Madeline stood at Jackson’s side and stared out the window. She opened her mouth to ask what the fiery word meant, but a flash of movement registered in the shadows off the left corner of the yard.
Someone dressed in all black, wearing a plain white mask with a hood pulled up over their head, turned and took off like a shot.
The unsub. It had to be.
Madeline withdrew her service weapon from the holster on her hip and bolted for the front door.
Heavy footfalls pounded after her.
She flipped a switch beside the door, bringing on the porch light, and had the chain off and was out the door before Jackson caught up.
With her Glock at the ready, Madeline charged down the wooden steps. She cleared the front yard, gun swinging in a careful arc as she made her way to the sidewalk.
She scanned the north side of the street. The left. No one was visible. No pedestrians out walking their dog. Nothing suspicious.
Jackson ran to her. A baseball bat was clenched in his hands. “Where did he go?”
His house was situated in the middle of a long lane. The unsub wouldn’t have had time to disappear around the corner on foot. Not even if they were an Olympic sprinter.
They were hiding. In a neighbor’s yard. Or a car.
“Stay here,” Madeline ordered Jackson.
She darted into the middle of the street illuminated by streetlamps and looked in both directions. She’d taken the time to scope out the block earlier. Knew which vehicles had been there.
Did anything stand out? Was something different?
There! A black van. Parked barely twenty yards away with the quiet engine running, headlights off.
She locked onto the white full-face mask behind the wheel. The unsub was watching.
The engine roared, tires squealing on the wet pavement, and the vehicle raced toward her.
Her arm moved on its own, raising the gun—pure instinct kicking in. She thumbed the safety off. Years of habit had her sighting down the barrel, her left hand coming over to steady the Glock in her palm, finger sliding inside the trigger guard as the car bore down.
Aim. Squeeze. You’ll hit the bastard.
Emma. The thought of the child made her freeze. If she killed this person, the BAU team might never be able to find Emma.
Madeline shifted her aim away from the driver’s head. She could wound the unsub and end this. She locked eyes with the person behind the wheel and squeezed the trigger.
Once. Twice. Three times. The darkness lit up with the flash of bullets. Holes blasted into the windshield.
The van swerved back and forth, still hurtling toward her.
Her breath shuddered in her chest, her pulse hammering in her ears. She braced for the inevitable pain if she missed one last time.
Steadying her aim, she squeezed the trigger.
But she was tackled from the side. Jackson had launched himself at her, hauling her out of the way.
A split second later, the van was breathing hot as it blew past.
The impact of Jackson’s body knocked her off her feet. Tumbling with her, he held her tight to his chest. Momentum propelled them both down fast to the asphalt behind a parked sedan. He’d twisted, taking the brunt of the fall.
Madeline landed on top of him, the wind forced from her lungs. Her shoulder scraped against something hard. Jackson’s head slammed on the concrete curb. A groan tore from his lips. He rolled again, deftly placing her beneath him as if to shield her.
His considerable weight pressed her to the cold, wet ground. Instinctively, she had clung to him with one hand as they were falling, but she had managed to hold on to the gun with the other.
Her fingers dug into chiseled muscle. Their legs tangled. His face lifted, putting his lips inches from hers, his breath fanning her cheek.
For a heartbeat, everything blended into one. Fear. Adrenaline. The feel of the damp pavement. The warmth of his searing heat. His strong arms wrapped around her. The scent of his aftershave and burning rubber.
She got her bearings. Regained her breath.
Brakes screeched. The transmission ground, making an ugly noise.
Madeline slid to the side, out from under Jackson, shoving herself upright to peer around the sedan’s bumper. Her vision speckled and then cleared.
The driver threw the van in Reverse, gunning the engine, and headed back for them.
She squeezed one shot off, hitting the rear door.
The vehicle kept coming.
Jackson grabbed her by the elbow, yanking her to her feet. A wave of light-headedness swept through her.
They both stumbled up onto the sidewalk and back out of the way in the nick of time.
The van slammed alongside the sedan, metal scraping against metal, and then angled backward, mowing over the spot where they had just been.
She fired again. This time she aimed for the tires. Bullets pinged, striking steel.
The driver righted the car, threw it in Drive and punched the accelerator, burning rubber down the street. A hard left and the van careened around the corner out of sight.
