Kill Without Mercy

  His brows snapped together, as if he was offended by her question. “Of course not. I don’t kill children,” he growled, his face flushing. “I only meant to keep you out of the way so I could finish arranging the crime scene and kill your father.” His gaze swept toward the washer and dryer before he took another step down. “But I’d barely gotten started when my deputy came down the stairs. I had to pretend I was in the act of releasing you.”

  Annie tried to sort through her memories, but she couldn’t pull up anything beyond a sensation of darkness. And fear.

  The same fear that pulsed through her now.

  Clearly, her young brain had blanked it out in an effort to maintain her sanity.

  That was fine with her.

  She didn’t want the memory now that she knew what’d happened.

  “Then you waited until you had my father in your jail and you murdered him,” she accused with unconcealed revulsion.

  His expression settled into defensive lines. Almost as if he had a smidgeon of remorse for killing an innocent man who was locked in his cell. “I still assumed he was the Slayer,” he muttered. “I couldn’t let him talk to a lawyer. Or worse, the FBI. If he confessed to six of the murders, they’d start to question the death of my wife—”

  “Your pregnant wife.” She couldn’t stop herself from reminding him.

  Just seconds ago the sheriff had claimed he didn’t hurt children.

  Bastard.

  He shrugged aside her words, reaching the bottom of the steps. “It was a risk I wasn’t willing to take.”

  Annie wrinkled her nose as the sheriff stepped into a pool of sunlight that revealed his pasty skin and bloodshot eyes. Lord, he reeked of whiskey.

  The realization only added to the potential for disaster.

  “So what do you intend to do now?”

  A creepy facsimile of a smile twisted his lips. “Obviously I’m here to save you.” Keeping the pistol pointed toward Martin, he reached behind his back to pull out a large butcher knife. “A shame your brother already slit your throat.”

  Martin made a sound of indignation. “I would never hurt Annabelle,” he snapped, incapable of realizing that the sheriff was explaining how he intended to get away with murder.

  Brock ignored the interruption. “Then, of course, I would have to shoot the crazed killer who was trying to attack me,” he concluded.

  The protective bubble that’d allowed Annie to maintain a false sense of composure abruptly burst.

  Agonizing fear brought her to her knees, her handcuff rattling against the pipe.

  The man wasn’t stupid. He had to realize that the chances of getting by with a double homicide were slim to none.

  But at the moment his brain was clouded with panic and alcohol. It was a toxic combination that was quite likely going to get her dead.

  Perfect.

  “You can’t,” she pleaded.

  “Of course I can. I’ll be a hero.” The sickly smile was still pasted to his face as he headed toward the cot, the knife clutched in his hand. “If you don’t fight, it will be over before you know it.”

  Concentrating on Annie, the sheriff seemed unaware that Martin was watching him with an increasingly desperate expression.

  “No,” her brother breathed, his hands lifting as he launched himself at the sheriff.

  “Martin, stop,” Annie cried out, desperately trying to grab his jacket as he leaped past her.

  It was useless.

  Even as the tips of her fingers brushed the jersey material, there was a deafening explosion as Brock squeezed the trigger of the pistol.

  Annie felt a blast of hot air as the bullet skimmed past her and hit her brother in the center of his chest.

  She was held immobilized with shock, her brain shutting down as she watched her brother stagger back a step. Then, as Martin looked down in confusion, a round stain of blood began to spread over the front of his jacket.

  “Marty,” she gasped, a wrenching sense of loss stabbing through her as she watched Martin tumble to the floor. “You shot him.” She stretched her arm over the edge of the cot, unwilling to accept what she’d just witnessed. No matter what her brother had done, she couldn’t bear to watch him die. “You . . . bastard.”

  “He didn’t leave me any choice,” the sheriff muttered.

  Her brother made a gurgling sound, his eyes sliding shut as his head rolled to the side.

  Oh . . . God.

  He was gone.

  She didn’t need to feel for a pulse to know.

  She could sense it in the hollow depths of her heart.

