Shirlee McCoy - Valiant Defender

“He won’t bother you.” Not until Justin called him. Once he did, Quinn would be on Boyd like a missile—quick and deadly accurate.

“He’d better not. Your daughter’s life depends on it. She sure is a pretty little thing.” He flicked Portia’s hair with the muzzle of his pistol, chuckling when she flinched.

“She’s a kid. A little girl,” Justin said, his voice gritty with banked anger.

“A teenager who knows her way around a computer. Not a kid. I don’t kill kids,” Boyd spit. “But I do kill annoyances, and you’re both that.”

“She wrote a few anonymous blog posts. What’s that matter to a guy like you?”

“It matters. It all matters.” The gun swung toward Justin and then back in Portia’s direction. “You did this, Blackwood. You did all of it. I might have pulled the trigger and fired at those people, but you called the shots. Do you regret it? Do you have any remorse?”

“Maybe if you tell me what I did—”

“You know what you did! I would have done just fine in basic training. I would have excelled. I would have been top of the class. Except for you.”

“I don’t like bullies, Boyd. I don’t let them prey on people weaker than they are. I don’t allow them to hurt defenseless animals.”

“Everyone there was weaker. That wasn’t my fault. I was taking my rightful place as the leader of the pack. You work with dogs. You should understand how that goes. And as for that puppy, I didn’t do anything but save his life, and look at him now—one of the top dogs on your team.” The pistol was slipping again, the muzzle dropping.

Portia noticed. She met Justin’s eyes, shaking her head slightly. He knew the message she was sending him silently. She didn’t want him to act, didn’t want him to try to disarm Boyd, but that was the only way to save her.

“He was. Now he’s missing. Thanks to you.”

“Right. Consequences stink, don’t they?” He grinned.

“I guess you’d know about that more than I would. You were insubordinate in basic training, and you got a dishonorable discharge. You went home and killed five people, and then got sent to federal prison. You escaped and started killing again, and you’re going to be thrown in prison again,” Justin said, purposely riling him up, getting him angry, trying to keep him from thinking, from noticing that Justin was edging nearer.

A few more steps, and he’d be close enough to lunge for the weapon.

“I’m not going back to prison, Blackwood,” Boyd said coldly. “Men like me never do.”

“Like you? You think you’re too smart to get caught?” he asked, taking another step forward. “You made a mistake tonight. You should have come after me and left Portia alone.”

“I don’t make mistakes!” he screamed. The gun moved, and for a split second, Justin thought he’d won, that Boyd would release his hold on Portia and go after him.

But as quickly as Boyd’s anger appeared, it was gone.

“Good try, Blackwood,” he said. “But I know what you’re trying to do.”

“Maybe you could explain it to me?”

“Put your gun on the ground. Now. And do it slowly. You so much as make me think you’re taking aim, and I kill your daughter.”

Justin played along, taking his handgun from its holster and setting it on the floor.

Something moved in the window behind Boyd, a flurry of shadows that coalesced into a figure climbing silently through the opening. Slim. Tall. Graceful and quick.

He had about two seconds to realize it was Gretchen.

He wanted to tell her to stop, but it was too late.

Boyd must have sensed her presence. He swung around, firing a shot almost blindly.

Justin grabbed Portia, yanking her away and thrusting her through the doorway, shouting for Quinn.

The dog was there, snarling and snapping, rushing toward Boyd, who still had his gun in hand.

“Call him off or she dies,” he yelled shrilly, his firearm aimed at Gretchen.

She lay still.

Stunned or injured or afraid to move.

“Quinn, off!” Justin shouted, and the dog backed off, still growling, still snarling. Unhappy to have been called off his prize.

Justin moved toward Gretchen, freezing when Boyd dragged her to her feet and pressed the gun into her side. She was a rag doll, limp and helpless in his grip.

“Don’t move,” Boyd commanded. “Don’t even breathe.”

The world went silent.

Not a breath of sound.

And then chaos reigned again. Gretchen moved suddenly, thrusting her hand under Boyd’s chin, slamming her elbow into his gut. The firearm discharged, the bullet slamming into the dirt floor.

Boyd backhanded Gretchen, propelling her toward Justin.

He caught her, lowering her to the ground and grabbing his gun at his feet. He came up and fired a shot as Boyd jumped through the window. He wanted to follow, but Gretchen was injured and Portia was standing in the doorway, her soft sobs filling the cabin. Obviously, she’d been too terrified to make a run for it. He didn’t dare leave them alone. Not with Boyd on the loose.

“It’s okay, Portia,” he said quietly, holstering his weapon. “He’s gone.”

She’d been shot. That was Gretchen’s first thought. Her second thought was that Boyd Sullivan was escaping. She pushed herself to her knees, surprised when someone took her arm, holding her steady as she got to her feet.

Not someone.

Justin.

He’d shrugged out of his jacket and was pressing it to her shoulder. She brushed it away. “I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding a lot, Gretchen,” Portia said, hovering a few steps away, her eyes wide with fear, her face pale.

“You call this bleeding?” She scoffed, offering the teen an encouraging smile. “You should have seen me when I fell out of the tree my brothers dared me to climb. I hit my head on the way down and bled so much they thought I was dead.”

“You have brothers?” Justin asked, pulling the fabric of her jacket and shirt away so he could see the wound. The bullet had grazed her upper arm, and dark blood bubbled from the wound. She didn’t feel any pain. All she felt was anger. That Boyd had struck again. That a man was dead. That a teenager had been terrorized. That a man who killed indiscriminately was escaping again.

“I have four brothers.” She brushed Justin’s hand away. “Stop fussing. I’m fine.”

“Sure you are. If fine is having a bullet take a chunk out of your upper arm,” he responded, pressing his jacket to the wound to try to stanch the bleeding.

She felt that. The pressure on the open wound made her grimace, but she wasn’t going to admit that she was in pain. She brushed his hand away again. “The bleeding has almost stopped, and Boyd needs to be captured. Take Quinn and go after him. I’ll watch Portia until backup arrives.”

He hesitated, and she knew he was torn. He didn’t want to leave his daughter, but he knew how important it was to apprehend Boyd.

“I’ll make sure Portia is okay, Justin. I promise,” she assured him.

“It’s not just her I’m worried about,” he replied, but he’d moved to the window Boyd had escaped through. “You’re pale and still bleeding. You probably need stitches.”

“I can get stitches with or without you nearby.”

“Dad, please don’t go,” Portia cut in, grabbing Justin’s arm as he leaned out the window opening.

“Portia, he needs to be stopped. Tonight. Before he hurts anyone else. Gretchen will make sure you’re okay—”

“I’m not worried about me,” the teen protested. “I’m worried about you.”

“Your dad is going to be okay, too,” Gretchen said, putting a hand on Portia’s shoulder and wishing she were better at this part of the job. She’d gone into military police work because she’d believed in justice, and because it had seemed like the thing to do. Her father had worked as an MP until he’d retired. All four of her brothers were military police officers, and from the time she was old enough to remember, she’d wanted to follow in their footsteps. She’d been the youngest by nine years. A surprise that had pleased her parents and her brothers. She’d been encouraged to pursue her dreams, and military life had been the only one she’d had.