Hunter's Fall (46 page)

Authors: Shiloh Walker

Tags: #Romance, #Contemporary, #General, #Paranormal, #Fiction

BOOK: Hunter's Fall

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All of it necessary to ground himself, something he had to do around her more and more.

He needed distance between them, a great deal of distance. But somehow, he didn’t think she’d like it if he suggested she quit. And as his unit was rather unique, if she didn’t quit, the only way he could get distance was if one of them requested a transfer.

Dez would never do it. She’d joined the FBI specifically to come work for him—she
needed
it.

Her dark brown eyes moved past him once again, lingering on the porch, and there was an expression in them that he had seen all too often. Haunted, angry and determined. That haunted look appeared in her eyes for one reason and one reason only.

She had a ghost riding her.

Shit
. He might have intel on the outside, but it looked like Dez had intel on the
inside
, and if she did, he couldn’t risk a child . . .

“What do you see?” he asked, his voice flat and cold.

H
ER name was Richelle. In life, she had been a petite, pretty little angel, one who had probably driven her mom and dad insane, one they had probably loved dearly. Her death would have left a hole in their hearts, and Dez wondered if they were the open sort . . . the kind of people she could sit down and talk to.

Could she tell them what she was? What she did? That she’d seen Richelle, spoken with her? Would it help them? Hurt them?

Could she tell them that Richelle had helped her save another child?

That’s assuming you
do
save her
, she thought grimly, as she followed Richelle’s wavering form down the hallway. Taylor was at her back, shadowing her every move.

It was just the two of them, and it had taken every persuasive argument she had in her arsenal to get him to do this. If there was a child in the house, they needed to get her out. Dez had eyes—the ghost would help her, she knew it clear down to her bones, and she’d been right.

Richelle was doing just that. A petite, avenging angel. She was hauntingly lovely, and death had made her ethereal.

And angry.

Right now, her killer was ensconced in the front of the house, staring entranced out the front window and mumbling to himself.

Richelle insisted he had a girl with him, but Colby had spent the past twenty minutes saying otherwise. Hell, he was probably
still
out there trying to convince the rest of the team Dez was wrong.

Colby sensed people.
Living
people.

If there was somebody else in there besides their killer and Colby didn’t feel them, then chances were the child was dead, and by letting in Dez,
alone
, with nobody but a ghost for a guide, they were likely giving the bastard a potential hostage.

Taylor, naturally, had agreed. So she wouldn’t go alone. She could live with that—after all, she wasn’t stupid.

Nor was she helpless. She held her gun in a loose, ready grip.

Hostage, my ass
.

She might not be the typical agent and she may not be the badass some of them were, but she’d made it through the same training they had, and she still kept herself in pretty decent shape. The day she couldn’t handle herself against a child-molesting, motherfucking pervert was the day she’d put down her gun and take up knitting—just let the ghosts drive her crazy, because she wouldn’t be much use to anybody, anyway.

She’s in the closet.
Richelle’s ghostly voice, audible only to her, drifted back to her.
Gave her something to make her sleep.

Dez hoped it was just drugs, but logically, she knew Colby was likely to sense a child, even one knocked out by drugs.

Not many things would keep him from sensing the presence of a human.

Dez wanted to ask Richelle if she knew what the guy had used, but logically, she knew it was a waste of time. Richelle was only ten—a wicked smart ten and surprisingly clear-minded, especially for one of the departed. But still, the child was only ten.

And now, she’d never get to see eleven, or twelve . . . never go to the prom, never get her first kiss.

Richelle stopped by the closet and Dez halted a few feet away. She looked by Richelle to the front room and then glanced over her shoulder to Taylor. He eased around her, the bulky bulletproof vest he wore breaking the smooth, perfect line of his suit.

He stopped just a breath away from Richelle and his eyes, flat and hard, stared down the hallway, watching, waiting.

With him watching her back, she laid a hand on the doorknob.

Slowly, oh, so slowly, she turned it.

O
UT front, the rest of the team waited.

With Taylor in the house with Dez, Special Agent Joss Crawford was in charge and, unlike Jones, he didn’t believe in keeping a polished veneer that never showed any sign of emotion.

So when the message came up on his phone, he didn’t bother suppressing the urge to swear. No, it ripped out of him in a long, ugly torrent, and then he looked over and pinned Colby with a stare. “You were wrong, Mathis. Lincoln found a child and she’s alive.”

T
AYLOR suspected some manner of psychic ability was more common than people thought.

He didn’t have any classifiable skill—wasn’t telekinetic the way some of his people were and he couldn’t talk to the departed, as Dez liked to call them. Nor could he hone in on the trail of a kidnapped child the way Taige Morgan, one of his sometimes “contract” employees, did.

He recognized the gifted, though. It was how he’d lured so many of them to his unit. He recognized them and that was his “gift,” so to speak, that and knowing how to bring them inside, get them to work for him.

While he wasn’t getting any of those vibes from this house, he wasn’t in the least bit surprised when the bastard they’d been sitting on came roaring around the corner, like he’d been somehow alerted to their presence.

Instinct. It wasn’t that far removed from some level of psychic skill, and this pervert’s sick needs were about to land him in the worst sort of hell.

