Texas panhandle and parts of New Mexico and Oklahoma, with accumulations of two feet or more of snow and ice possible tonight along with high winds and temperatures dropping into the mid-twenties,” the radio announcer droned from the speakers of Jake Connelly’s F-150.
“No kidding.” Jake leaned forward to peer through his windshield at the line of dark clouds gathered on the horizon. The readout on his truck’s thermometer said the temperature outside had dropped ten degrees just in the past thirty minutes. The cold front was closing in fast. He checked his truck’s clock and mentally calculated his arrival time at his dad’s house near Amarillo. He might just make it before the storm hit, if he hurried.
“In other news, an inmate escaped this afternoon from a Texas work detail, killing two police officers in the process.”
Jake turned the radio volume down and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he sent another considering glance to the clouds and hedged. Maybe he should go straight to the hospital and ride out the storm there. Michelle had said time was of the essence.
“Authorities are still searching for Edward Brady, convicted six years ago for armed robbery and two counts of second-degree murder. The public is warned that Brady is armed with a handgun belonging to one of the fallen officers and should be considered extremely dangerous. Brady is described as having—”
Jake snapped off the radio. Even the suggestion that he might not get home in time to see his dad made Jake’s chest tighten. Regret and concern sat heavily on his lungs. His dad had been so proud of him for being chosen for the elite black ops team, but the demands of the job kept him away from his family for months at a time. He’d missed last Christmas and hadn’t made time to visit his father in more than a year. When Jake had apologized to his dad during their two-days-late Christmas call, his father had dismissed Jake’s absence, saying, “The work you’re doing is important. You’re making a difference. I understand.”
But Jake had heard an undertone of disappointment in his dad’s voice in that call that knifed his heart now.
Time is of the essence.
Jake nudged the gas pedal, bumping up his speed. He’d never forgive himself if he didn’t make it home before his dad died.
Chelsea cringed as the escaped inmate cursed a blue streak, railing in her face. Spittle flew from his mouth as he blasted her with invectives and blamed her for their predicament.
“That’s why I’d stopped at the gas station where you hijacked me,” she said, frustration and defensive anger battling her fear.
The man’s dark eyes narrowed, and he ran a hand over his thinning brown hair. “Are you saying this is my fault?”
Chelsea bit the inside of her cheek. Don’t get him angry. Or rather angrier. Her stomach flip-flopped.
“M-maybe someone will stop and help us,” she offered, trying to infuse her tone with a note of optimism that would calm her captor. But a glance down the isolated road told her everyone with sense was already hunkered down at home, bracing for the storm.
The inmate’s eyebrows beetled, and he shifted restlessly on the seat. “No. No, we can’t have that. Can’t risk someone calling the cops.” He looked down at the orange coveralls he wore, as if realizing his attire screamed his status as an escaped felon. Raising a speculative glance to Chelsea, he waved the gun at her. “Give me your clothes.”
She blinked. “What?”
Her captor started peeling off his prison garb, revealing a second weapon he’d tucked in his underwear. Another gun, although this one had a funny shape and was painted with yellow stripes on the wide muzzle. Maybe a stun gun?
He caught her curious stare and grated, “Strip! Now! I want your clothes.”
“But it’s freezing!”
He gave her a sneer. “That’s your problem, girlie, not mine.”
A shudder rolled through Chelsea, and she fought down the wave of nausea that churned in her gut. Her brain scrambled for something, anything, that would distract him. Anything that would give her the upper hand and a chance to call for help.
“Come on. Hurry up! Gimme your clothes, damn it!” He waved the gun under her nose. “Don’t test me, girlie. I swear I will shoot you and take the clothes off your corpse if you don’t get ’em off now!”
Hands shaking, Chelsea grasped the hem of her sweater and tugged it off over her head. Tears filled her eyes as the chilly air nipped her skin.
He snatched the pink pullover from her, then bent to shove the orange coveralls and second gun under the front seat. And Chelsea seized what might be her only chance.
Lunging for her purse, she grappled for her cell phone and thumbed the call button. 9-1—
“Bitch!” Her kidnapper yanked the phone from her, jabbed the power button and threw the phone on the floor of the backseat. “That’s it,” he growled. “Get out.”
Fear rippled through her. Heart thundering, gut roiling, Chelsea blinked back tears. “N-no. Please! I won’t try it again. I just—”
“Damn right you won’t try it again.” He climbed out of the car, opened the driver’s door and poked her with the gun. “Get the hell out of the car!”
Shivering with cold and terror, Chelsea scanned the horizon again, praying for help. No one. Nothing. She struggled for a breath as dread squeezed her lungs. Was this it? Was this how she’d die?
The encroaching storm clouds blotted out the sun and made the afternoon seem more like evening. Despair darkened her hope.
The convict yanked her out of the car by the arm. “I said get out!”
Chelsea screamed as loud as she could. Maybe someone, somewhere, would hear and—
A stunning blow found her cheek.
“Shut up! Give me those jeans now, or I’ll do it myself.” The man’s dark eyes narrowed on her.
Hands shaking, she stripped off her jeans, while humiliation and tears stung her cheeks. Icy wind whipped around her, and she shivered. “You have what you want. Please, just let me go.”
“And let you sing to the cops where you saw me and which way I was headed?” He scoffed. “No chance.” He reached out and stroked her face, sending a ripple of revulsion to her core. “But because you’ve been so helpful, I’ll let you live. For now.”
Chelsea released a breath of relief…too soon.
After snatching the key from the ignition, the gunman grabbed her arm and dragged her toward the back of the Caddy. He keyed open the trunk and turned to her. “Get in.”
Chelsea eyed the trunk, and her knees wobbled. “Please, just…just let me g—”
“Get in!” he roared, pointing the gun at her.
“But you said—”
The convict grabbed her, his arms pinning hers to her sides, and shoved her toward the open trunk.
“No!
