Deadly Pursuit (37 page)

Neither option was acceptable.

A faint vibration in the rails told him the train was getting close.

He had to make a decision.

Now.

Keeping a tight grip on Alison, he eased to the edge of the platform and looked over.

His stomach lurched.

The river was a long way down.

But it was his only chance of escape. Under cover of darkness, he might be able to ride the current downstream, swim ashore, and slip away.

It was a long shot, though, and the odds had never worked in his favor. But what choice did he have?

The vibration in the trestle intensified.

Daryl tightened his grip on Alison and tucked the gun against her rib cage. She stiffened. Perfect. He needed her close and upright for another few seconds. She was his cover.

But just before he hit the water, he'd do what he came to do.

Finish her off.

And he wouldn't even have to see the blood. The river would wash it away.

“Time for a swim, honey.” His heart began to thump, and he took a deep breath.

She tried to twist away, but he jerked her closer.

Then he stepped to the edge.

He was going to jump.

Mitch couldn't see what was happening above him, but he could hear Cole's voice over the PA. His colleague's urgent tone clearly communicated the desperate situation.

“Don't try it, Daryl. It's too far down. Just walk over here, and you'll be safe.”

As the train whistle blew again, Mitch stripped off his gun and phone and kicked free of his shoes, his gaze never leaving the arc of light spilling over the bridge. With each passing second, the rumble in the trestle grew louder, echoing in his ears as he stood poised at the edge of the river, every nerve vibrating, every muscle taut.

It was possible Daryl would try to wait out the passing train on the edge of the trestle, but he doubted he'd be able to hold on. Not in his hyper state. And Daryl probably knew that too. Chances were he'd ditch and take his human shield with him—all the way down.

As the silence following Cole's plea lengthened, Mitch called out, loud enough to be heard on the trestle. “Take a deep breath, Alison.”

In the next instant, two bodies plummeted toward the river on the other side of the bridge, upstream.

A heartbeat later, he was in the water, moving toward the center of the river as fast as the current allowed.

Swimming as he'd never swum before.

As Alison fell, the only thing that kept total panic at bay was the knowledge that Mitch was waiting for her. His voice had come from below, by the river.

And her fate couldn't be in better hands.

If a Navy SEAL couldn't save her, no one could.

So she did what he'd said to do. She took a deep breath. She also kicked out at Daryl. His grip had loosened as he'd pulled her over the edge, and the gun was no longer pressed against her side.

She heard a shot. But she had no time to focus on that. Because as she hit the water, a blunt shock wave ricocheted through her, so intense she almost sucked in a fatal mouthful of water.

At least the force of hitting the water had broken Daryl's hold on her.

But with her arms tied behind her, she couldn't use them to push herself back to the surface. And her bad leg wouldn't be much help either.

Her plunge into the depths of the river seemed to go on forever, but when at last it slowed, she kicked as hard as she could, trying her best to propel herself upward.

The powerful current worked against her, however, foiling her efforts to make any headway.

Though she had excellent breath control and had been a strong swimmer before the accident, Alison knew the situation would have been desperate even if she was in top form.

In her present condition, it was deadly.

She held her breath as long as she could. Kicking. Metering out tiny puffs of air. Praying she'd suddenly feel Mitch's strong arms pulling her to the surface. To safety.

But as the seconds ticked by and her lungs began to deflate, she knew time was running out.

In less than a dozen heartbeats, her life would be over.

With the swift, relentless current tugging him downstream, Mitch surfaced to find himself mere yards from the spotlighted section of river.

Alison must be close.

But a quick sweep revealed only a piece of driftwood floating under the glare.

Arms slicing through the water, Mitch propelled himself toward the center of the light, then treaded water, letting the current carry him downstream. If Alison was below the surface, the river would be carrying her along at the same pace.

All at once, a head bobbed up six feet upstream.

The wrong one.

Daryl flailed when their gazes met, his eyes widening in panic.

But Mitch had no interest in the man at the moment. His total focus was on finding Alison.