His name was Edward Mitchell. He liked to pick up pretty little girls just shy of puberty and rape them, dump their bodies in the James River. He wasn’t going to go down easy.

They’d almost made it to the back door and Taylor even had a believable story concocted to explain why they’d been in the house to begin with—they did have a warrant, but they hadn’t bothered to explain that when he’d picked the lock.

Dez had reason to believe there was a child in danger in this house and she was carrying that child in her arms now.

But as Taylor went to open the door for her, Edward came rushing down the hall, huffing and puffing, his pale, pasty skin gleaming with sweat and his eyes half wild.

“No!” he screeched.

And he raised a gun.

Taylor raised his own and fired, but the bastard managed to get a shot off. And as the sick fuck fell, lifeless, to the floor, Taylor turned. And the first thing he saw as he turned was the brilliant, dark wash of red staining the side of Dez’s neck.

T
HE night passed in a haze of bloody memories, the wail of sirens and the bright, blinding lights of the emergency department.

They tried to keep him out in the waiting room.

But either the blood they saw in
his
eyes, the badge or the gun he didn’t bother to keep concealed convinced the medical staff that keeping him out was going to waste precious time.

Judging by the amount of blood Dez had lost, he didn’t know how much time she had.

The child was already at the local children’s hospital, alive . . . and that was all he knew. For the first time, he’d turned over the reins to another, allowing Crawford to take command while he stayed with Dez. God—Dez.

She couldn’t die.

Not like this. Fuck, she couldn’t die. Not Dez.

Although he knew her, too well.

She’d be okay going down knowing she’d helped save a child, and that’s what she’d done. The girl was alive . . . because Dez had shown up when she had. Alive because of Dez and the ghost of another victim.

Another victim . . . somebody else Taylor hadn’t been able to save. Another scar on his soul. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t known. It never mattered. All that mattered was that he hadn’t gotten there in time, hadn’t pieced it together in time . . . and another child, another little girl had been lost.

Dez . . . would she become another scar on his soul?

Her face flashed in front of him, her warm brown skin a sickly, ashen gray, her eyes wide with shock. The blood had soaked her clothing. Mitchell, damn the bastard. He was either a damn good shot or Dez just had lousy luck. Her vest would have protected her torso, but the bastard’s bullet had hit her neck.

Stop it—
he had to hold it together for now. At least long enough to make sure they took care of her. She was still alive. That meant she had a chance. But if he hadn’t been right there . . .

“Don’t think about that,” he muttered, reaching up and pressing his fingers to his eyes. “Don’t.”

And he found he actually
could
push the image out of his mind, but only because it just wasn’t acceptable. The thought of Desiree Lincoln’s lifeless body was just more than he could handle. A hell of a lot more.

“Mr. Lincoln?”

Tired, so tired, it never occurred to Taylor the nursing staff might be looking for him. It wasn’t until the voice came again, and from a lot closer, that he opened his eyes and met the tired gaze of a man dressed in pale green scrubs. “Mr. Lincoln?”

“No. Special Agent Jones. But if you’re here about Desiree Lincoln, then yes, I’m here with her.”

“Ahhh . . . I see. My apologies.” The nurse smiled. “It’s been one of those nights. There’s a small lounge just down the hall. I’m going to take you there, if that’s okay. Dr. Frantz will be in to speak with you shortly.” He paused and then asked, “Does Ms. Lincoln have any family we should notify? There wasn’t much information in her personal effects.”

Taylor shook his head. Dez’s mother was still alive, living in the lap of luxury in West Palm Beach. He knew that, because he’d researched everything about Dez when he’d discovered her. He knew all about how the girl had been abandoned—her mother had taken her to school one day and just never had come back for her.

Dez had gone through a series of foster homes after that. Nobody wanted the strange, pretty child who had talked to thin air.

Almost afraid to ask, he said, “She has some very close personal friends. Should . . . ” He realized there was something hot and bright burning his eyes—tears. It was tears. Blinking them away, he cleared his throat and asked quietly, “Should I call them? One lives in Alabama. It would take her a while to get here . . . Should she come?”

The nurse gave him one of those strained smiles. “You really should speak to the doctor.”

“Just tell me if her friends should be here,” Taylor said, putting a hard edge into his voice. “She risked her life to save a child tonight, and if she’s not going to make it, she’s got a right to have friends at her side. Don’t give me that official shit—just give me a simple yes or no.”

The doctor appeared just then and though her smile was every bit as tired as the nurse’s, her face wasn’t quite so strained. “She came through the surgery, and if you want to call her friends to donate blood, I’m all for that. She’s going to need it. But she’s a strong woman.”

As his brain processed that information, he almost hit the floor. As it was, it took all that he had just to stay standing.

Relief, Taylor realized, could be very, very painful.

Titles by Shiloh Walker

HUNTING THE HUNTER
HUNTERS: HEART AND SOUL
HUNTER’S SALVATION
HUNTER’S NEED
HUNTER’S FALL

THROUGH THE VEIL
VEIL OF SHADOWS

THE MISSING
FRAGILE
BROKEN

Anthologies

HOT SPELL

(with Emma Holly, Lora Leigh, and Meljean Brook)

PRIVATE PLACES

(with Robin Schone, Claudia Dain, and Allyson James)