Rescue on the Run

  “We did it!”

  Cal was going to give his all to protect the baby in his arms and the feisty woman trudging behind him.

  He turned his head again. Snow clung to Abby’s dark hair, and she looked almost fragile against the desolate landscape. As if reading his thoughts, she lifted her head and caught his stare.

  She was just as tough as he was. Which he knew already.

  Wait! He froze. What was that? The low hum of an approaching vehicle caught his ear.

  “Abby! Quick! We need to take cover!”

  “What?”

  “Cover! Now!” He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the side of the embankment. Would the driver notice their footprints? No. The gusting wind had already dusted the tarmac with enough snow to cover their tracks.

  He handed Abby the baby and crouched down beside her.

  “Ricky,” she whispered. The word was like a dagger in the cold night air.

  His free hand dug into the snow and searched for something, anything, he could use as a weapon...

  Jaycee Bullard was born and raised in the great state of Minnesota, the fourth child in a family of five. Growing up, she loved to read, especially books by Astrid Lindgren and Georgette Heyer. In the ten years since graduating with a degree in classical languages, she has worked as a paralegal and an office manager, before finally finding her true calling as a preschool Montessori teacher and as a writer of romantic suspense.

  Books by Jaycee Bullard

  Love Inspired Suspense

  Framed for Christmas

  Fatal Ranch Reunion

  Rescue on the Run

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com.

  Rescue on the Run

  Jaycee Bullard

  Be careful for nothing; but in every thing by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known unto God.

  And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.

  —Philippians 4:6–7

  To Noah and Mae.

  You were the miracles and highlights of the last year.

  To my sister Clare.

  You believed in this story from the very first draft.

  To the residents of Parkshore Senior Campus.

  Thank you for your interest and support for my writing.

  I miss visiting you more than I can say.

  Know that you are in my thoughts and prayers.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  Dear Reader

  Excerpt from Deadly Cargo by Jodie Bailey

  ONE

  All day long, a stiff west wind had been swirling together the worst of January weather—snow and sleet and damp cold. Winter in North Dakota. Time for curling up by the fire with a good book and a warm cup of tea. Not for standing in front of the locked doors of Keystone Bank, hands clenched into tight fists.

  Abby Marshall had just about decided to give up on waiting and head for home when her cell pulsed against her hip. She fished it out of her pocket and checked the screen.

  Department of Children and Family Services. Her heartbeat quickened. It had to be her social worker, calling with news about the adoption. She fumbled with her gloves as footsteps crunched on the path behind her.

  “Have they closed already? It’s not even five.”

  The voice was familiar, and so was the oversize boot planted next to her on the stoop. Both belonged to Cal Stanek, Sheriff of Dagger Lake County, and, according to some, the best-looking bachelor in the tristate area.

  An uncomfortable silence passed between them. Almost from the day Cal arrived in town, well-meaning friends and acquaintances had been trying to set the two of them up. Which made it awkward whenever she and Cal ran into each other at city hall or the bank or the checkout at the market. It didn’t help that, beneath a façade of cheerful indifference, the sheriff often seemed to be sizing her up through narrowed, vaguely disapproving eyes.

  There was always that moment when it felt like they ought to be able to move beyond the usual pleasantries, grab a cup of coffee and have a collegial conversation about their jobs and life in Dagger Lake. But from the look of Cal’s attire—ice fishing overalls and bulky wool coat—as well as the anxious expression on his face, that talk wasn’t going to happen today.

  “What’s going on? Why’s the door locked?” Cal’s voice brought her back to the present, and she stepped sideways to get out of his way. Their elbows bumped, and her cell slipped from her grasp and disappeared into a pile of deep, wet snow.

  No! She needed to answer that call. If Davey was coming to live with her, there wasn’t a moment to spare. She dropped to her knees and began to dig, clawing through the slush until her fingers closed around a rectangular object. Her phone, dripping wet, with moisture already seeping through the casing. She pushed herself up, her thumb frantically pressing the power button, but the screen remained blank. She tried again. Nothing.

  Cal reached across the stoop and swiped a sleeve against the phone’s screen. “If you power it off and wait a few minutes, it might still work. Look,” he said, tilting his head downward. “I think I see something inside on the floor.”

  As Cal pressed his face against the window that framed the bank’s threshold, she rechecked her cell. Fuzzy gray lines now crisscrossed the screen, but there was still no reception. How long would she have to wait to find out if the folks at Children and Family Services had approved her application? She tamped down her frustration. Maybe there was a landline she could use in the lobby. Her eyes darted back toward Cal. That was when she noticed the look on his face. Assessing and hard. Tracking the downward direction of his glance, she saw what she had missed on her first peek through the glass—the body of a man lying facedown on the floor, a wide circle of blood pooled beneath his head. Given the navy blue uniform and the thin, gray hair, she assumed that the injured man was Zander Phillips, the weekend security guard at the bank.

