Shirlee McCoy - Valley of Shadows

Miranda glanced around, looking for help, for inspiration, for some way to undo what was being done. Her gaze lit on a large planter that sat near the wall of the funeral home. As weapons went, it wasn’t much.

But it was all she had.

Praying for strength and for the element of surprise, Miranda moved toward it.

Hawke Morran had no intention of dying. Not tonight anyway. He had payback to deliver and he wasn’t heading to the great beyond until he did so. If he hadn’t been gagged, he would have told his captors as much, but Jefferson hadn’t taken chances. Not only was Hawke gagged and trussed, he was blindfolded. Unfortunately for Jefferson, he hadn’t killed Hawke when he’d had the chance. It was a mistake he’d soon regret.

Hawke had managed to knock both men off their feet, but the rustle of movement and huff of their breathing told him they’d soon be back up. He stood still, waiting, knowing he might have only one chance to bring them down for good.

If he failed, he’d be buried alive.

He didn’t plan to fail.

Rage fueled him, muting the pain that sliced through his skull, warming muscles already demanding a fight. Jefferson’s overweight buddy attacked from the left, his wheezing breath speaking of too many cigarettes and too little exercise. Hawke turned toward him, ducking low and then coming up hard, slamming his head into the man’s gut and hearing with satisfaction the crack of a rib.

Agony pierced his skull, the hit he’d taken earlier allowing him no time to celebrate his victory. Nor did Jefferson allow time for Hawke to regain his balance. He came fast and quiet, but not quietly enough. Hawke spun on the balls of his feet, slashing Jefferson’s knee with his foot. The pop and scream of anguish that followed did little to satisfy Hawke’s rage. He wanted more. He wanted his hands free, wanted to wrap them around Jefferson’s neck until the man confessed every detail of the plan to set him up.

“Watch out!” A feminine voice cut through the haze of Hawke’s pain and fury, the sound so surprising he swung toward it. It was a bad move. He knew it immediately. Years of survival in a world where one wrong move meant death had taught him how swift and final the consequences of such mistakes could be.

He pivoted back toward the attack he knew was coming, the world tilting, the pain in his skull breaking into shooting flames that seared his brain. Something flew by his face, a crack and thud following so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d really heard them. Then silence. Thick. Heavy. Filled with a million possibilities. None of them good.

Footsteps rustled through grass, slow, cautious. Not the full-on attack Hawke expected. The air around him shifted, the scent of apples and cinnamon wafting toward him, mellow, sweet and completely unexpected.

He tensed, waited.

Fingers brushed his arm. Gentle, trembling, hesitant. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, gritting his teeth at the stars shooting through his head.

“Okay. Wait here. I’m going to find a phone. Call the police.” The voice was breathless and shaky, the fingers that brushed against his forearm starting to slip away.

He managed to grab them, holding tight when she would have pulled away. Whoever she was, whatever she’d come here for, she’d gotten herself into a mess of trouble. Leaving and calling the police wouldn’t change that.

“You want me to untie you first.” It wasn’t a question, but Hawke nodded anyway. He’d been determined to escape before. Now, he was desperate to. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be the only one lying at the bottom of another man’s grave.

The woman’s fingers danced over the tape that bound his wrists, pulling gently as if she were afraid of hurting him.

Come on, lady. Hurry up. He wanted to shout the words, convey by his tone just how desperate their situation was, but the tape over his mouth kept him mute, and he was forced to stand silent while she worked. Sweat beaded his brow, the dizzying pain in his head making him nauseous, but he wouldn’t give in to it. There was too much at stake.

Finally the tape loosened and he twisted his wrists, breaking through what was left of his bonds. The blindfold was next. Then the tape that covered his mouth.

He swung around, caught sight of the woman who’d freed him.

Soft. That was his first impression. Soft hair, soft full lips and soft eyes that widened as she took in his appearance. It was a reaction Hawke was used to and he ignored it, turning to search for his enemies. They were both on the ground. The heavier man lay in a heap, quiet groans issuing from between puffy lips. Jefferson was sprawled a few feet away from his buddy, a gun an arm’s length away and bits of a clay pot scattered around him. “Looks like it’s time to add flower pots to the list of deadly weapons.”

“Deadly? I hope I didn’t kill him.” The woman’s voice was as soft as her appearance, her hair swinging forward as she leaned toward Jefferson.

Hawke put a hand on her arm, stopping her before she could check for his pulse. “He’s not dead.”

But Hawke was tempted to finish him off. He might have if the woman hadn’t been watching him with wide, frightened eyes, or if his own moral code hadn’t altered drastically in the past year. An eye for an eye had once been his motto. Lately, that had changed. He hadn’t quite figured out what it had changed to, but killing Jefferson was no longer an option.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren blared to life, the sound spurring Hawke’s sluggish brain to action. “We need to get out of here.”

He moved forward, grabbed the gun that lay by Jefferson, checked the safety. He could feel the woman’s gaze, her fear and coiled tension.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice shaky.

“Making sure we have protection.”

“Protection? From what? Neither of them look like they’re getting up anytime soon.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”

“Then who?”

“I’ll explain everything later. Right now, we need to get out of here.”

“You’re right. We need to call for help.” She started away, moving toward the side of the building.

Hawke lunged forward, grabbing her arm. “Not yet.”

She tried to pull back, but he didn’t release his hold, just tugged her toward the SUV.

“Let me go.” The panic in her voice might have made him hesitate if he weren’t so sure hesitation would mean death.

“I can’t.”

“Sure you can.” She jerked against his hold, her face a pale oval in the moonlight. “Just open your fingers and let me walk away.”

“If you leave here without me there’s a good possibility you won’t live to see tomorrow. I don’t want that on my conscience.” He didn’t give her a chance to argue, just pulled open the door of the SUV and glanced inside.

As he’d expected the keys were in the ignition. Another mistake Jefferson was going to regret making. “Get in.”

“I’m not—”

“I said, get in.” He half lifted, half shoved her into the car.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

“Scoot over.” Hawke ignored the woman’s protest, sliding into the car and giving her no choice but to move into the passenger seat.

She scrambled for the door, and he snagged her shirt, holding her in place with one hand and firing up the engine with the other. Even with the windows closed, the sound of sirens was audible and growing louder. Hawke pressed down on the gas, gunning the engine and sending the SUV shooting up the slope of a hill toward a distant road. If he was lucky, he’d make it there and be able to hide the SUV in heavy Friday-night traffic. Unfortunately, he’d never had much luck. Maybe, though, for the sake of the woman who’d saved him, God might grant him his fair share tonight.