  “You’re worse than my brother,” she rasped, turning back to glare at the man who had shot him down like an animal. “Martin was sick. He couldn’t see what he was doing was wrong. But you.” Her voice was thick with loathing. “You’re evil.”

  Brock swung toward her, the bloodshot eyes narrowing in accusation. “This is your fault,” he muttered.

  Her breath sawed in and out of her lungs as her mouth dropped open in disbelief.

  Was the bastard serious?

  “Mine?”

  “You should never have come back to Newton.”

  He stepped toward the cot, the knife still clutched in his hand.

  Annie instinctively scuttled to the end of the cot, a pain shooting up her arm as the attached handcuff brought her to a sharp halt.

  Dammit. She was trapped.

  Ironic really, considering that her brother had locked her in this basement with the sole intent of keeping her safe.

  The sheriff took another step forward, then they both froze at the unmistakable sound of approaching footsteps.

  “Annie?” a mercifully familiar voice echoed down the stairs.

  Deep, profound relief raced through her.

  Rafe.

  He’d found her.

  She didn’t know how, and right now she didn’t care.

  All that mattered was that he was only a few feet away.

  “I’m down here,” she screamed. “The sheriff is trying to kill me.”

  “Fuck,” Brock growled, moving with surprising speed to the end of the cot. Then, tossing aside the knife, he slapped his hand over her mouth. “You just signed his death warrant, bitch.”

  Annie frantically reached up to try to pull his hand from her mouth, her eyes wide as she watched Brock aim his gun toward the stairs.

  Stupid. She’d been so stupid.

  How could she not have realized that calling out like that would lead Rafe straight into a trap?

  Pressed painfully against the wall, she found it impossible to shove aside his hand. Worse, he’d turned his body enough that there was no way to reach his gun.

  Rafe was going to be a sitting duck.

  It was raw desperation that had her lifting her foot, preparing to try and kick the man before he could squeeze the trigger. At the last second, however, she altered the path of her foot, hitting the stack of bikes leaning against the wall.

  She’d hoped to make enough noise to startle Brock and disrupt his shot. But what she hadn’t expected was that the bikes would go over like dominoes, quickly picking up steam until they crashed into the nearby shelves.

  Jars of pickles, beets, and green beans shattered, while a half dozen paint cans rolled off the top shelf to bounce against the cement floor.

  It was loud.

  Shockingly loud.

  But even as she caught sight of Rafe diving off the edge of the stairs, Brock tightened his finger on the trigger and emptied the remaining bullets in the clip in Rafe’s direction.

  If Rafe had been thinking clearly he would never have charged into the basement like a maniac.

  But he wasn’t thinking clearly.

  In fact, his brain had shut down the very second he’d heard the gunshot echo through the house. And then he’d heard Annie’s frantic cry . . .

  Suddenly nothing mattered but getting to her.

  Which was why he’d nearly gotten his damned head blown off.
br />   If it hadn’t been for the sound of shattering glass he would never have taken the dive over the handrail just as a shot was fired in his direction.

  As it was, he’d been grazed on the shoulder by the first bullet. Nothing more than a flesh wound, but it still pissed him off as he crouched behind the washer and sucked in a steadying breath.

  At the same time, he felt a continuous buzz in his pocket that indicated someone was desperately trying to contact him.

  Holy . . . fuck.

  He pulled out his phone, but didn’t bother to answer the persistent calls. He couldn’t afford to be distracted.

  Instead he hit a button on the screen and dropped the phone to the ground as he peered around the edge of the washer. He frowned at the sight of a man lying on the floor who he assumed was Emerson.

  A frown that deepened as he watched the sheriff lean over Annie, who was handcuffed to the wall.

  First the lawman had shot at him, and now this.

  What the hell was going on?

  “Step out where I can see you, Vargas,” the sheriff ordered.

  “Rafe, don’t listen to him,” Annie abruptly called out. “He killed his wife and blamed it on the Newton Slayer.”

  The sheriff made a sound of frustration. “Shut up, bitch.”

