Tennessee Takedown (4 page)

He grabbed her beneath her arms and pulled.

She screamed.

He froze, horrified that he might have cut her on the glass.

“Let me go. Let me go,” she screamed again. But she wasn’t talking to him.

Dillon looked past her into the steady, dark eyes of the driver. He had a hold of Ashley’s waist and was playing a deadly game of tug-of-war.

“Let her go,” Dillon yelled. “I’ll pull her out, then come back for you. The truck’s back wheels aren’t going to hold much longer.”

“We’ll take our chances in the river.” The man’s voice was deadly calm, as if he wasn’t the least bit concerned. He heaved backward, pulling Ashley farther into the truck, slamming Dillon against the door. His grip slipped.

Ashley frantically flailed her arms. He reached for her and grabbed her hands.

The wheels made a great big sucking noise as they popped free from the mud. Ashley’s hands were yanked out of Dillon’s wet grasp. The truck went twisting and floating down the rain-swollen river, with Ashley’s terrified screams echoing back, tearing at Dillon’s heart.

The normally calm river was now a dangerous cauldron of rapids and swirling currents. The truck wouldn’t stay afloat for long. Even if Ashley made it out and into the water, she wouldn’t survive. No one could swim in that current. Only a fool would go into the river now.

He cursed and tore off his jacket. Apparently, he was a fool.

He dove into the river.

Chapter Four

Another wave crashed over Dillon’s head, shoving him back under like a waterlogged towel tossed in a giant washing machine. His lungs burned. His muscles ached from fighting against the current.

He kicked his legs and clawed his way toward the barely discernible sliver of moonlight that told him which direction was up. He burst to the surface, gulping air into his lungs. Lightning flashed in the sky, followed by a boom of thunder so loud it hurt his ears. The rain pummeled his skin like hundreds of tiny icy needles.

Another wave crashed down. Again he went under. Again he fought his way back up for another precious lungful of air. He’d lost sight of the truck. And he wasn’t trying to swim in any particular direction anymore.

He was just trying to survive.

It was too dark to see more than a few feet in front of him. He didn’t know where he was, or even if he was within reach of land. His muscles screamed for relief, cried out for rest. He couldn’t keep fighting much longer.

Moonlight glinted off the whitecap of another wall of water rushing toward him. He inhaled deeply just as the wave slammed into him. Like a spear in his chest, the water pushed him down, down, down until he bumped against the muddy bottom of the river.

The pressure pinned him against a rock. He latched onto it, fire lancing through his lungs as he waited for the current to shift. His vision blurred. The irony that he might actually drown suddenly struck him as funny. A laugh erupted from him, sending a froth of bubbles up toward the surface. His lungs protested the loss of desperately needed oxygen.

He pictured the fireplace mantel in his parents’ farmhouse, still filled with his decade-old swim trophies from high school, like open wounds that had never healed. What would his mother do when she heard her swim-champion son had drowned? Would she throw away the trophies that had made her so proud? Would she hate him for giving up?

He clenched the rock harder. Tired, so tired. All he had to do was open his mouth and take a deep gulp of water and it would be over. He wouldn’t have to fight anymore. His eyes drifted closed. The last of his air bubbled out of his nose. He sank deeper against the rock.

The image of his mother’s face drifted through his thoughts, surprising him with the anger in her faded blue eyes. She reached out, but instead of hugging him goodbye, she grabbed his shoulders and shook him.

She needs you. Help her.

His mother’s face faded, replaced by Ashley Parrish’s wide-eyed stare, her scream of terror as the truck went into the river.

Dillon’s eyes flew open. He couldn’t give up. Not yet. He had to try. One more time.

He let the rock go and pushed toward the moonlight again. Up, up, up. He broke the surface, inhaling deeply. The rush of air into his starved lungs was painful, like the rush of blood into a circulation-starved limb. He ducked beneath the next wave and came right back up this time. He was used to swimming in pools or the pond on his parents’ farm, not this roiling nightmare that pounded at him and made his muscles shake with exhaustion.

Maybe that was the problem. He was fighting too hard. He thought back to the basics, something his first swim coach had taught him, something he’d never had use for. Until now. Dead man float. He dodged the next wave, gulped in a deep breath, another.

Then he stopped fighting.

Lying facedown in the water, he held his hands out in front of him to protect his head from any debris. He held his breath, no longer struggling against a monster he couldn’t defeat, and let the current take him wherever it wanted as the freezing rain beat down on his back. He jerked his head out of the water, took another breath, relaxed again. Over and over he repeated the routine—breathe, relax, float, breathe, relax, float.

