“What kind of vehicle?”
“Didn’t see. I ran.”
“Smart move.”
“They had a pit bull. Son-of-a-bitch ran me down. I shot it.”
“The blast I heard,” Cain said.
“That’s how you knew I was down there?”
Cain nodded. “Where were you all this time?”
“In a cabin. Up that way somewhere.” He pointed up the road. “I think so anyway.”
“Think you can find it?”
“Maybe. It was dark and we twisted and turned a lot. And I was a little occupied with preventing Dennie from bleeding to death.”
Cain nodded.
“I can tell you it was deep in the woods. Set back from the road a long way. Surrounded by trees and brush.”
Cain pulled his phone from his pocket. “We’ll see if we can find it, but the first order of business is to call your father.”
CHAPTER 53
Cassie rolled down a narrow farm road toward Highway 43. Rain hammered her windshield and she clicked the wipers to a faster level. She splashed through several water-filled ruts, but the Jeep handled them well. The satellite phone Cain and Harper had given her vibrated. She answered.
“We have Buck,” Cain said.
“Is he okay?”
“Tired and dirty but overall fine. He’s talking to his father right now.”
“The gunshot?”
“That was him. They turned a dog loose on him. He shot it and ran.”
“Where’d he get a shotgun?” Cassie asked.
“We haven’t gotten that far yet. Figured we’d wait on you to ask him.”
“Where are you?”
“Same place. The turnout where we found Duckworth.”
“On the way.” She checked her cell phone, surprised to find two bars of signal strength. Not bad for up here. She called Hack. He answered quickly. She had talked with him maybe twenty minutes earlier to tell him about Duckworth. Hack had been out east of town searching the area for the SUV. “Where are you?” she asked.
“Don’t tell me you have more bad news.”
“I don’t.”
“I’m just about back into town. Headed your way.”
“They found Buck,” Cassie said.
“Who did?”
“Cain and Harper. He’s okay. Looks like he escaped. The bad guys turned a dog on him but he shot it and got away.”
“Shot it?”
“Apparently he had a shotgun. Don’t know the details yet but they’re all waiting for us at the turnout I told you about earlier.”
“Okay. I’ll pick up the pace.”
She closed her phone and dropped it in the center console tray. She turned left onto Highway 43 and gunned the engine. The rain slacked to a drizzle.
Okay, so Dr. Buckner escaped, apparently in one piece. Right now, that seemed a bit of a miracle. Hopefully, he could lead them to where the killers were hiding out. Unless they’d run for it, which was likely the case. If he got away, they were no longer safe wherever they had been before. Time to cut and run.
A half-mile down the road, she blew past an SUV. A black one. Single driver. Male. She didn’t recognize him. Could it be? With only the driver? No passengers?
She continued. But something dug at her. What if? If she let them slip by her, she’d lay awake too many nights chairing the ‘what-if’ committee meeting in her head. She braked, found a shoulder broad enough to make a U-turn.
The SUV, a Lincoln Navigator, rolled along well under the speed limit. Casual. Too casual? She slipped in behind it. No way the driver wouldn’t know she was a cop. The light bar and the larger grill headlamps were a dead giveaway. Not to mention he must have noticed the black and white paint job and the door decals as she went by earlier.
She half-expected him to run. He didn’t but rather maintained his speed. Ten miles per hour below the 50 MPH limit. No one drove that slow around here.
It crossed her mind that this was likely a waste of time but she lit him up anyway. Better to be sure. The Navigator eased off the road onto a grassy shoulder. She pulled in twenty feet behind it and stepped out.
The driver did, too.
“Stay in the car, sir,” she said.
Her headlights bathed him. The strobing blue lights from her light bar reflected off the Navigator’s rear window and pulsed against the surrounding trees. Her right hand reflexively fell to her service weapon on her right hip, her fingers curled around the grip. She lifted it an inch. Not clearing the holster but elevating it just enough so that she could do so quickly.
“What’s the problem, Officer?” the man asked.
He held his position, unmoving. Right hand at his side, left behind his leg, out of sight. He was maybe mid-thirties, five-ten, lean, thick black hair. Jeans, white tee shirt, a Corona beer logo front and center. He didn’t appear scared, or concerned, or anything. Flat eyes stared at her.
“Let me see your hands,” Cassie ordered.
He raised his right hand. Chest high. Showing her his open palm. “Did I do something wrong?”
“Both hands.”
He hesitated. She slid her weapon free, muzzle directed at the ground.
“Sir, show me both hands. Now.”
He did. But his left hand came up with a Glock. Cassie raised her weapon. He fired once; her, three times. The sounds echoed among the surrounding trees.
His bullet whizzed by her left ear. So close she felt it. Hers? One cracked the car door window behind the man, the other two punched him in the chest. His eyes snapped wide and he looked down, momentarily confused. His weapon clattered to the pavement. He wavered, one hand rising to clutch his chest, smearing the blossoms of blood on his shirt. He looked back up at her. His eyes rolled white and he folded to the ground. Sitting position, one leg twisted beneath him, the other splayed to the side, his torso slumping against the open door.
She approached, led by her own Glock. She kicked his weapon away. She squatted, felt for a carotid pulse but found nothing. She stood, lifted her mini Maglite from its case on her service belt, and flicked it on. No one in the passenger seat. She swept the beam through the vehicle. Two men sprawled in the
