Chapter 9
JAGG
Ipulled my gun just as Colson’s truck skidded to a stop at the edge of City Park.
The heat hit like a wall the second we killed the engine—thick, stifling, heavy with the scent of dust, sweat, and sunbaked pine.
The treetops were washed in moonlight, the ground shaded in shadows.
Two lampposts, around fifteen feet apart, barely illuminated the trail and the two silhouettes standing just past it.
Colson threw the truck into park, hand flying to his weapon. But I was already out the door, boots crunching dry grass as I hit the ground running. Behind me, he called in for backup, his voice sharp and urgent, but it barely registered.
The air was dense enough to choke on. A storm of cicadas screamed in the trees. Behind me, Colson called for backup, but his voice was fading fast.
Everything narrowed. My focus. My hearing. My world.
Active shooter or homicide. Immediate threat first—then the next, then the next. Prioritize. Neutralize. Move. That was the drill. Always the drill.
My boots thudded over the dry brittle grass, moonlight flashing off the slide of my Glock. Double grip. Barrel up. I moved fast and low, closing the distance with purpose.
Ahead, a pistol trembled in old man Erickson’s grip—his hand shaking so badly, it quivered like a leaf in a storm.
“Gun down, Erickson!”
The man didn’t hear me. Jacked up on adrenaline, I assumed. His gaze was fixed on the two bodies at the edge of the woods. One standing, one motionless on the ground.
“I said put the gun down, Erickson.” I stepped forward, voice steady but firm, cutting through the thick summer night. “This is Detective Max Jagger and Lieutenant Colson. We’ve got it from here. Put the weapon down.”
To my left, I caught movement—Colson, slipping through the tree line, staying low, skirting the trail like a shadow.
I edged in slowly, eyes locked on the old man’s shaking hand. His finger twitched on the trigger, just enough to make my stomach tighten.
Then everything happened at once.
Colson burst from the woods and slammed into Erickson, knocking him to the ground. The pistol flew, skidding across the dirt. The old man shouted, unleashing a string of curses that would’ve gotten him barred from Sunday service for life.
The gun was down. One threat neutralized.
I didn’t pause.
I pivoted fast and locked onto threat number two, my gun pointed directly at the dark silhouette’s head.
“Get on your knees,” I yelled.
Just then, a siren sliced the air and blue and red lights bounced off the trees, brief flashes illuminating my target. I blinked, my steps wavering. No way was I seeing clearly. Headlights moved along trees, stopping perfectly on the scene ahead of me, illuminating it as if it were on stage.
I froze, confusion—shock—momentarily clouding the focus I was known for. The sounds around me, the shouts, the flashing lights, everything faded as I looked at her.
A gust of wind blew a mane of long, curly, black hair across a pale, blood-spattered face. Her eyes, an emerald green, reflected in the headlights like a cat.
Fury radiated off her in waves.
She wore a pink tank top, gray leggings, jogging shoes. Normal. Innocent. And yet, her entire body was streaked in red. A spray of blood painted her chest and neck like some kind of twisted war paint. Her arms were dotted with it—her knuckles, her chin.
And in her right hand, steady as stone, was a gun.
Pointed at the man lying dead at her feet.
My hands moved on instinct, realigning my sights, but I knew—I knew—I’d already dropped off my target. Something I’d never done. Not once. Not in all the chaos, not in all the wars, not in all the blood-soaked rooms I’d cleared.
But I did then.
Because that was the moment.
The moment I saw her.
“Ma’am,” I said. “I’m going to need you to toss your gun to the left. Now. Right now. Release the gun from your hands.”
She said nothing, but I knew this could go either way. I’d seen the look before. Wild, unbridled emotion. She was a loose cannon.
“Drop the gun, lady. I will not say it again.”
I crept closer, keeping my eyes locked on that damn pistol she wouldn’t let go of.
I caught movement behind her and risked a glance at Officer Darby emerging from the trees at her back.
His eyes were fixed on her, bulging with adrenaline.
His knuckles white around the gun in his hands, pointed directly at that mane of wild hair.
The kid stumbled on a tree root, but caught himself.
A flicker of awareness flashed in the woman’s eyes, my first indication to suggest she was coherent, at least.
“Drop the gun.” Darby’s pitched voice sounded like a pre-teen at a Bieber concert. Normally, I’d laugh. But not this time. That shaky, squeaky voice was a sign of lack of control. Not good.
