Chapter 11
Kade
“Becca, stay.” Tone firm, I insist my partner back down as I wrap arms and legs around the two-legged bobcat.
Squirming, the lost woman bites and kicks, making me hold on tighter. “Miss. Stop. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Let go!” A flash of her knife nicks my skin, so I flip her face down.
“I’m Sheriff O’Malley. Your family sent me to find you.” Her arm twisted to her back, I wrestle a plastic cuff out of my vest.
“Not happening, Gollum. Sorry to spoil your fun. Hunting season’s over.” She struggles so hard, I worry zip-tying her wrists may dislocate her shoulder.
“Don't fight me, dammit.”
“Woof, woof.” Incisors bared, Becca’s about to pounce.
“Sit. Now.” This time she obeys, eyes locked on the threat.
“Atta girl.” While I pat her head, the other female tries to roll free.
“I’m not your girl, you bastard.”
“I was talking to my dog. Unlike you, she listens.”
The moment I remove my knee from the wildcat, she spins between my legs. While I study her glassy, dilated eyes, hers stare into the pine trees.
Crap. She’s high. Gentle, yet insistent, I tap her cheeks, “Briana. Look at me. What did you take?”
“Help, please! Fire-ire-ire!” Her screech echoes off the mountain face, each repetition more mocking.
Seven freaking days. I’ve spent a damn week tracking this — this addict? Possibly a killer? One who didn’t think twice about putting her family through hell.
Pulling her to her feet, I grip her face. “Your parents reported you missing—”
She lunges, clamping her teeth on the fleshy part of my thumb. Pitt bull style, she doesn’t unclench. My companion’s had enough. Leaping, she knocks us all sideways.
“Becca, stay!” Hand stinging, I glare at the termagant while binding her ankles with ty-wraps. “Bite me again, and next time, I'll let my dog eat you.”
After I drag her to a tree, I tie her to the trunk with a spare line from my pack. “Becca. Guard.”
Growling deep in her throat, my pet parks her butt.
Damned if I don’t wish I could do the same. “What the hell is wrong with you? What did you take?”
“Why don’t you tell me.” Chin jut out, spittle slides down her mud-streaked chin.
“Me? How the fuck would I know?” Jesus. My thumb’s bleeding so badly, it might need stitches.
“Oh, don’t play dumb.” She tilts her head to her shoulder where blood drips onto moss and pine needles.
Unable to reason with her, I stick to the script. “You are Briana Gainsborough, right?”
Tight-lipped, brows pulled together, she nods.
ID confirmed, I dig into my pack and bandage the split flesh on my hand. Next, I unzip her coat and tip water over her wound.
When she shrinks away, I sigh. “I only want to rinse it off.”
The wind picks up, blowing the Medusa-like knots in her hair. “Why? So you can continue your fucked up game of cat and mouse?”
Already bitten—metaphorically and literally—my temper snaps. “No, so you don’t die of infection.”
“Let me go. I promise, I’ll run this time.” As her eyes dart toward the woods, I shake my head.
She’s not all there. I probably should mirandize her, but any decent lawyer would have it thrown out. Off the record, I suppose I could find out why she murdered her lover and who, if anyone, helped her.
Squatting on my heels, I catch her still unfocused gaze. “Listen. The FBI will be here any minute. You might want to get your story straight. Why kill your boyfriend?”
“You’re going to frame me? That's it, isn't it?” She thrashes so hard, her zip ties bite her flesh.
I hate seeing more blood—but I need answers. Oozing calm, I lower my voice. “Your ex showed up unannounced. He attacked you. Sounds like self-defense to me.”
“No. You murdered him. Ever hear of forensics? You’re the one who should be worried, asshole.” She spits, like a fucking camel.
Damn. I almost felt bad for her. Almost. By killing Brett Johnson, she dug her own grave as well.
Sighing, I call Hunt. “Hey, bro, eighty-six the search. I found her. She’s fine, physically. Mentally, not so much. The woman is delusional—thinks I’ve been hunting her.”
Scott chuckles. “S’truth. You have been tracking her for days.”
Listening intently, my prisoner’s eyes widen. “Oh, Lordy. It wasn’t you in the woods.”
Finally. A flicker of clarity.
As I let out a long breath, about to cut her loose, she screeches, “It was him. Hey you, on the phone. How’s your head? Sorry, not sorry about the rock.”
Hunt laughs, calling out over the static, “Put me on speaker. Let me talk to her.”
“Go for it, dude.” Placing the SAT phone closer to her ear, I let the experienced Fed do his thing.
“Ms. Gainsborough? This is Special Agent Scott Hunter. I assure you, the man with you is the county sheriff. I'm here because your family is concerned about your safety. We’re going to find you all the help you need.”
“Sure thing, Hunter. Might want a better alias, that’s all I’m saying.”
The two of them go at it until my brother-in-law, normally patient as hell, finally gives up. “Call me when she’s rational.”
“Copy that.” After I hang up, I put my collapsible bottle to her lips.
As if I’m poisoning her, she clamps them shut, jerking her head away. “Mmm-mmm.”
“You're dehydrated. And it would be helpful if you told me what you took.”
She answers with dead silence.
Great. Not knowing how best to treat her, I pitch the tent. As she shivers, I build a fire. Like me, my dog senses her need and curls up, lending her warmth. After an hour or so, her shudders stop.
Just as I’m about to relax, it’s panic city.
Eyes wild, the runaway bolts upright. “Someone, please, help me!”
Careful to keep my distance, I sit cross-legged. “If you do have a stalker, you’re going to lead him straight to us.”
“Stop trying to confuse me. You’re him. Or working with him. Hunt? You think I wouldn’t catch the connection?” Her voice cracks. “Why did you kill Brett? What did he ever do to you?”
“How about you calm down and we walk out of here at daybreak?”
“So you can finish the job? Not happening.”
Tired of arguing, I stand up and flash my wallet in front of her face. “Read my damn ID.”
Then, I scroll through images on my phone. “This is my sister. Her husband is Scott, my FBI friend. This is their wedding. My niece. Me. Is any of this getting through to you?”
Brows furrowed, face caked with dirt, the brunette studies the screen. “Why are you doing this? Why do you care if I believe you?”
Her voice softens a little. “Please. Let me go. You can be whoever you want. I won’t tell anyone.”
Maybe I should try a different tack. “I think we met in Afghanistan. You were the helo pilot who disobeyed orders to save me. I was the Marine shooting insurgents, feet dangling, while my buddies hauled me inside.”
A small smile tugs at my mouth. “Once my buddies hauled me in, you turned and winked at me.”
Her eyes widen. “I thought you looked familiar.”
“I’ve been trying to find you for a week.” Eyes locked on hers I inch in closer. “Your text last Wednesday worried your mom.”
She blinks. “Wait. My gear was stolen Monday night—phone included. I couldn’t have texted her. It had to be him.”
My pulse spikes. Is it possible she’s telling the truth?