Shirlee McCoy - Valiant Defender

“I was wondering the same thing,” Justin admitted, walking to the door and shining his flashlight on the opening. He was looking for signs of a booby trap, evidence that Boyd had left something dangerous behind. He wasn’t the kind of criminal who did things without careful planning and thought. He was smart, meticulous and, thus far, one step ahead of Justin and the base police.

“A booby trap, maybe?” Gretchen suggested what he was thinking. “Or a bomb?” She crouched, peering into the dark house.

Justin continued his search of the door. From what he could see, there was no trip wire and no evidence that the door had been booby-trapped.

“If he was here, he had an agenda, and it wasn’t just finding a place to hang out for a couple of hours,” he responded. “I’ll call in our explosive detecting team. Nick Donovan and his K-9, Annie, can check things out before we go in and look around.”

Quinn snuffled the ground nearby, then made a circuit of the yard. It wasn’t large, but someone had planted several trees. At one point, there had been a garden. Now old vines and dead plants filled a weed-choked patch of cleared land. An old swing set sat near the edge of the property. Beyond that, thick woods spilled out into deep forests. It would have been easy for Boyd to reach the house without being seen. The fact that he was on base, stalking victims again, infuriated and worried Justin.

His phone buzzed, and he pulled it out, expecting to see a text from someone at headquarters. The entire Security Forces was on high alert, ready and anxious to face off with Sullivan.

Instead, he saw Portia’s number. Read the text. Felt the blood drain from his head.

I’ve got your daughter. Three guesses where I’m hiding her.

“What’s wrong?” Gretchen asked, leaning in close and eyeing the message on his phone.

“It was a setup! He has Portia,” he said.

“Boyd? How? Didn’t you hire twenty-four-hour protection for her?” Gretchen asked, but Justin was already running back to the SUV, Quinn loping beside him.

He had to get back to the house.

He had to find Portia.

Nothing else mattered but keeping his daughter safe.

There weren’t a lot of things Gretchen was afraid of. Snakes, mice, spiders, the dark. She could face any of those things without blinking an eye or breaking a sweat. She knew how to take down a man twice her size, how to disarm an adversary and how to keep her cool in just about any situation. Being raised in a military family with four older brothers had made her tough, strong and—she hoped—resilient.

So, fear? It wasn’t something she was all that familiar with.

Right now, though, she was afraid.

Portia was a kid. Sixteen years old. At that strange age where childishness and maturity seemed to converge into a mess of impulsivity. This was the age where kids experimented with drinking, smoking, drugs.

Portia had taken another route.

And it had turned out to be an extremely dangerous one.

Blogging about Boyd Sullivan anonymously and thinking she wouldn’t get found out had put her in the crosshairs of a very deliberate and cold-blooded killer.

One who wouldn’t hesitate to kill again. If Boyd really had her, if he wasn’t just playing a sick game, Portia was in serious danger.

“Are you sure he has her?” Gretchen asked, hoping against hope that Justin wasn’t.

But she knew him.

She’d worked with him for months, and she’d never seen him panic. Until now.

“He texted from her cell phone,” he responded as he secured Quinn and jumped into the driver’s seat. When he gunned the engine, she let the silence fill the SUV. She knew he was heading back to his place.

She called headquarters, explaining the situation in a succinct and unemotional way. Not because she didn’t feel desperate, but because she was a military police officer. She was also a woman. Two things her old-school father had never thought should go together. She’d had to prove herself as much to him as she had to any of her fellow officers—not just being good at her job, but being exceptional. Always in control. Always following protocol. Seeking justice. Capturing criminals. Pretending that she wasn’t shaken by the depravity she saw.

Boyd Sullivan was beyond depraved.

He was a psychopath. If she had to choose a word to describe him—one that her fellow officers would never hear—she’d call him evil.

He had no empathy, no remorse. He was his own law. Probably his own god.

And if he had Portia...

Please, God, let her be safe , she prayed, surprised by her sudden need to reach out for divine help. It had been a long time since she’d prayed.

She hadn’t given up on God.

She hadn’t stopped having faith.

Not during Henry’s illness. Not during the hours she’d spent sitting beside him during chemo. Not while she’d been planning a wedding she’d known would never happen. Not when she’d held her fiancé’s hand while his breathing became shallower. Even when she’d stood at his graveside listening to the pastor talk about hope during heartache, she’d trusted in God’s plan.

She’d believed in His goodness.

She still did, but something in her had broken when Henry died. Four years later, and she wasn’t sure if it would ever be fixed.

Tires squealed as Justin took a turn too quickly, and she eyed the speedometer. They were going too fast for the area and for the vehicle. She understood Justin’s desire to get back to his house quickly, but if he didn’t slow down, they might not get there at all.

“Getting into an accident won’t help Portia,” she said calmly.

“I’m aware of that,” he muttered.

“So, how about you ease off the accelerator, or pull over and let me drive?”

“We don’t have time to pull over.” But he eased off the gas and took the next turn more slowly. “I should never have left her alone.”

“She wasn’t alone,” she reminded him. “You had twenty-four-hour protection for her.”

“Which failed.”

“Have you heard from her bodyguard?”

“No, and I’m not foolish enough to think Boyd somehow slipped under the radar, grabbed Portia and slipped out without being noticed.”

“So, you think the bodyguard has been...?” She didn’t finish the question. They’d turned onto Justin’s street, and she could see his house. The windows were dark, the front door closed. Everything looked locked up tight and secure.

“It looks quiet,” she commented as he pulled into the driveway.

“When it comes to Boyd Sullivan, that doesn’t mean anything.” He braked hard, threw the car into Park and jumped out, opening the back hatch and freeing Quinn.

No discussion. No plan. This wasn’t the way Gretchen operated. She liked to be methodical and organized in her approach to the job. In a situation like this—one where a serial killer could be lurking nearby—that was especially imperative.

She knew Justin felt the same.

She’d worked with him for several months, observing the way he led the Security Forces, how he approached dangerous situations, how he and his K-9 partner worked together and the way he interacted with his subordinates. He seemed to have unlimited energy and a passion for justice that was admirable.

But right now, he was running straight into danger without thinking the situation through.

She had two choices: sit in the car and wait for him to return, or run after him.

She opted for the second. She couldn’t let a comrade face danger alone.

She sprinted after him, snagging his arm and yanking him to a stop. He was taller and heavier, packed with muscles he worked hard for. But she had decades of experience dealing with four older brothers who were also taller and more muscular than she was.