And then it hit me. This was the kid’s first dead body.
So then, my focus was split between him, his gun, and the woman, and her gun.
It was the shitshow of all shitshows.
I could not be patient anymore.
“Ma’am—”
Everything slowed.
The pistol slipped from her red-stained fingers in slow motion, catching a glint of moonlight before thudding to the ground. Her emerald eyes sparked—defiant, feral. Her hips shifted, one fluid pivot on her heel, and then—
She ran.
“Don’t shoot, Darby!” I shouted, snapping back to the moment.
I shoved my Glock into the holster and took off after her, boots pounding the dry dirt, heart slamming against my ribs. Three strides later, I launched forward, my body cutting through the humid summer air.
We collided.
The hit knocked the breath from both of us. She went down hard beneath me. Pain shot up my back as we hit the earth. Then came the flash of her head slamming into my jaw.
She had head-butted me.
She was fighting me.
Twisting, bucking, legs kicking like a feral horse. Her hands were small, but lethal, clawing at my arms, her body slippery with sweat against mine.
I can say with one-hundred percent confidence, that in my two decades of military and law enforcement, not a single man or woman had ever fought me after I tackled them. It was instant surrender, every time.
Not with this one.
This woman.
Her curls lashed across my cheek, strands catching on my stubble. Her skin was warm, flushed with adrenaline. The scent hit me next—sweet and wild, like coconut and heat and vanilla and danger. My grip tightened.
What the hell was I doing noticing the way she smelled?
She writhed beneath me again, hips twisting, thighs locked against mine. I was fighting to subdue her, but my pulse betrayed me—racing for a reason that had nothing to do with the job. My hands slid against her slick skin, and I swore, for a second, our breaths synced.
She wasn’t screaming.
She wasn’t begging.
She was daring me.
And I was losing focus. Fast. Then, frantic shuffles beside me pulled me back to the moment.
“Don’t shoot, Darby,” I ground out.
I caught her hand mid-air, twisted. Her body jerked, followed by a quick whimper, then, submission. Finally. Every inch of my skin stung from her scratches as I straddled her, pinning her arms above her head.
“Damn, woman,” I exhaled, getting my bearings.
Her hair, speckled with grass and twigs, fanned out around a face that I guessed was no older than mid-twenties. Her emerald eyes shimmered in waves of different colors against the blue and red lights flashing across her face. Stunning. Magical.
Unnerving.
We stared at each other, suspended in some strange, electric stillness. My chest heaved with effort. So did hers. And that was the first time I really saw her. And that was the first time I felt… something.
The blue and red strobes from Colson’s cruiser pulsed across her face in flashes, illuminating flawless, snow-white skin that appeared to glow under the moonlight.
Her lips were full and deep red, with a little indent in the bottom one.
A smattering of blood speckled the corner of her mouth and I found myself wanting to wipe it away.
It didn’t belong on that skin, that face.
Her forehead shimmered in sweat, her hair wet at the temples, little kinky curls framing her face.
Despite the fact I had her pinned, her body tensed beneath me, as if waiting for an opportunity to strike.
Those eyes daring me with a wild kind of defiance that told me she still hadn’t given up.
Fearless. That was the one word that materialized through the fog of my brain.
The woman was fearless.
“You got her?” Darby’s voice yanked me back to the present moment—again.
Keeping my eyes locked on hers, I addressed the rookie.
“I need you to check the man on the ground for a pulse. Call an ambulance. Then secure the scene and call in all available units. Have Tanya wake up whoever’s on call.
This place will be crawling with joggers at the first crack of dawn.
Check on Colson, get the medical examiner, and turn off your damn flashers.
And for God’s sake, Darby, tie your damn shoe. ”
“Yes sir. On all counts.”
“What’s Colson doing?” I asked.
“Interviewing the witness. Something Erickson, I believe. Want me to take that over?”
“I want you to do exactly what I just told you to do. And watch where you step. Don’t contaminate the scene.” More than this woman had, anyway, with her brazen attempt to flee.
As Darby stepped away, I spared a quick glance at Colson, who met my gaze immediately. I dipped my chin—good? He nodded, dipped his, returning the question. I dipped back—good.
I refocused on the woman between my groin.
“What’s your name?”