  “Oh no.” She bit back the scream that was lodged in her throat.

  Cal pressed a finger to his lips and motioned for her to step away.

  She moved toward the spot by the side of the building where he stood waiting.

  “What’s going on?”

  Cal’s face was grim. “It looks like we stumbled into the middle of a robbery.”

  “What about Zander? Do you think he’s dead?”

  “Not sure. But it doesn’t look good.”

  Her mind switched into paramedic gear. “If we could break a window and get inside, I might be able to help him.”

  “No, Abby. At this point, it’s not safe. The fact that there are so many cars in the lot makes me think that the robbers are still in the building. More than one shooter could be inside, holding other hostages. We need to get backup here right away.” He reached into the pocket of his overalls and pulled out a set of keys. “Here. Take these. My truck is parked in the lot. And my phone is in the cupholder between the seats. The code is five-five-seven-two. Call nine-one-one and tell the operator to send as many deputies as she can muster.”

 
“Five-five-seven-two,” she repeated, her heart pounding in her chest. As Cal pulled his Glock from the holster under his coat, she swallowed hard. “I can do that. But what about you?”

  “I’m going to do a recon of the outside of the building. The more I can learn about the situation, the better it will be when backup arrives.”

  She ignored the rest of the questions crowding her brain. All she could think about was Zander. Minutes, even seconds, could decide if he lived or died. But Cal was right. The best course of action was to call for help. Once the 911 operator passed the message to the proper authorities, it wouldn’t be long before deputies arrived on the scene, armed with weapons and shields. The team on the ambulance would be right behind them, well prepared to do everything they could to handle the medical emergency. The bank robbers would be apprehended. And the hostages would be safe.

  But before any of that could happen, she needed to find Cal’s truck. She retraced her steps along the path, stopping at the curb to look for his familiar blue F-150. Bits of frozen ice pelted her face as she struggled to discern the contours of the snow-covered vehicles scattered haphazardly across the lot. It was already getting dark, and a green-gray dusk shrouded her vision. She raised her hand to shield her eyes and peered out through a veil of falling snow. Yes! There it was, a dusting of flakes already covering the truck bed and the side windows. She ran across the lot, skidding through the slush as wetness seeped through the soles of her shoes.

  She pressed the button on the key fob. The horn honked, the taillights flashed and the locks disengaged.

  Pulling herself up into the driver’s seat, she slammed the door shut behind her. She took a deep breath and brushed the snow from her shoulders. Inside the cab, the frosted windows bathed the space in a tomb-like glow, making it hard to see more than a few inches in front of her. Cal had said that his phone was in the cupholder, but—her fingers clenched from the cold as she raked her hand across the console—it didn’t seem to be there.

  She flicked on the overhead light and scanned the cab. The charger was empty. Where was the phone?

  Desperation guided her senses as she pried her hands into the sides of both seats. But there was nothing there, except for a pack of mints and a broken pen.

  Had Cal been confused with his directions? Maybe he’d made a mistake and left his cell at home. She shook her head. That wasn’t likely. It had to be somewhere in the truck. It had probably slid off the console and lodged under the seat.

  The beam on the ceiling flickered and dimmed. It was still so dark inside the cab. She pressed the key into the truck’s ignition, and the light blinked back on as the motor responded with a dull roar. It was tempting to put the truck in gear and head into town. She might have to do that if she couldn’t find the phone. But with Zander bleeding out on the floor of the bank, every second was precious.

  Her breath came out in short bursts, forming a thin cloud of condensation on the windows. As she flicked on the defroster, her eyes raced across the dashboard, searching for the knob that controlled the wipers. The one in her car was to the left of the gearshift, but the F-150’s was on the turn signal.

  She rotated the dial.

  A green arrow began to blink. She twisted the notch underneath it. There was a moment of hesitation before the blades engaged, but it took only one pass for the wipers to clear the snow from the glass, making it easier to see.

  But the phone was nowhere to be found. Leaning over the headrest, she checked the back seat. And there it was, laying upside down on the floor. She stretched her arms to pick it up and then slid back down on the seat.

  Her legs were shaking as she set the phone on her lap. What was the code again? Five-five-seven-two. She had just punched in the last of the four digits when the click of a handle being pushed and released sent a shock wave of tension straight up her spine.

  “Cal?” she said.

  Not Cal.

  She froze for a second as the side door flew open, and a dark-haired woman with a gun pulled herself into the passenger seat. “Don’t move,” the woman said.