Since the two had fallen into the river at the same spot, Mitch assumed she was nearby and trying her best to reach the surface. But as she'd told him a few weeks ago, she hadn't been able to keep her swimming skills in top form, thanks to the accident. And with bound arms and a bad leg, the odds were stacked against her.

Time was also running out. Fast. Even if she'd been able to take a deep breath, even if she had strong lungs, she had to be reaching the end of her air supply.

Mitch scanned the river again. Despite the spotlight, visibility in the murky water would be close to zero. Searching below the surface would have to be done by feel rather than sight. The chances for success weren't just small. They were miniscule.

But he had no choice. That was his only hope.

Filling his lungs with air, he sent two words heavenward:
Guide me!

Then he dove.

Daryl watched the other man disappear under the water and struck out as fast as he could downriver, fear driving him forward. If the guy was aiming for his legs, he wasn't going to make it easy for him.

Arms splashing in the current, he pushed himself as hard as he could. It had been years since he'd gone swimming, but the skill came back to him, like riding a bicycle. He'd been a strong swimmer, once upon a time. His gym teacher in high school had even approached him on several occasions about trying out for the swim team.

He might have, if he hadn't decided to drop out.

Casting a look behind him, he saw nothing but empty river. Best of all, he'd floated out of the range of that spotlight now too. The cops must be more interested in finding the social worker than nabbing him.

Good luck on that. She was probably already fish bait, and—

His hand connected with a solid surface, and he lifted his head. It was dark here, but he seemed to have met up with a dead tree bobbing along in the water. Convenient. He could cling to it for a few minutes, get his breath.

Grabbing hold of the stump of a branch, he smiled. Maybe his luck was about to change, after all. If he could float along for a mile or two, he'd—

All at once, the tree swept sideways, across the current, then jolted to a stop as if one end had gotten wedged against something and was stuck. Daryl let go of the branch and kicked away from it, but the current was stronger now, the rushing water funneling along the edge of the obstacle in its path. It sucked him in and slammed him against the solid wood, knocking the breath from his lungs.

Gasping, he found himself being propelled along next to the trunk, toward the center of the river.

Okay. No problem. Once this vortex of rushing water pushed him back into the main channel, he'd be able to drift along again. He'd be fine. In another few seconds he'd be clear and—

Something grabbed his ankles and held fast.

The rest of his body kept moving.

Suddenly Daryl found himself facedown in the water, his legs locked in place, as the relentless water swept over yet another obstacle.

His body.

Panic clawed at him, but he tried to think past it. His legs must have gotten tangled up in some branches. Yeah. That had to be it. Maybe he could kick himself free.

He tried. Frantically. But the tree refused to relinquish its grip.

Summoning up all his strength, he attempted to reach back and use his hands to free himself. Except the current kept pulling his upper body forward. Away from his ankles. And the resistance was too strong to overcome.

His lungs began to burn.

He clutched at the trunk, trying to raise his head above the rushing water so he could suck in some air.

But the smooth, slippery surface offered no handholds.

With desperation providing one final spurt of adrenaline, he made one last attempt to fight the current and reach back for his ankles.

Failed.

The water closed over him, dragging him down. And as he succumbed to the dark abyss, one final thought echoed in his mind.

He'd just played his last game of chicken.

And lost.

Six seconds after diving beneath the murky water, Mitch's fingers made contact with a leg.

Yes!

Working his way up Alison's body, he slid his arms under hers, pulled her close, and propelled both of them to the surface with several powerful kicks.

She came without offering any resistance—or assistance.

Meaning she was unconscious.

But assuming she hadn't blacked out on impact . . . assuming she'd held her breath as long as possible . . . assuming her airway was still sealed from the reflexive laryngospasm that always kicked in for drowning victims . . . she'd make it.

He wasn't even going to think about the possibility that some of his assumptions could be wrong.

As they surfaced, her head lolled to one side, her cheek against his chest. Keeping her face above water, he eased her onto her back, locked his arm under her chin, and began towing her toward the bank, using the combat sidestroke he'd mastered in SEAL training. The spotlight followed them as he fought the current, swimming as fast as he could. Every second counted if she'd stopped breathing.