Madeline’s heart beat wildly in her throat. Relief coursed through her, but it was fleeting.
Emma’s kidnapper had gotten away.
Madeline put her hand to Jackson’s chest, thankful they hadn’t been crushed by the van. “Are you okay?”
Tension rolled off him in waves. He inhaled, his muscular chest expanding beneath her palm. “Fine.”
But he wasn’t fine. Blood trickled down his temple from a cut over his brow.
“You okay?” he asked.
Her shoulder ached and the skin where she’d scraped it burned. “I’ll live.”
Lights started popping on in the windows of his neighbors. The cops would be there soon. Surely someone had called them by now.
They crossed the street, making their way back to the house. She moved stiffly at first. One pant leg was ripped and strands of her hair had slipped loose of her twist, falling around her face.
He picked up the baseball bat that he had dropped earlier, and she holstered her weapon.
In the yard, they walked up to the flames burning on his lawn. They drew close enough to feel the heat.
Sticks had been positioned to create four letters and then set on fire. “‘Pony,’” she said, reading the flaming word. “What does it mean?”
“It’s what Emma wished for on her last birthday. A pony. I got her horseback riding lessons instead. This is proof of life.”
Madeline took out her phone. Thankfully, the screen hadn’t been damaged when they hit the ground. She snapped several pictures of the letters before the fire died out and messaged the photos to the team along with a quick breakdown of what had happened.
“What about the video I asked for?” Jackson looked at her with haunted eyes. “Do you think he’ll send it? Or is this it?” His gaze drifted back to the burning letters. “The only proof of life I’ll get.”
Honestly, she didn’t know for certain. “Every action Emma’s kidnapper has taken has been calculated and planned with one consistent goal. Hurting you. Torturing you. Manipulating you.” First, Emma was taken right in front of him. That one act alone was enough to riddle any parent with overwhelming guilt. Then his pet project was destroyed. He was pressured to resign ahead of the deadline. Now this. A violation of his home, stripping him of any small peace of mind. All of it designed to mess with his head. “Not sending you a video would leave you to wonder. The imagination is powerful. Can conjure up all sorts of ugly possibilities. But you demanded to see Emma before your resignation is made official and you haven’t. I think you’ll be made to wait a little while longer. Then the kidnapper will make contact again.”
Whoever it was wanted to stretch this out, make Jackson suffer, and Madeline feared they weren’t finished with him. Not by a mile.
“But he just tried to kill me,” Jackson said.
“Actually, the van was coming for me and you merely got in the way.” The kidnapper had taken things to the next level. Attempted murder. Apparently, they were willing to kill under the right circumstances. That made them far more dangerous. “For the record, don’t ever do that again.”
“What? Save your life?” The hint of a smile tugged at the edges of his mouth.
“Put yourself in harm’s way. Not for me.” Part of her job was to keep him safe. Even protect him from himself if necessary.
Jackson closed the gap between them, stepping so close she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. His wide shoulders and broad chest were like a wall in front of her. The rich scent of his aftershave, cedar and musk, had her softening again.
“In case you haven’t figured it out yet,” he said with the gleam of challenge in his eyes, “I’m not good at following orders.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed.”
“By the way, you’re welcome.”
The phone in her hand vibrated. A call from Miguel. Stepping away from Jackson and that scent which teased her senseless, she answered. “Hope I didn’t wake you with the update.” Doubtful since it was only eleven. The BAU team was accustomed to operating on little sleep.
“Are you and Jackson all right?” Concern flooded Miguel’s voice.
She’d forgotten to highlight that they were okay in the message. “Yeah. We both are.” Thanks to Jackson getting her out of the way of the van. She did indeed owe him her life. “Only some scratches.”
“I’m going to have Dash check traffic camera footage and try to locate the van.” A hotshot hacker, if anyone could cut through the red tape, or circumvent it to find an answer fast, it was Dash. “Did you catch a license plate number?”
“No. Everything happened too fast. But it wasn’t a passenger van. It was one of those smaller service vans.” She closed her eyes, tried to recall additional details. “A Ford Transit, I think.”
“Okay. That’ll give him more to go on.”
“What about a description of the perp?”