  She couldn’t if she wanted to. A cloud of fear fogged her brain as she stared at the pistol aimed at her chest. Her heart seemed to stop, and then it began to drum frantically. But she couldn’t allow herself to lose her nerve. Her eyes slid sideways, and a germ of an idea took root in her brain. The console between the seats was high enough to shield the lower part of her body. Which meant that the woman sitting next to her couldn’t see the phone.

  The hairs on the back of her neck prickled in anticipation. She could feel the woman’s eyes on her as she reached down toward the cell and silenced the volume. With the tip of her thumb, she skimmed the call icon. For the beat of one second, her finger remained poised against the glass, waiting to slide across the numbers on the screen.

  Nine...one...

  A sharp object nudged against her ribs. Her hand froze as the woman pressed the barrel of the pistol hard against her chest.

  “What is it about ‘don’t move’ that you don’t understand?”

  * * *

  Cal kept his head down as he crept past the low-lying evergreens along the north side of the building. Under normal circumstances, he would settle into a safe spot and wait for backup. But given the unknowns of the situation, he couldn’t remain still. The threat of hostages was a very real possibility. He glanced down at his watch. Any minute now, Abby would be dialing 911.

  According to protocol, the message would be passed to the deputy manning the desk at the sheriff’s department, and every available officer in the area would be sent to the scene.

  And when they arrived, they’d be grateful for a solid recon of the site.

  He reached the corner of the lot and made the turn toward the back of the building. The snow was coming down harder now, obscuring any footprints along the path. His mind scrambled to imagine every possible scenario to explain what might have happened in the lobby of the bank. How many civilians had been inside? How many robbers? Why hadn’t the teller on duty pushed the emergency button to notify the police? He couldn’t be sure, but Zander Phillips probably never had a chance. The guard’s gun was still in his holster when his body hit the floor.

  He could only speculate about the events that followed. Any remaining hostages would have been taken at gunpoint to a back room as the robbers—based on past experience, there had to be at least two, maybe three—emptied the cash from the drawers. Breaking into the safe would be their next step. Which explained why the lobby was deserted when he and Abby arrived at the door.

  Frustration gnawed at his senses. How had he failed to realize that something was wrong the moment he pulled into the parking lot? There were too many cars for closing time on a Saturday afternoon. He had noticed Abby’s white Nissan as well as the late-model minivan and light blue Taurus that he had seen on previous visits. But the black SUV with tinted windows and out-of-state plates parked by the entrance should have raised his suspicions.

  But no. He had walked right by it, lost in thought, already anticipating his upcoming weekend ice fishing with his dad, and far too distracted to put two and two together and realize something was wrong.

  That had been a mistake.

  Treading lightly along the path, he approached the security door on the west side of the building. He considered the layout of the bank as he planned his next move. The door opened into the hall next to the lobby, and its tempered steel construction would make it impossible to break through.

  Of course, there was always the chance that the robbers had gotten careless. They had no reason to be expecting trouble so near to closing time on a Saturday afternoon.

  Cal reached for the handle. He drew in a quick breath as it turned in his hand.

  He stepped into the hall, his finger on the trigger of his Glock.

  As the door swished shut behind him, a shot rang out, splintering the wall ab
ove him, well off the intended mark. It was followed by another blast from the opposite direction. That one was close. Too close.

  He plastered his body against the smooth, cool surface of the pillar at the far end of the lobby and returned fire. His heart thudded as he did the calculations in his head. So far at least, there seemed to be only two shooters and no signs of hostages anywhere. From the trajectory of the bullets, it seemed that the younger gunman was lurking in the shadows along the front wall while the second shooter was crouched down behind the cashier’s station in the back of the lobby.

  It didn’t take a genius to predict what would happen next.

  One of the men would make a move, counting on the other to provide cover.

  He held his Glock steady with both hands, blew out a long breath and peeked around the column. A rippling crack sliced through the air. He yanked his head back just in time as fine, gray grit rained down on his hair.

  He wiped the dust from his face with his sleeve. Sweat beaded along his temples. Three more shots, and the pillar would be gone. He needed to relocate to a place where his exposure was limited. But crossing the room without drawing fire would be next to impossible. Already the robbers were fanning out on either side of him. In a matter of seconds, he would be outflanked. It was now or never. As he glanced back around the column, another bullet streaked by him, whistling inches from his head. But this time he was ready. He swiveled in the direction of the shooter and fired twice. Then he took off running.

  Had any of his bullets hit their mark? He couldn’t be sure. His only goal at the moment was making it across the lobby unscathed. He was almost there. Just a few feet to go. He stumbled sideways and rolled onto his back. Holding his gun in front of him, he pushed himself toward a table, knocking it sideways to form a barricade.

  He took a steadying breath and prepared for round two. There were seven bullets left in his magazine. And an extra clip on his ankle holster. Plenty of ammo.