Four #3
The potential puppet master behind the shadowy ring they’d been chasing.
But even as relief flickered through him, Trevor’s attention snagged on a blur of movement through the shattered back door—a woman in scrubs with what looked like a hospital badge dangling from her top, her hair pulled back in a tight bun, darting into the overgrown yard, her form cutting through the morning fog like a blurry haze.
“Runner!” Eli shouted, his K-9 surging forward and tearing through the yard.
Trevor was hot on their heels, Lark’s leash tightening in his hand. Her powerful body launched forward, the spaniel’s instincts fully engaged, but River’s Frankie and Eli’s Belgian Malinois, Wrangler, edged her out as they chased the perp.
Was this the OB working with Rolls or a nurse hired to check on Mia’s pregnancy?
Trevor’s pulse pounded in his ears as they bolted across the grass, the woman’s figure growing smaller with every stride, the gap closing.
Then, with a final, lunging snap of teeth, Eli’s dog brought her down.
Her scream cut through the air as she crashed to the ground, the weight of the Malinois pinning her in place.
Trevor skidded to a halt beside them, chest heaving, his hand tightening around his weapon as he covered the writhing woman. Her face was pale and gnarled with fear as she looked up at him, eyes wide, mouth working in silent, frantic denial.
He took a step back, dragging in a deep steadying breath as the task force closed in around them, the atmosphere vibrating with the crackle of radios and the distant wail of approaching sirens.
* * *
Trevor watched as the woman was shoved into the hard plastic chair in the interrogation room of the Denver police station.
Emmett uncuffed her and she rubbed her bare wrists.
She was still in the ill-fitting, pale blue scrubs they’d caught her in, the faintest smudge of dried blood streaked across one sleeve.
Her chest heaved, eyes wide and darting around the cramped space like a trapped animal’s.
Her matted hair clung to her damp forehead, and her knuckles were bone-white where her fingers gripped the edge of the metal table.
Emmett Dane leaned against the wall, his broad shoulders casting a shadow over the stark whiteboard behind him, his gaze fixed on the woman with a mix of scrutiny and thinly veiled frustration.
He stepped forward, pulling a chair around to the side of the table, its metal legs scraping against the tile, the sound echoing off the cinder-block walls.
He spread out a stack of photographs, letting them spill across the table in a chaotic fan of faces and addresses.
The woman flinched as a picture of Mia Andrews landed directly in front of her, the teenager’s hopeful smile frozen in time, a stark contrast to the desperation flooding the woman’s face now.
“You’re going to tell us where Mia Andrews is,” Emmett said, his tone a low, controlled rumble. He bent forward, planting his elbows on the table, his eyes narrowing as he held her gaze. “Where are they keeping her?”
For a split second, her eyes flicked toward the photo before she forced them away, focusing instead on the wall behind him as if it might offer some escape.
Her jaw tightened, and she gave a quick, frantic shake of her head.
“I don’t know that name,” she whispered, her voice a thin, strangled thread.
But her hands twitched, fingers curling in on themselves, and Emmett caught the tell—a crack in her practiced defiance.
“Don’t lie to me.” He jabbed a finger at the picture. “You know something. You wouldn’t be in this if you didn’t.”
“I don’t!” she choked out, then clamped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide with regret.
For a moment, all they heard was the faint hum of the overhead lights buzzing like trapped wasps.
She shook her head more forcefully this time, hair swinging, tears brimming in her eyes.
“I was just desperate for the money he was paying me. That’s all. ”
Emmett straightened, his jaw clenching as he took in her trembling form, the sheen of sweat on her brow, the way her pulse hammered visibly at her throat. She wasn’t just scared. She was terrified. Of them, yes, but of something else more. Someone else.
“Who?” He pressed on, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous growl. “Who paid you?”
Silence. Her hand slipped from her mouth, and she sat back, lips clamping into a tight line, eyes refusing to meet his gaze.
Trevor, standing just behind Emmett, stepped forward, his eyes locking onto the woman’s phony medical ID clipped to her chest. He bowed in, fingers brushing the edge of the plastic card. “This is fake. We know it. You know it. Why don’t you tell us who you really are?”
She swallowed hard, eyes darting between them, and for a fleeting moment, he thought she might crack. But then she forced her shoulders back, her expression hardening into a mask of defiance.
“I’m not saying anything,” she muttered, fingers clenching so tight her nails bit into her palms. “Not without a lawyer.”
Trevor straightened, exchanging a glance with Emmett.
Frustration simmered beneath the surface, the sense that time was slipping through their fingers.
Mia was still out there, and so was Derek Rolls.
And then there was this so-called Trigger, if it wasn’t Jared Leader, they kept hearing whispers about—a phantom in the background, pulling strings.
They needed answers, but this woman wasn’t going to give them. Not yet.