“I couldn’t make out much. The person was standing far away in the shadows. The white mask is what caught my eye. I only saw them for a second. Average height. Medium build. Nothing distinctive. Sorry.”
“We’ll track the van. Put out an APB.” The all-points bulletin would have local law enforcement on the lookout for the vehicle.
As soon as two squad cars with flashing lights pulled up, an elderly neighbor across the street, whose sedan had been damaged, came outside.
This was going to be fun. “I’ve got to go,” she said, wishing Caitlyn were there to handle this. “The police are here.” She turned, glancing at the fire again.
“Go. We’ll let you know if we find anything.”
No news would mean bad news. A dead end.
Another thought occurred to her. “Hang on. One more thing. The burning letters. There’s something odd about the fire. It still hasn’t gone out. The branches are lying on top of wet grass. Never should have lit to begin with.”
“I’ll have Forensics come out ASAP and take a look.”
“I’M HAPPY TO pay for the damages to your sister’s car,” Jackson said to his neighbor, Lawrence Travers.
Owner of the Wilderness Emporium chain stores, Larry was a laid-back fellow in his prime at just under sixty who loved hunting, golf and his wife, not necessarily in that order.
Larry waved his hand, dismissing the suggestion. “Don’t trouble yourself. Sounds like you have an unenviable amount on your plate already. Looks it too from the gash on your head.” He tightened the belt of his robe covering his pajamas. “Insurance will take care of the car.”
Once Madeline had explained the circumstances, Larry had graciously agreed that they could work out the specifics regarding the damage themselves. The police had made a report and left.
Standing on the sidewalk in front of Jackson’s house, Larry shoved his hands in the pockets of his robe. “Is there anything I can do to help you out with this nasty business?” He nodded at Jackson’s lawn.
The burning letters taunted Jackson. Made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
“Do you have a firearm in the house?” Larry asked. “I can outfit you with a piece perfect for home defense if you don’t.”
“A generous offer, but the idea of having a gun in the same house as Emma without a safe to store it properly doesn’t sit well with me. Besides, Special Agent Striker has all the firepower I need.” Jackson glanced at Madeline, and she gave him a supportive smile.
“That’s the spirit,” Larry said. “Emma’s going to be back home before you know it. Although in the future, you never know when you might need a gun. I’ll have a Rapid safe sent over along with a 9 mm and ammo. The safe uses Radio Frequency Identification for quick access. You’ll get a RFID key. Best level of child-resistant security. Do you know how to shoot, or do I need to set you up with lessons at the Emporium’s range?”
“I don’t need lessons.” A marine veteran, his father had made it a point to teach Jackson three things at an early age: how to shoot, fight, turn every obstacle into an opportunity to chart his own path. While his mother had taught him to play the piano, giving him balance he’d never taken for granted.
A silver sedan rolled down the street and parked in front of the house.
“That must be someone from Forensics,” Madeline said. “They should be able to tell us how the perp got the fire started on wet grass and why it hasn’t burned out yet.”
“You don’t need Forensics. I can tell you that.” Larry rocked back on his slipper-covered heels and puffed out his chest. “Smelled it from across the street.”
“Smelled what?” Madeline asked.
“Tree resin,” Larry said as if the answer was obvious. “Pine, spruce or cedar would be my guess. Fire equals life in a wilderness survival scenario. Resin is your secret weapon to starting and keeping a fire going in wet conditions. Highly flammable stuff. One of the best natural accelerants since it contains volatile oils. Easy to get and use. Great for all sorts of things and it’s a renewable source. Melt the resin, soak some rags or strips of bandanna, wrap it around thick branches and it’ll extend the burn time for a while.”
Thirty minutes later, Forensics had confirmed Larry’s assessment.
The fire died out and the man from Forensics collected the remnants to compare with the accelerant used in the bomb at the Duwamish facility.
After Jackson and Madeline trudged inside, he locked up behind them.
He stared at the nine panes of glass in the upper half of his front door. A damn window.
It was so easy to break in through a window in the door. Not that it hadn’t occurred to him when he had purchased the house seven years ago. At the time as a new resident of picturesque Madison Park, he had thought the glass-paned door was quaint. A reflection of the carefree, safe neighborhood. Like the large bay windows in the family room that had never been adorned with curtains.
