Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Darby Foster dragged the plastic crate from the outdoor shed to the front of the house.
She’d already pulled out the ladder and leaned it against the house as she prepped to hang Christmas lights along the eaves.
It was a bigger project than she’d imagined.
But eleven-year-old David’s eyes would light up when he returned from camp and saw the house all aglow.
Seeing his happiness would make the work worth it.
He’d come home in a week, which gave her plenty of time to finish decorating.
While she was grateful to the church for sponsoring the winter camp for kids going through difficult times around the holidays, she missed her son.
Being away from him was heart- wrenching, especially with all they were going through.
But their circumstances made it better for him to spend his school break at camp than at home.
Darby opened the crate and pulled out a string of tangled lights.
If she’d dragged them into the house instead, she could have tackled the job with the warmth of a cup of hot tea.
Brent had always handled the house lights and, if she called and asked him to do it for David’s sake, he’d probably agree.
He’d been trying to cozy up to her in recent weeks, hoping for some kind of reconciliation.
That wouldn’t happen. Too much had occurred over the past year for her to fully trust her husband …
ex-husband … ever again. After years of too much drinking, too many gambling debts and affairs, and too much neglect of their son, she’d had enough.
The divorce had gone through eight months ago, and Darby now did her best to pick up the pieces of her life and start over.
She didn’t need to muddy the waters by asking him for a favor.
Darby stood and placed her hands on her hips.
The mild December day felt chilly with forty-five-degree temperatures and an overcast sky.
Untangling these lights would take her a while, so inside work sounded like the right choice.
The locked front door stood only feet away, but she didn’t have her keys.
She dragged the crate to the side of the house to enter through the garage door.
She made it to the driveway when a familiar brown and white car pulled to the curb and stopped. She sighed, recognizing the constable who exited the car and headed her way. He could have only one reason to stop at her home.
“Morning, Darby.” He approached the house, an envelope in his hands. “Looks like you’ve got another court summons.”
“That makes four in the past six months.” She took the envelope he handed to her.
Brent’s constant legal petitions had gotten old, and she hoped the judge would throw this one out just as he had the others.
The bills from the divorce continued mounting, and her ex still tried to drag her through the courts for more money.
Ironic, since his gambling had nearly bankrupted them to begin with.
With Darby’s housecleaning business struggling, she’d taken on the extra work of boarding and training dogs just to keep the bills paid. Including the large mortgage Brent had saddled her with.
She still had the inheritance her grandmother had left her.
But she hesitated to spend it unless absolutely necessary, since her uncle Grant Rushton was suing her for her portion of the money he thought was his.
Although her grandmother’s lawyer had assured Darby the money was hers, she was still wary.
Grandma’s death had finally convinced Darby to reclaim her life. She couldn’t keep putting herself and David through the ongoing drama of watching Brent hit bottom.
She opened the summons. To her surprise, it wasn’t from her ex. It was a notice of legal action by Suzanne Crompton, a former employee Darby had to fire last year. She was suing Darby for wrongful termination.
Tears pressed against her eyes, the frustration almost more than she could stand.
Who wouldn’t have fired Suzanne after catching her stealing from her clients?
Darby had her on video, digging through the homeowner’s jewelry boxes.
Then, to retaliate, Suzanne had the audacity to harass Darby and do everything in her power to undermine her and her business over the past year. Now, she’d filed suit too?
Between Suzanne, Brent, and Uncle Grant, she had nearly more than she could stand.
She thanked the constable, who was only doing his job. But something caught her attention as she watched him walk back to his car. A dark-gray pickup had parked down the street, a single figure behind the wheel.
She’d seen the truck earlier and hadn’t paid it much attention. But now…well, it hadn’t moved and the driver watched her house. Darby couldn’t help the uneasy feeling flitting through her at the idea of someone watching her.
She lifted the crate and carried it to the garage, entering the house through the mud room. Inside, she glanced at the truck through the door glass then turned the lock and lowered the garage door.