  Rafe grimaced. Brock murdered his own wife?

  Shit.

  So that was why the bastard had sent him on a wild-goose chase to the Gilbert farm earlier. He must have suspected this was where Martin had taken Annie and hoped to sneak here and kill them both before his sins could come back to haunt him.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, Brock,” he called out, stalling for time.

  He didn’t doubt for a second that Teagan had contacted Hauk.

  The sniper would already be getting in position to take a shot.

  The sheriff gave a humorless laugh, his gun thankfully pointed in Rafe’s direction, although he’d forced Annie to her knees on the cot and was using her as a shield.

  Cowardly ass.

  “I think we both know it’s too late for that,” the man muttered.

  “It’s never too late,” Rafe countered. If the man thought Rafe intended to let him walk away, he might lower his guard. “I don’t give a shit what you did to your wife. It was fifteen years ago.”

  “Yeah.” The sheriff’s gaze darted toward the dead man on the floor, his pudgy face drenched in sweat. “Do you really think I’m that stupid? There’s no way you’re going to keep your mouth shut.”

  “I’m willing to trade my silence for Annie,” Rafe promised. “Just drop your gun and we can discuss this situation like grown men.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Look, if we tell the authorities you killed Martin in self-defense, there won’t be any reason to bring up the past,” he said in soothing tones. “No harm, no foul. Do we have a deal?”

  “Fuck that,” Brock growled. “What’s going to happen is that you’re going to throw me your gun and step out so I can see you.”

  The man was on the edge of panic.

  Any second he was going to do something desperate.

  Rafe’s gaze made a sweep of the basement, trying to think like a sniper.

  Where would he set up for a shot?

  He glanced toward the stairs before giving a quick shake of his head. There was no way for Hauk to get into position without revealing his presence. He shifted his attention to the small window just behind him. It gave a view of the basement, but the air conditioner unit blocked half the window.

  Which left the window just above the cot.

  It faced the side of the house that was shaded from the sun, so no shadows to alert that someone was approaching. A clear view of the basement. Level ground.

  Perfect.

  The only problem was getting Brock far enough away from Annie for Hauk to get a clear shot.

  “I have a better idea,” Rafe said, his mind racing with possibilities of how to lure Brock toward the center of the room. “We both lower our guns and—”

  “Do you think I won’t kill her?” Brock interrupted with a snarl, abruptly turning the gun toward Annie.

  Rafe’s heart slammed against his ribs, his gaze locked on Annie’s pale, grimly resolute face.

  She was terrified. Even from across the basement he could see her entire body trembling. But it was obvious she wasn’t going to go down without a fight.

  Christ. He had to keep her from doing something crazy.

  “Shit, Brock,” he rasped, his gaze still locked on Annie as he willed her to trust him. “Settle down. If you’ll just listen, we’re going to get out of this without anyone getting hurt.”

  A beat passed before she gave the smallest nod, understanding the words had been meant for her.

  The sheriff, on the other hand, was becoming increasingly agitated. “I’m going to count to three,” Brock snapped, the edge in his voice warning he wasn’t screwing around. “One. Two.”

  Without hesitation, Rafe leaned to the side and slid his gun across the cement floor. “Here.”

  “Now put your hands above your head and come out,” the sheriff ordered.

  Holding Annie’s worried gaze, Rafe slowly rose to his feet, his hands shoved above his head as he stepped from behind the washer. “Fine.”

  Instinctively Brock aimed his gun back in Rafe’s direction, clearly prepared for any sudden movement. The lawman was unaware that he was doing exactly what Rafe needed him to do.

  “Turn around so I can see you don’t have another weapon,” Brock commanded.

  Rafe willingly complied, turning in a slow circle with his hands over his head.

  He had a small pistol strapped around his ankle that the sheriff couldn’t see, but he was hoping he wasn’t going to need it.

  “Satisfied?” he demanded as he completed his circle and faced the sheriff, who looked like shit.