There was no telling how long the kidnapper had been spying on him before lighting the fire.
The vulnerability of every aspect of his life now stood out with stark lucidity.
He stowed the solid-wood Louisville Slugger back in the hall closet, where he kept it for emergencies. Though this had been the first time he had ever been inclined to use it.
In the family room, Madeline shrugged off her jacket with a groan.
“Are you hurt?” He wasn’t sure if the sound had been caused by pain or fatigue.
“I banged up my shoulder. Nothing serious.” She brushed long strands of hair from her face and turned away from him, draping her jacket across a chair.
Blood stained the back of her white silk blouse. “You’re bleeding.”
She twisted her chin over her shoulder, trying to inspect the injury, but she’d need a mirror to see it. Her gaze flickered up, meeting his, then higher to his head. “So are you. Aren’t we a pair?” Madeline smiled weakly, a brief upturning of her mouth, her posture relaxing, her face open.
The sight of her like this warmed him, banishing the heart-stopping image of that van hurtling toward her.
Not for a single second had she shown a hint of fear.
Right now, she still looked tough as iron, but also shockingly vulnerable. An appealing contradiction.
For all her beauty, brains, nerves of steel, not to mention her incredible magnetism, it was astonishing to think she didn’t have someone special in her life.
Such a pity.
Madeline cleared her throat and looked away. “It’s late. I’m going to get cleaned up.” She grabbed her jacket and headed down the hall to the bathroom.
There were plenty of fresh towels in the washroom since it was the one Emma used, but no medical supplies. He went to the kitchen and retrieved the deluxe family first aid kit. Then he made an ice pack and took it to the hall bathroom.
Jackson knocked.
Madeline eased the door open. She had removed her silk blouse and was standing in slacks and a black sports bra—the kind that didn’t look like underwear or flaunt a ridiculous amount of cleavage. The women at his gym paraded around in far less.
“Thought you could use some Neosporin and a bandage,” he said.
“You have blood dripping down your face, and you’re worried about me?” She opened the door wide. “Get in here and sit down.”
Jackson stepped inside, passing behind her to the other side of the sink. With the two of them inside, the bathroom seemed to have gotten smaller, growing far too cramped. He cast a glance at the black semiautomatic in the holster on the vanity. It looked out of place beside Emma’s Disney-themed toothbrush and her hand towel with a picture of a unicorn.
Madeline bent over, lifting the cuff of her torn pant leg. He shouldn’t have been surprised at the sight of a second weapon strapped to her ankle. The special agent came across as a woman who was always prepared. She tugged at the Velcro fasteners. The gun was more compact than her Glock. The polished nickel gleamed when she set it on the counter.
He closed the lid to the toilet and sat. Holding the medical supplies, he was now eye level with her chest. His gaze slid over the swell of her breasts, her sculpted arms, taut abs and wicked curves that showed the discipline of someone who rarely missed a workout.
Clenching his hands, he curbed the urge to touch her, but he was so physically aware of her that it was like walking barefoot in the grass under a power line that sent a tingling rush under your skin.
He didn’t mean to let his mind go there, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it.
“A good host takes care of his guest first,” he said, breaking the silence and meeting her gaze.
Her eyes softened, and something sparked between them. Something warm. Something deep. Something strong.
“I’m not a guest.” She sorted through the bag, taking the antiseptic and gauze. “I’m working.”
Jackson fought for air as she stepped closer, leaning in until her breath brushed his face. He studied her features, trying to figure out what about them he found so captivating. Was it her high cheekbones, the flawless golden brown complexion, her well-defined lips or those riveting eyes, which seemed to see straight into his soul? Maybe everything—the whole was definitely greater than the sum of its parts.
He had never been attracted to weak women, no matter how pretty or charming.
There was nothing weak about Madeline. She was a force to be reckoned with.
She dabbed at the bloody gash on his forehead with a cotton swab, patting the skin gently. The tantalizing fragrance of her, vanilla and roses, stole into his lungs with each breath. He always loved the way women smelled, but her scent was so enticing that every muscle in his body tightened.
He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the sensations he knew he shouldn’t have, but the absence of sight made it more difficult for him to think of anything else.