When he hit bottom, he slipped his arms under her knees and shoulders, then struggled to his feet in the swirling water.

Cradling her against his chest, he waded to shore and scrambled up a few large, slippery rocks to a level area. As he laid her on the ground, he gave her a swift sweep while he dug out the pocketknife he'd carried since his Boy Scout days. The spotlight from the helicopter wasn't as effective here, thanks to the dense woods. But enough illumination got through for him to conclude she'd been through hell—even before she'd plunged into the water.

As his unsteady fingers eased the blade of the knife under the sodden cloth around her mouth and he disposed of the gag, he did his best to ignore her multiple abrasions. None of that would matter if she wasn't breathing.

And a quick check told him she wasn't.

On the plus side, the pulse in her carotid artery was steady, if weak, under his fingertips.

The paramedics would be on their way, but the dense woods would slow their progress down to the river from where the road dead-ended.

It was up to him to convince Alison's lungs to reengage.

Mitch hadn't had to use much of his water-based rescue training for several years, but the knowledge was ingrained, allowing him to switch to autopilot.

Tilting her head back, he pinched her nose, took a deep breath, and covered her mouth with his. Then he blew. Long and hard. Praying she'd ingested most of the water into her stomach rather than her lungs. Laryngospasm should have constricted her throat and sealed her air tube. Only after she'd been unconscious for a while would the muscles relax and allow water into her lungs.

He hoped there hadn't been time for that.

Removing his mouth from hers, he waited five seconds.

Breathe, Alison! Breathe!

Nothing.

Once more he covered her mouth with his, trying not to panic. Trying to remain optimistic. In such a high-stress situation, she'd have been hyperventilating. That would have flushed carbon dioxide out of her blood and suppressed her breathing reflex, buying her some time before nature kicked in and forced her to take a breath. Though it wasn't recommended, some of his SEAL buddies had hyperventilated on purpose before drown-proofing exercises so they could hold their breath longer.

Mitch backed off again, waiting for Alison's chest to rise on its own.

It didn't.

Leaning down, he tried again, a desperate plea echoing in his heart.

God, please let her live!

He backed off. Waited.

Still nothing.

Just as he prepared to repeat the procedure, he heard a small, sharp intake of breath. Then her chest rose, her eyes flickered open, and she began to cough.

It was the most beautiful sound he'd ever heard.

“You're okay, Alison. You're okay.” Hardly recognizing the shaky voice as his own, he rolled her onto her side. Fingers trembling, he inserted the blade of the pocketknife under the rope that bound her wrists and cut through it with a gentle, careful sawing motion.

She coughed up some water, and he stroked her back, murmuring encouraging words. Trying to reassure her. And himself.

In the distance, he could hear thrashing in the underbrush. Help was getting closer.

Alison continued to cough and regurgitate water. She also began to shake. Badly.

So did he.

When her coughing subsided, she gasped for air and groped for his hand, clinging to it as if she never wanted to let go.

And that was fine with him. He didn't want her to.

As the voices of the approaching paramedics drifted through the woods, she looked up at him. “Thank you.”

Her teeth were chattering, and the words came out raspy. Wobbly. Barely there. But the emotion in her eyes was strong. Solid. And far deeper than mere gratitude.

It was the same emotion that filled his heart.

Leaning close, he pressed a kiss to her forehead and stroked her temple.

“Stay with me?” Her question whispered against his neck.

“Count on it.”

And as the paramedics pushed through the brush with Cole on their heels, Mitch vowed to keep that promise.

For a lot longer than just tonight.

Two hours later, as Mitch paced in the ER waiting room and Cole nursed his third cup of coffee, the outside door whooshed open to admit Jake, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Scanning the otherwise empty room, he was beside them in a few long strides. “Any news since I called from the airport?”

Mitch doubted Cole was up to an interrogation. But he waited, giving the other man a chance to respond. When he didn't, Mitch spoke.

“She's stable, but we haven't seen her for a while. We came out here after they took her to X-ray. The doctor hasn't given us a prognosis yet.”

