into Wyatt’s arms.
“You were right,” he whispered as he held her tight to his chest. “And you’re no princess, either. You’re the best damned detective I know.”