His arm banged against something hard and unyielding. The current shoved him against a solid object—the truck, tangled up in a downed tree at the edge of the river.

The powerful current tugged at him, trying to pull him back out. His wet hands flailed against the slippery metal. He kicked hard and slammed into the bumper. Latching on, he stubbornly refused to let go. Hand over hand, using the bumper like a towline, he carefully inched his way down the end of the truck.

His kicking feet struck bottom. He pushed, his calf muscles burning from exertion as he fought his way to the driver’s door. Waves pummeled his back. He coughed up a lungful of water and kept pushing, one step at a time.

The rain wouldn’t let up, and as more and more of Dillon’s body rose up out of the water, he began to shiver. His teeth chattered so hard he wondered they didn’t chip or break.

When he finally reached the door, he saw what he’d already suspected. The cab was empty. Had Ashley made it out alive? What about the man who’d abducted her?

That thought drove him harder, through the shallows toward land.

He wanted to curse and rail at the storm mercilessly pounding against him, and the sucking current trying to pull him away from shore. Every inch, every step, was a hard-fought victory. But he didn’t say the foul words he wanted to say. He made as little noise as he could, because he didn’t know if the man who’d taken Ashley was within earshot, perhaps waiting in the trees up ahead.

Hoping the dark, nearly moonless night would help conceal him, he struggled on. Past the truck now, clinging to the branches of the tree that had snared the vehicle. He pulled himself out of the water and collapsed on the muddy bank. If the kidnapper found him now, Dillon didn’t think he could do anything to defend himself. He was limp and spent.

Shivering in the mud, he lay there, gasping in precious air, trying to gather his strength. It was the icy rain, painfully stabbing the skin on his exposed arms, that finally made him move. He crawled forward, forcing one knee in front of the other until he reached the cover of trees. Using the low-hanging branch of a pine tree for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet.

Where was he? He couldn’t seem to get his bearings. A flash of lightning lit the sky, making everything as bright as daylight for a split second, just long enough for him to see his Jeep parked at the drop-off where the bridge used to be.

On the other side of the river.

He was on Cooper’s Bluff, with no weapons, no phone and no way off the island—presumably with an armed man holding a woman hostage.

Some days it didn’t pay to even put his boots on in the morning.

He shoved off the tree and trudged deeper into the forest, his weary legs shaking beneath him. It was damned embarrassing how much the freezing water had taken out of him. Thankfully, none of his men were there to see his sorry state.

A muted yell sounded from somewhere deep in the woods.

Dillon stiffened and tried to pinpoint the direction the sound had come from. A scream jolted him into action. His misery and exhaustion forgotten, he plunged into the trees at a full-out run.

* * *

A
SHLEY
HELD
HER
hand to her aching jaw and warily eyed the man who’d knocked her to the ground. Biting his arm wasn’t the smartest decision she’d ever made.

He towered over her, but it wasn’t his height or his brawny build that held her attention. It was the gun in his hand, the business end pointing straight at her head. She’d wondered why he hadn’t immediately chased her when the truck snagged in the tree and she dove out the window. Now she knew. He’d fished out the gun from the floorboard where it had fallen when the truck first went into the water.

Would it fire now that it was wet? The way her luck had gone today, she was betting it would.

He squatted down in front of her, the gun never wavering. Cold rain dripped through the thick foliage overhead, splashing onto his forearms. But he didn’t seem to notice. If he had yelled at her, it would have been far less frightening than the emotionless, dead look in his eyes. She mentally dubbed him Iceman, because he was so cold, as if he had no soul.

“Miss Parrish, bite me again and the next time I hit you you’ll be missing half your teeth.” He motioned toward her feet. “Take off your shoes.”

She frowned down at her sneakers. The idea of walking through the cold, soggy, rock-strewn forest without protection on her feet didn’t appeal to her in the least. “My shoes?”

“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”

“I don’t understand. Why do you want—”

He backhanded her, sending her sprawling onto the ground.

A yelp of pain escaped between her clenched teeth. He grabbed one of her feet and yanked off her shoe. Before she could get away from him, he yanked off her other shoe. When he let her go, she scrambled back like a crab on all fours. She cast a furtive glance around, looking for some kind of weapon. All she saw were small, round river rocks. Pelting him with those would be like poking an angry bull with a toy spear.

Iceman jerked at the laces on her confiscated shoes, yanking them out of the eyelets.

