Lucy hated that her daughter thought that way. Hated that she had to. She wore the bracelet every day, not because her duties as supervisory special agent in charge of the FBI's Sexual Assault Felony Enforcement squad put her in danger-99 percent of her time at work was spent behind a desk fighting terminal boredom, not violent felons. She wore it because she wanted Megan to feel secure. "Besides, your grandmother hasn't seen you in a week. It'll give you two time to catch up."
Since Megan knew exactly how to shamelessly manipulate her maternal grandmother into doing almost anything, she smiled and nodded. "So it'd be okay if Grams took Emma and me to the movie instead of Emma's big sister, right?"
"Wrong," Nick and Lucy chorused.
Megan just grinned. Then her expression turned mournful. "Does Zeke really have to stay another night at the vet's? He's going to be okay, right?"
"Dr. Rouff said he'd be fine," Lucy answered. "She's only keeping him as a precaution."
Really? Nick mouthed. She gave him a small nod as she hugged Megan good-bye, glad that she'd found time to call the vet already this morning. Just like she'd found time to schedule quick trips home during the day yesterday to check on Zeke when he first started acting sluggish and then got sick. Not because she really cared about the rambunctious puppy who was as likely to eat her shoes as his dog food. No, of course not. It was Megan she was worried about.
"You don't fool me, you old softy," Nick whispered as he grabbed Lucy around the waist for another kiss. "You are devoted to that puppy."
Lucy squinched her nose at him. "Hush. You'll blow my image as a kick-ass federal agent. It's the only way I get any respect around here."
Nick chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, right."
"Come on, Dad. We're late." Megan waved good-bye and ran out with Nick on her heels.
The door slammed shut behind them. For one rare moment the old Victorian fell silent. Then the heat clicked on, old pipes creaking in protest as steam rattled through them. Lucy glanced around the kitchen with its bright-yellow paint and busy-family-on-the-run Post-it – note decor. She slid her service weapon into the front pocket of her bag for the long drive to Harrisburg, slipped her backup Glock into its ankle holster, grabbed her travel mug of coffee, and headed out the front door.
Lucy always parked her Subaru nose-out in the driveway, since the garage was crammed full of bikes and other junk, leaving only room for one car. Plus she had to leave in the middle of the night more often than Nick-at least she used to. Now that his patient load at the VA's PTSD clinic was climbing, it was a fifty-fifty toss-up who would be called out in the dark hours.
Nick had scraped her Impreza clear of the few inches of overnight snow and started the engine so it would be toasty warm for her. Fifteen years of marriage and he still remembered the little things.
As she walked out to her car, double-checking her bag to make sure she had the files she needed, she reminded herself to try to think of something special to surprise him. Maybe for Valentine's Day she'd kidnap him, take him to a fancy hotel for the night, no phones allowed except to call room service. They could go dancing-Nick loved to dance, and he was good at it. A skill learned growing up in Virginia, with its tradition of cotillions, not to mention three sisters to squire to parties.
Smiling at the image of Nick's arms wrapped tight around her, guiding her across a dance floor, she'd reached the hemlocks flanking the driveway when movement came from the shadows.
Lucy spun to face the threat, but she was too late. A man's arm wrapped around her throat.
Now
5:07 p.m.
Lucy edged the barn's door open the slightest crack, straining to see where the man was. Surprise was her only weapon.
The hinges let loose with a creak that split the night. She stepped back, positioning herself behind the door, and held her breath. Maybe he was too far away to hear.
Footfalls sounded. Close, very close. The light inside the barn went out. Lucy braced herself, ready to pounce, knowing she'd only have one chance at this. But there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide-not moving as slow as she was.
Somewhere inside her a stray spark of warmth gave her strength as she waited in the frigid night air. With it came Nick's voice, chiding her for never being willing to back down from a fight. "You can't always win by outstubborning everyone else," he'd said.
They'd both laughed, knowing perfectly well that that was how Lucy always won. She never surrendered, never gave up … a trait that had caused more than her fair share of problems both at work and at home.
Nick. She blinked hard, willing him back to the shadows of her mind. Focus, she had to focus. Time this just right.
