“So, how about you ease off the accelerator, or pull over and let me drive?”
“We don’t have time to pull over.” But he eased off the gas and took the next turn more slowly. “I should never have left her alone.”
“She wasn’t alone,” she reminded him. “You had twenty-four-hour protection for her.”
“Which failed.”
“Have you heard from her bodyguard?”
“No, and I’m not foolish enough to think Boyd somehow slipped under the radar, grabbed Portia and slipped out without being noticed.”
“So, you think the bodyguard has been...?” She didn’t finish the question. They’d turned onto Justin’s street, and she could see his house. The windows were dark, the front door closed. Everything looked locked up tight and secure.
“It looks quiet,” she commented as he pulled into the driveway.
“When it comes to Boyd Sullivan, that doesn’t mean anything.” He braked hard, threw the car into Park and jumped out, opening the back hatch and freeing Quinn.
No discussion. No plan. This wasn’t the way Gretchen operated. She liked to be methodical and organized in her approach to the job. In a situation like this—one where a serial killer could be lurking nearby—that was especially imperative.
She knew Justin felt the same.
She’d worked with him for several months, observing the way he led the Security Forces, how he approached dangerous situations, how he and his K-9 partner worked together and the way he interacted with his subordinates. He seemed to have unlimited energy and a passion for justice that was admirable.
But right now, he was running straight into danger without thinking the situation through.
She had two choices: sit in the car and wait for him to return, or run after him.
She opted for the second. She couldn’t let a comrade face danger alone.
She sprinted after him, snagging his arm and yanking him to a stop. He was taller and heavier, packed with muscles he worked hard for. But she had decades of experience dealing with four older brothers who were also taller and more muscular than she was.
“Hold on!” she whispered, keeping her voice low. “We need to call for backup.”
“Go ahead.” He yanked away and headed around the side of the house.
“Captain, this is what Sullivan wants—you panicked and not thinking.”
“I don’t care what he wants. I care about Portia, and I need to see if he left anything behind. Any hint of where he took her.”
“This could be a trap,” she cautioned, following him into the backyard, the hair on her nape standing on end. She didn’t think Boyd Sullivan would hang around waiting for Justin’s return, but she couldn’t guarantee that he wouldn’t. He was a psychopath, extremely intelligent and determined to seek revenge for perceived wrongs that had been committed against him. Based on the file of police reports she’d read and the crimes he’d committed since escaping prison, Gretchen knew he was capable of anything.
“It’s not a trap, but if you’re concerned, go back to the vehicle.”
“Justin, you need to slow down and think things through.” She tried using his first name, speaking to him the way she did when they were off duty. He glanced in her direction, but didn’t slow down. Quinn was just ahead, snuffling the ground, his ears back and his tail low.
The dog looked tense, and that worried Gretchen.
Quinn was good at finding people. She’d been with him and Justin when they’d tracked down a kid who’d vandalized the school. She’d also been with them when Quinn tracked a guy who’d beaten his wife black-and-blue and then fled the house. She’d observed the dog several times, and she knew the posture he was displaying indicated someone’s presence.
He barked and took off, running to the edge of the property, Justin on his heels. She was close behind, staying just far enough back to give them space to do their work.
They pushed through the thick foliage that surrounded the property. Gretchen followed, twigs catching at her short dark hair and scratching her face.
When Justin stopped short, she nearly slammed into his back, her hands coming up automatically, grabbing his shoulders to catch her balance.
“What—” she began.
“Quinn found the bodyguard,” Justin said, crouching and giving her a clear view of what lay in the bushes in front of him. A man sprawled on the ground. She pulled her Maglite and turned it on, wincing as she saw blood trickling from the back of his head.
“Gunshot wound?” she asked, crouching beside Justin as he checked for a pulse.
“Yes. Just one to the head.”
“Pulse?”
“No.”
She eyed the fallen man as Justin radioed for backup and medics. The bodyguard had been dragged into the shrubs. She could see the trail his body had made—empty of leaves, dirt scraped up by his shoes. His jacket was hiked up, and his firearm was visible. Still holstered.
“He didn’t have time to pull his weapon,” she commented as Justin straightened.
“Boyd doesn’t give people time. He doesn’t play by rules. He doesn’t care who he hurts. Stay here until backup arrives. I’m going inside.” He called for Quinn and took off, racing back the way they’d come as if he really thought she’d stay where she was.
But he wasn’t the only captain on the team.
And he wasn’t thinking clearly.
That was an easy way to get killed.
Especially when someone like Boyd Sullivan was around.
She ran after him, the faint sounds of sirens drifting on the velvet night air as she sprinted across the yard, up the porch stairs and into the dark house.
Quinn didn’t sense danger.
Justin was as certain of that as he was of the fact that the house was empty. He could feel it—the silence, thick and unnatural. Up until Portia had come to live with him, Justin had lived by himself. He’d been used to returning to a house that was empty and quiet. Since his daughter had arrived, things had been different, better in a way he hadn’t anticipated. He’d always been a loner. He’d never thought he needed what so many of his friends had—a wife, children, family.
He’d known, of course, that if anything happened to Melanie, Portia would live with him. They’d discussed that after the death of Melanie’s mother. That had been six or seven years ago, and Justin had been quick to
