Shirlee McCoy - Valley of Shadows

“Stop the car! Let me out!” The passenger door flew open, and Hawke just managed to grab the woman’s hand before she could jump from the vehicle.

“Do you want to get yourself killed?” His roar froze her in place. Or maybe it was the sight of the ground speeding by that kept her from pulling from his hold and leaping out.

Hawke slowed the SUV, afraid his seatbelt-less passenger would fly out on the next bounce. “Close the door.”

“I’d rather you stop the car so I can get out.” Her voice shook and her hand trembled violently as she tugged against his hold, but there was no mistaking her determination.

She didn’t know him, didn’t know the situation and probably assumed the worst. If he’d had time to explain, he would have, but he didn’t. Not with death following so close behind them.

He released her hand, pulled the gun from the waistband of his jeans and pointed it toward the already terrified woman, ruthlessly shoving aside every shred of compassion he felt for her. “I said, close the door.”

She hesitated and he wondered if she’d take a chance and jump. Finally, she reached for the handle and pulled the door closed, her body tense and trembling.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere safe.”

“Where exactly is that?”

“I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” Hawke winced as the SUV bumped over a curb, its tires sliding onto smooth pavement. Traffic was lighter then he’d expected, and he merged onto the road, picking up speed and hoping that would be enough to discourage his passenger from trying to jump out again. Being distracted didn’t figure into his escape plan. Then again, escaping with a woman who looked like she belonged in a cozy home with a couple of kids playing at her feet wasn’t part of his plan, either.

So he’d have to make a new plan. Fast.

But first, he needed to get to a safe place.

Miranda fisted her hand around her purse and tried to control her breathing. If she hyperventilated and passed out there’d be no chance of escape. The man beside her still held the gun pointed in her direction. Though his gaze was fixed on the road, Miranda was sure he was aware of every move she made. A few minutes ago he’d seemed a helpless victim who needed saving. Now she wasn’t so sure.

Something flashed in the periphery of her vision, and she glanced in the side mirror, catching sight of blue and white lights in the distance. Hope made her heart leap and her pulse race.

Please let them be coming for us.

But even as she mumbled the prayer, her dark-haired kidnapper took the beltway ramp, speeding into traffic with barely a glance at oncoming vehicles. Miranda gasped, releasing her purse so that she could hold on to the seat. The lights had disappeared from view, but the car’s speed and swift lane changes should attract more police attention.

If it didn’t get Miranda and her kidnapper killed first.

As if he sensed her thoughts, the man eased up on the gas and pulled into the slow lane, dashing Miranda’s hope of rescue. Tense with worry, sick with dread, she prayed desperately for some way out, her gaze scanning the cars that passed, her mind scrambling for a plan. Any plan.

“If you let me out here, I won’t press charges.”

“Charges?”

“Kidnapping is a serious crime.”

“Kidnapping? Is that what you call this?”

“What would you call it?”

“Returning a favor. You saved my life. Now I’m doing the same for you.” His voice was harsh, an exotic accent adding depth and richness to the words, but doing nothing to soften the tone.

“It’s hard to believe that’s what you’re doing when you’re pointing a gun at me.”

“Sorry. It seemed the only way to keep you from doing something we’d both regret.” He tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, his movements economical and practiced, as if he’d done the same a thousand times before.

And somehow, looking at his chiseled face and the scar that bisected it from cheekbone to chin, Miranda had a feeling he had. She slid closer to the door, wishing they were in bumper-to-bumper traffic or that she dared jump out of a car traveling sixty miles an hour. But they weren’t, she didn’t. She was reduced to sitting terrified as she was driven farther and farther from home.

She eyed the man, the door, the traffic speeding by. Maybe she could attract someone’s attention with a gesture or an expression. Maybe—

“Whatever you’re thinking, forget it.” He wasn’t even looking her way, yet seemed to sense her intentions.

She stiffened, turning to face him again. “I’m not thinking anything.”

“Sure you are. You’re thinking about opening the door and jumping for it. Or maybe attracting someone’s attention.” He shrugged. “It’s what I’d do if I were in your position.”

“And if I were in your position, I’d stop the car and let my prisoner out.” She tried to put confidence in her voice, tried to sound less scared than she felt.

“You’re not a prisoner.”

“Then what am I?”

“The newest member of the witness protection program.”

Miranda blinked, not sure she’d heard right. “Are you with the FBI?”

He hesitated and Miranda had the feeling he was trying to decide how much of the truth to tell her. When he finally answered, his tone was much more gentle than it had been before. “No, but I plan to be just as effective in keeping you safe.”

“I don’t need you to keep me safe. I need you to let me go.”

“Then it would have been better if you’d walked away and left me to deal with Jefferson on my own.”

“He was trying to kill you.”

“And now he’s going to try to kill us both.” His tone was grim, his jaw tight, and Miranda had no doubt he believed what he was saying.

She just wasn’t sure she did. “Why?”

“Because I’m a threat and because you were in the wrong place at the wrong time and were foolish enough to let him know it.”

“What else was I suppose to do? Let him kill you?”

“Let whatever was to happen, happen.”

“I couldn’t.”

“Then maybe you’ll understand why I can’t let you go.” His tone was softer than Miranda would have expected from such a hard-looking man and she studied his profile, wishing she could read more in his face.

“Who are you?” The question popped out, though Miranda wasn’t sure what answer she hoped for—a name, an occupation, some clue as to who she was dealing with.

“Hawke Morran.” He answered the question without actually answering it. The name doing nothing to explain who Hawke was or why Liam had been trying to kill him.

“Who are you to Liam?”

“Liam? You know Jefferson?” The gentleness was gone, replaced by a harshness that made Miranda cringe.

“Everyone in Essex knows him.”

“I’m not interested in everyone. I’m interested in you. You say you know him. Does he know you? Your name? Where you live?”

Did he? Miranda was sure he knew her name, and there was no doubt he knew where she worked, he visited the bakery several times a week. It would be easy enough to get her address. “Probably.”

Hawke muttered something in a language Miranda didn’t recognize, the words unintelligible, the frustration behind them obvious.

Her own frustration rose, joining the fear that pounded frantically through her blood. She’d done what she thought was right. Now, she’d pay for it. That seemed to be a pattern in her life. “I own a business in Essex. Lots of people know me. Liam just happens to be one of them.”

“He also just happens to be a murderer.”

Miranda didn’t need the reminder. She’d seen Liam in action; watched him pull a gun on a bound and blindfolded man, had seen the cold determination in his eyes as he’d caught sight of her. She had known then that she was seconds from death. “We need to go to the police and tell them what happened before Liam hurts someone else.”