A feeling of dread swept through Ashley. There was only one reason she could think of that he’d want those laces. To tie her up.

She scrambled to her feet to run into the trees behind her.

“I need you alive,” his voice echoed, freezing her in place. “But you don’t need kneecaps to live. Sit your butt back down.”

She sucked in a sharp breath and plopped on the ground. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

“Hold out your hands.” He squatted down in front of her again with one of the shoelaces.

It was so tempting to take advantage of his vulnerable position and turn him into a soprano, but without shoes she wasn’t sure she could kick him hard enough to risk another swing of his fist. She was also rather fond of her kneecaps.

She grudgingly held out her hands.

The wet lace bit into her left wrist as he yanked it tight. He was just as rough with her right wrist, painfully tightening the shoelace against her skin, jerking it to ensure it wouldn’t slip off. He knotted the two laces together, forcing her to lock her fingers in a two-handed fist to relieve the pressure.

“Police,” a voice yelled behind him. “Put your hands above your head and lie facedown on the ground.”

She sucked in a breath and stared past her captor. The silhouette of another man was visible about ten feet away. Lightning briefly lit the clearing, revealing his identity—Detective Dillon Gray.

His wet hair was plastered to his scalp and his Kevlar vest formed a dark shadow beneath his equally wet shirt. Her mouth dropped open. Did he actually
swim
across the swollen, raging river to rescue her? Shock and gratitude warred with disbelief. But any relief she felt turned to worry when she realized one thing—
he didn’t have a weapon.

Iceman wrapped his fingers around the gun shoved in his belt. Did he know the police officer behind him was bluffing?

Ashley stared into his dark eyes. They were no longer cold and dead. Instead, they shined with an unholy gleam and his mouth tilted in anticipation.

He knew.
He knew Dillon didn’t have a gun. He must have seen it fall into the river when Dillon was trying to pull Ashley out the truck window.

“Move away from her and lie on the ground. Now,” the detective repeated, his deep voice authoritative and confident.

The cord of muscles in Iceman’s thick neck pulsed, reminding her of a snake coiling to strike.

She whipped a glance at the detective, trying to warn him with her eyes. But it was so dark. He probably couldn’t see her eyes any better than she could see his.

A vile curse flashed through her mind, the kind of curse that would have had her mama looking for the biggest, thickest switch she could find, if she ever actually heard Ashley say it—regardless of how old Ashley was.

The detective was a big man, tall and thick with muscles, but just like at the Gibson and Gibson office building, the thug he was facing was even bigger. Dillon had come out the winner in the earlier confrontation, but he’d had a weapon, and a team of officers to distract the bad guy.

The man crouching in front of Ashley had the only advantage that mattered right now. A gun. One little bullet was all it would take to end this standoff. Even if the vest protected Dillon, the force of the bullet would probably knock him flat on his back. Then all the gunman had to do was calmly stand over Dillon and shoot him in the head.

She needed to do something. But what? The last time she’d interfered with this same police officer she’d nearly gotten him killed.

Suddenly the gunman whirled around.

As if anticipating the move, Dillon lunged to the side. He rolled out of the way and scrambled to his feet.

Bam, bam
— Iceman fired off two quick shots, flames shooting out of the muzzle like a warning flare.

Dillon grunted and fell to the ground. His body jerked, then lay still.

Ashley’s nails bit into the backs of her tied fists. She silently urged Dillon to move, to run, but he lay facedown on the ground—stunned, or worse.

The gunman stalked toward him.

Ashley frantically looked around. There had to be
something
she could use as a weapon. But even though the icy rain was still dripping through the heavy canopy overhead, and the wind clacked the branches against each other, there wasn’t even a large twig on the ground anywhere within reach.

Thunder sounded. Lightning lit up the clearing, illuminating Dillon. He still wasn’t moving.

Oh, dear God, no.

Ashley jumped to her feet. If nothing else, she could swing her tied fists at the gunman and try to knock his gun out of his hand before he could shoot Dillon again. She charged forward.

The gunman stopped beside Dillon and raised his gun.

Ashley pulled her tied hands back like a bat to swing at him. Dillon suddenly jerked to the side and kicked Iceman’s legs, knocking him to the ground. Ashley yelped and scrambled out of the way. The two men grappled with each other, locked in combat.

The storm was getting worse. Sheets of rain pelted them through the gaps in the trees. Ashley shoved her wet hair out of her face. Lightning cracked overhead in short bursts, a strobe light revealing the men’s movements every few seconds, like a projector showing every other frame in a movie.