  Brock’s face was flushed and streaked with sweat, his eyes bloodshot. But his hand holding the gun was steady, and his jaw clenched with stubborn resolve.

  He was like a cornered badger, ready to kill anything that threatened him.

  “Not hardly,” the sheriff growled. “Who’s outside?”

  Rafe didn’t even consider lying. Brock would never believe he’d traveled here by himself. Besides, he wanted to keep the bastard distracted until he could make his move.

  Whatever the hell that was going to be.

  “Hauk. Lucas is keeping an eye from the air,” he said with a shrug. “There’s no way you’re getting out of here.”

  A muscle twitched beside the sheriff’s eye, as if he knew escape was a long shot. But still he wasn’t ready to concede defeat. “I will if you call to tell them to back the hell off,” he snarled.

  “Why would I do that?”

  Brock’s face twisted with an unexpected flare of fury. “Because I’m going to shoot your bitch in the head if you don’t tell them to go,” he warned, waving the gun around like a madman.

  Rafe sucked in a sharp breath. Shit. The man wasn’t only desperate, he was dangerously unstable.

  He had to get him away from Annie.

  Now.

  “Let Annie go and I’ll make the call,” he swore.

  The bloodshot eyes squinted. “Do I have ‘stupid’ tattooed on my forehead? The bitch goes with me.”

  Rafe shook his head. “How far do you think you’ll get?”

  “Far enough.” On the point of yanking Annie off the cot, Brock seemed to belatedly recall the fact that she was chained to the wall. “Shit. I need the key to the handcuffs.” He pointed his gun at Rafe. “Check the stiff.”

  “You bastard,” Annie abruptly hissed, her gaze resting on her brother, who was stretched on the ground.

  Brock gave her a vicious shake. “You should tell her to shut up, Vargas,” he rasped, spittle forming at the edge of his mouth. He was a man on the edge. “Maybe she’ll listen to you.”

  Rafe held Annie’s gaze as he moved to kneel beside Emerson’s d
ead body, silently urging her to hang on for just a few more minutes. “It’s okay, sweetheart.”

  “I’d be doing you a favor to get rid of her. Women aren’t worth the trouble,” Brock muttered, turning his head to glare at Annie.

  Rafe swiftly took advantage of the man’s distraction to glance through the window. It took less than a second to catch the sight of the rifle barrel peeking through a nearby bush.

  Hauk.

  Knowing his friend would be watching him through the scope, he used one hand to reach into the front pocket of Emerson’s jacket, easily finding the key. He remained kneeling, however, long enough to shut and open his other hand four times.

  Twenty seconds.

  Hauk would know what he meant.

  “I’ve got it,” he said, straightening with one fluid movement.

  He held the key up in his fingers while he did a silent countdown.

  Seventeen, sixteen, fifteen . . .

  “Toss it here.”

  “Release Annie,” he insisted.

  Ten, nine, eight . . .

  “No way in hell,” Brock snapped. “I’m not playing. Throw me the key.”

  Five, four, three ...

  “Fine.”

  Tossing the key in a high arch, Rafe waited until Brock leaned forward to catch it before he lunged forward.

  Instinctively assuming that Rafe was coming for him, the sheriff dodged to the side. Rafe, however, angled to the side, tackling Annie backward.

  He landed on top of her, the force of his weight collapsing the cot even as there was the sound of shattering glass, followed by a sickening thud.

  Rafe didn’t need to look to know that Hauk’s bullet had gone through the window and caught Brock in the back of his head.

  Hauk didn’t miss his target.

  Not ever.

  “Shh,” he instead softly murmured, wrapping Annie tightly in his arms. “It’s over, sweetheart. It’s all over.”

  Epilogue

  The next three weeks passed in a blur for Annie.

  After carrying her out of the basement, Rafe had driven her straight to the police station, where the FBI had been waiting to take her statement. They’d already located the bodies of the three women her brother had stored in a large freezer in the garage. And Rafe had been clever enough to hit record on his phone, so the sheriff’s threats had been captured.