The door swung open. A man's hand holding a semiautomatic pistol slid into sight. Lucy shoved her entire weight against the door, slamming it shut on his wrist.
The hard edge of the metal door hit him just below the thumb, where it was most vulnerable. He cried out, tried to jerk his arm back inside. Keeping her weight on the door, pinning his hand, she wrenched the weapon from his grasp.
She fumbled the gun between her frozen, numb fingers. Finally got a solid grip on it. Felt so much better having a weapon.
Time to finish this.
Lucy released her weight from the door and threw it open, raising the pistol at the man caught inside the barn. In his effort to pull his hand free, he'd pivoted so that his back was to her, and the darkness almost engulfed him.
"FBI! Hands where I can see them," she commanded. It felt like she was shouting, but her voice barely scratched above a whisper. An aftereffect of almost strangling down in that damn pit. Still loud enough that the man complied-that's what was important.
"On the ground," she ordered, entering the barn, leaving the door open and keeping her distance so he couldn't rush her. Dim twilight edged through the door, barely enough to make out the strangely shaped shadows of farm machines and the silhouette of the man in front of her.
He stood only six feet away, too close for comfort, but she couldn't risk losing him to the blackness that crowded the rest of the barn. Any farther in and she wouldn't be able to see her own hands holding her weapon, much less her captive.
"I said, get down on the ground," she repeated when he didn't comply. Her voice was swallowed by the darkness, a faint ghost of her usual tone of command.
She reached behind her, fingers brushing the steel wall, searching for the light switch. The barn was warmer than outside, but not by much, making her glad the man still had his back to her and couldn't see the chills shaking her aim.
"You're dead," he said in a snarl that she wasn't sure was a promise or a threat. Didn't matter as long as she was the one with the gun.
She felt a switch and flicked it. The outside light above the door behind her came on. Not much help. Instead of black-on-black darkness, now she could make out grey shadows maybe ten feet inside the door. The farm equipment took on the shape of prehistoric monsters, all claws and straggly arms and squat bodies.
The man made his move, pivoting and lunging at her weapon hand. Lucy rolled with his weight, using her hip to send him up and over, down to the floor. His hand closed over hers, both of them clenching the pistol as he kicked her right foot out from under her and pulled her down on top of him.
Her weight crashed down onto her injured foot. Pain screamed through her. The fight was surreal: arms and legs flailing in shadows, occasionally crossing the sliver of light coming through the door, then vanishing into darkness once again. He grabbed her hair, pounded her face into the cement floor, releasing a gush of blood from her nose. She shot an elbow so hard into his neck that his head whipped back and sent a bunch of hoes and rakes and shovels that had been leaning against the wall clattering to the floor.
Finally, the man caught her from behind in a bear hug, both hands now on top of hers, wrapped around the gun. Her free arm was trapped between his arm and his body as he leaned his weight back, hauling her with him, the pistol rising until she aimed at the ceiling. He braced Lucy's arm against the floor and squirreled his finger around the trigger, pinching her finger as he pulled over and over again.
The sound of gunshots hammered through the space, echoing and reverberating. Hot brass flew from the semiautomatic, pinging against the concrete floor, searing Lucy's hand. One casing tumbled into her jacket, hot against her cold body.
The magazine emptied, and the slide flew back, pinching the man's hand above hers. The pistol was now useless except as a blunt instrument. The man relaxed his grip, and Lucy took advantage, rolling her weight in the opposite direction and twisting, aiming an elbow to his armpit as she scrambled for one of the garden tools.
The air smelled of gunpowder and hay. Lucy's breath came in jagged rasps, each one burning her already-raw throat. She shook away any feeling that could distract her, intent on piercing the shadows and delivering the next blow. The man was taller, bigger, stronger, less exhausted-all he had to do was wear her down. Which meant she had to strike, and strike fast.
She grabbed a rake near its working end and aimed it like a claw at his face. The movement broke her free of his stranglehold. She kept rolling onto her feet. Big mistake-she'd forgotten about her left foot. Riding the wave of pain, she planted her foot, braced herself with the rake, and aimed a kick to his solar plexus that had him clutching his gut.