As it rumbled shut, she moved through the kitchen to the front of the house. Peeking through the curtain in the living room, she noticed the truck hadn’t moved. Neither had its driver. Her phone rang as she contemplated calling the police.
She glanced at the number and cringed. Her neighbor, Mrs. Buford, never phoned except to complain about the dogs barking. Was the extra cash worth her neighbor’s constant complaining?
“Hello, Mrs. Buford.”
“Darby, I’m trying to watch my morning preacher. But those dogs of yours are making such a racket, I can’t hear him. Can’t you do something to calm them down?”
She pinched the bridge of her nose, doing her best to keep from snapping at the woman. Darby had just been outside and hadn’t noticed the dogs barking, and she didn’t hear them now. “When was this? I was just outside and didn’t hear them.”
“Well, I heard them earlier this morning, while I sat on my back patio. I don’t want to file another complaint with the city. But if I have to, I will.”
They’d been through this spiel five times since Darby had assembled the kennel in her backyard near the fence line.
She should have known better. “I’m trying to find someone to help me move the kennel, Mrs. Buford.
I can’t do it myself.” Her neighbor was the epitome of the nosiness, watching everything going on in the area and complaining about most of it.
Again, Darby glanced through the curtain at the pickup. “Mrs. Buford, have you noticed that gray truck parked on the curb a few houses down? A man is sitting inside it, and it’s been there all morning. I think he’s watching the house.”
Another vehicle slowed and turned into the driveway. A white van marked Merrick Cleaning Supplies pulled up.
Right. The supplier for her housecleaning business. Her shipment of cleansers, mops, and paper goods had finally arrived.
“Never mind. I’ll talk to you later.” Darby ended the call.
She rushed to the back door and opened the garage door as usual, so she could put the delivery straight into the garage closet with the rest of her supplies. Two men climbed out, wearing familiar blue uniforms.
Something felt off.
These men were not her regular delivery guys. The bigger man’s uniform looked a size too small. The other wore a name tag reading Carter.
He wasn’t the Carter she knew.
Her gaze dropped. Caught the glint of something under one man’s jacket.
A gun.
Ice shot through her veins.
She spun and bolted inside, slamming her hand on the garage button. The door groaned as it tried to descend—but the van blocked its path.
The men rushed forward. They knew she’d figured them out.
The larger man reached the back door before she could close it. He jammed his foot between the door and frame, then leaned in with his full weight.
Her chest was ice.
She couldn’t stop them.
The door flew open and threw her backward. She slammed into the wall. Pain exploded through her body.
He lunged, grabbed her, and clamped a massive hand over her mouth and nose.
She couldn’t breathe. Panic exploded inside.
She kicked and twisted, but the second man seized her hands and bound them with duct tape. He wrapped her ankles, then slapped a strip across her mouth.
“You’re coming with us.”
They lifted her—one at her shoulders, the other gripping her feet—and carried her out to the van. The dogs barked and clawed at the bars of their kennels, sensing something terrible happening.
The men hurled her into the back of the windowless van. She hit the floor hard. The impact stole her breath, but not as much as the fear when they slammed the doors and darkness swallowed her.
Seconds later, the van roared to life.
David …
Tears streamed down her face. Her muffled sobs pressed against the tape.
Her earlier problems vanished. All that mattered now was survival.
She might never see her son again.
The van’s tires squealed as it tore out of Darby Foster’s driveway. Clay slammed his truck into gear and shot after it. At first, he hadn’t thought much of the supply van—until the two men hurled Darby into the back.
He’d let his guard down.
Caught off guard … not a good start, Clay.
He clenched the wheel, the catastrophe in Denton flashing in his mind like a warning flare. He couldn’t fail again.
Clay punched the accelerator, closing the distance as the van weaved through the edge of town.