“You won’t need stitches,” she said, and he opened his eyes. She tore into a packet of butterfly bandages, closed the cut by holding its edges together and applied them. “You should put ice on it. Keep the swelling down.” Turning, she chucked the gauze away in the trash.
The abrasion on her back was red and raw. Road rash from the pavement.
“Let me clean the scratch on your shoulder for you. It looks pretty bad.”
“I can handle it.”
Sure, if she was a contortionist.
“You’re not used to accepting help from others, are you?” he asked. When she didn’t respond, he said, “Quid pro quo. Only fair.”
She studied him, her face a blank mask. Tension stretched between them, making the space in the bathroom feel even tighter before she nodded and faced the sink. “All right.”
As he wiped at the blood, working toward the abrasion, she watched him in the mirror.
The second he touched the cotton swab to the ragged flesh, her spine stiffened, and she sucked in a sharp breath.
“Sorry.”
She grabbed onto the counter. “Don’t worry about it,” she whispered.
Brushing the antiseptic over the scraped area, he worked quickly. Her shoulders remained tense and a muscle flexed along her jaw.
He added a dab of Neosporin to the tender scrape, grabbed a piece of gauze and ripped off several sections of medical tape.
“Almost done.” Taping the gauze over the injury, his fingers grazed her warm skin. Silky soft.
In the mirror, her mesmerizing gaze found his and didn’t waver. Electric awareness shot down his spine, lighting up nerve endings along the way. Time suspended, and the primal attraction between them was undeniable.
He let his fingers stretch until his palms glided over her skin above the shoulder blades. Her muscles relaxed, her body softening, leaning into him. Something he didn’t want to acknowledge and was helpless to suppress coiled through him. A dangerous combination of darkness and desire.
“Jack—”
His phone chimed, and the sound had them jerking apart.
A new message!
He snatched the phone from his pocket, his pulse in overdrive.
Madeline spun around and looked at the screen alongside him.
No video. I’m in charge. Not you. Not the FBI. This is all you get. Make your resignation official.
With another chime came a grainy picture of Emma. She was in a room, sitting on a bed with a gray wool blanket. Newspaper covered the wall behind her. Emma’s brown eyes were wide with fear. Tears stained her cheeks.
“She’s alive,” he muttered. Thank God. Then a horrible thought struck him like a bolt of lightning through his chest. “Do you think he hurt her? She’s been crying.”
“Tears are natural. She misses you, home, everything familiar.” Madeline put a hand on his forearm, and the sudden tightness in his chest eased. “She’s scared, not hurt.”
He wanted to believe that. Needed to. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
He needed to contact the ETC PR team and have them draft a statement. “Once I make my resignation official, you don’t think he would...” The words stuck in his throat. He couldn’t bring himself to say the worst thing imaginable.
“Emma’s going to be okay. Look on the floor. There’s a Happy Meal container. On the bed—a doll, coloring book, crayons. She’s in fresh clothes.”
A pink sweat suit.
Why hadn’t he noticed any of those things until Madeline had pointed them out?
“If her kidnapper wanted to hurt her, they wouldn’t go to the trouble of feeding her, giving her things to play with. Changing her clothes.” She tightened her fingers on his arm and squeezed a little. “Emma’s going to be okay,” she said again, as if the statement needed reinforcing, and perhaps it did.
Madeline took out her phone, made a call and put it on speaker.
The phone rang twice. “What’s happened?” Miguel said.
Madeline relayed the message and details about the picture.
“We’ll have a copy of everything at the office from the tap,” Miguel said. “I can get Liam on it. Just to let you know, Dash hacked into the CCTV. There are no traffic cameras in Madison Park or the surrounding area, but the police found the van abandoned under an overpass near I-5. It had been torched.”
Would they be able to lift fingerprints off a burnt vehicle?
“Damn it. Another dead end.” She pressed a palm to her forehead. “The picture needs to be analyzed. I want to know everything. Which newspaper is on the walls, clothing brand, any shadows, reflections, absolutely everything,” she said with a desperation that echoed Jackson’s own.
“You’re not saying anything that I don’t already know,” Miguel said. “We’ll analyze every single inch of it. No stone left unturned.”
Madeline nodded. “We have to find a solid lead. And soon.”