Cold air seeped through the truck’s vents—forty degrees and overcast, the sky as gray as his thoughts.
The van veered onto the interstate and headed toward the Alabama line.
Noon traffic thickened, but he stayed on them.
He locked onto the details—white cargo van, Georgia plates. Two white males, dark hair, mid-thirties to early forties.
He spotted both through the side mirrors. No indication of a man in the back—unless someone had been lying in wait. If they hadn’t hurt her yet, they were saving it for later.
Maybe they’d lead him to the person behind this. A roadside sign indicated they’d crossed the state line into Courtland County, Alabama.
Both men turned and looked straight at him.
Clay’s gut sank.
They’d made him.
The van surged forward, darting through lanes. Clay slammed his palm against the wheel. He jammed down the gas pedal, pushing his truck to the edge. Traffic thickened, forcing quick maneuvers to keep up.
Suddenly, the van jumped the shoulder.
Clay cut off two cars and followed, tires spitting gravel as he gunned it. He didn’t know this stretch of highway or how far the shoulder would go. If they slipped back into traffic, he might lose them.
A car veered into his path. Clay hit the brakes hard, flung out his arm instinctively, and swerved. The car slid back into its lane.
Clay surged ahead. The van was still within reach—but now the driver stared back in the mirror.
A muzzle flashed.
The first bullet pinged off Clay’s hood. He ducked low and didn’t let up. More gunfire ripped through the air.
Clay grabbed his gun, cracked his window, and started to return fire.
Then, at the sight of the cars he was swerving by, he thought better of it. Too many innocents. He couldn’t risk gunfire.
His prey didn’t share his concern as they fired off several more shots.
He made a call in that moment.
Stop them now, or lose her forever.
The traffic boxed them in. No room to pass. No choice but to ram.
Clay punched the gas. The truck slammed into the van’s rear. The van bucked. Through the mirror, he saw the driver shout. Another shot rang out—had to be the passenger. Bullets clipped Clay’s door.
He rammed them again, harder.
This time, the van spun out of control.
It fishtailed, veered off the road, and plowed into the grassy median, sliding to a stop inches from a tree.
Clay locked up the brakes. Tires screamed. The truck skidded to a halt behind them.
He jumped out, gun raised and ready for a fight.
The two men burst from the van and bolted into the trees. He didn’t chase them. Not yet. Darby came first.
Gun drawn, he cautiously approached the van’s back doors. No movement so far, but he wasn’t taking any chances. He flung open the doors and raised his weapon.
The only person inside was Darby Foster on the floor, bound and gagged. Her green eyes locked on him, wide with terror. He stepped inside, and she recoiled.
“It’s okay,” Clay said quickly, holstering his weapon. “I won’t hurt you.”
Her eyes were wet with tears and her hair and clothes disheveled from the struggle. But he still noted she was prettier than her photo as he knelt and peeled the tape from her mouth.
She gasped for breath. “They grabbed me from my house,” she whispered, trembling.
“I know. But you’re safe now.” He drew the knife from his boot, and she flinched at the sight of it.
But as he used it to slice through the tape binding her hands and feet, Darby relaxed again.
She sat up, pale and shivering, and wiped her face.
Her chin trembled as she held back the torrent of emotion he saw in her eyes. “Who were those men?”
“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll find out,” he assured her. “They ran off. But we’ll find them.”
She crossed her arms, hugging her middle. Whether for comfort or warmth because of the chill coming in the open doors, he didn’t know. She’d been abducted without a coat, and the temperature hadn’t warmed.
He shrugged off his jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Her eyes flashed gratitude as she pulled her arms into it. A small smile played on her lips, but a frown quickly replaced both her smile and her unspoken thanks as she stared up at him. “Who … who are you?”
He pulled his credentials from his pocket and held them out.
“Agent Clay Walker, FBI. Someone placed a hit on your life, Darby. Whoever it was, I’m here to make sure he doesn’t succeed.”