A frown darkened Jake's stubbled face and his jaw hardened. No telling when he'd last slept. Given the smudges under his eyes, Mitch assumed it had been awhile.

“Why not?”

“They've been running tests. They're still—”

The door from the treatment area opened, and a fortysomething man in scrubs appeared. “Are you with Alison Taylor?”

“Yes.” Mitch answered in unison with her brothers.

Cole vaulted to his feet. Swayed. Mitch grabbed his good arm as Jake eyed the white dressing and sling on the other, his frown deepening. “What happened to you?”

“Long story.” Cole took a deep breath and straightened up, extricating his arm.

The man approached them and extended his hand. “I'm Dr. Matthews. Let's sit for a minute. It's been a long night.” He sized up the three of them. “For all of us, I assume.” He gestured toward a grouping of chairs off to one side, and they followed him over.

Once seated, the doctor didn't keep them in suspense.

“Ms. Taylor is a very lucky young woman, considering all the trauma she's experienced in the past few hours. In addition to assorted cuts and bruises, she's suffering from a slight concussion. Despite her near drowning, however, there's no water in her lungs. That's positive news. I understand one of you is to be commended for an exceptional water rescue and some first-class artificial respiration.”

Mitch felt heat creep up his neck as Alison's brothers looked at him.

“He was a Navy SEAL,” Cole offered.

“You were the right man to have on hand, then.” The doctor acknowledged him with a nod. “We'll keep her overnight for observation, but barring some unforeseen complication, I expect we'll release her tomorrow morning.”

“What about the leg she injured in the accident last year?” Cole spoke up.

“We've talked with her surgeon and done some additional X-rays. He'll check them out, but I see nothing to suggest this experience has further damaged that leg nor undermined her recovery. She does have small puncture wounds on that leg, and eight or nine others in the trunk area, but none required stitching.”

Mitch exchanged a look with Cole. One of the patrol officers had called their attention to the stick with the bloody point in the back of the pickup truck before they'd left for the hospital.

Now they knew how it had been used.

“Was she sexually assaulted, Doctor?”

The grim question from Jake jolted Mitch back to the present, and he braced himself. It was the same question that had ripped at his gut since he'd learned of her abduction. And one he would have asked if her brothers hadn't.

“No.”

He closed his eyes. Exhaled.

Thank you, God.

“She's on her way back from X-ray now. Would you like to come back to the treatment room?”

“Yes.” Mitch answered for all of them.

The doctor rose, and they fell in behind him. Mitch thought about letting her brothers take the lead. They were family, after all.

But in the end, he claimed the prime spot. Because while he might not be family yet, if all went as he hoped, there was a very strong possibility he would have his own family ties to the Taylor clan in the not-too-distant future.

As the murmur of voices penetrated Alison's sleep-fogged brain, she tried to rouse herself. She hadn't planned to doze off, but lethargy had overcome her mind and limbs as they'd wheeled her back from X-ray, and she'd faded into oblivion. They must be giving her some heavy-duty pain meds through her IV.

“She's really pale.” Cole's comment.

“Her body has been through a lot. She'll regain her color soon.” She recognized the doctor's voice.

“Is there any damage to her eye?” That question came from Jake. So he was back from his mission. Because of her?

“No.”

All at once, she felt her hand taken in a gentle, warm clasp. “I think she looks great.”

Mitch. She'd know that tender, husky baritone anywhere.

Forcing her heavy eyelids open, she smiled up at the man beside her. After the paramedics had taken over by the river, he'd hovered an arm's reach away while they'd worked on her. Ridden with her in the ambulance. Stayed within speaking distance, just on the other side of the curtain in the ER treatment room while the doctor had examined her. Only when they'd wheeled her away for X-rays had he been forced to leave her side.

And while his hair was disheveled, his clothes were as rumpled as if he'd slept in them for a week, and the five o'clock shadow on his cheeks had burgeoned into full-blown stubble, he looked great to her too.

She squeezed his hand. “Hi.”

He returned the smile and squeezed back. “Hi yourself.”

At the sudden clearing of a throat from the corner of the treatment room, she turned toward her brothers. Jake raised an eyebrow, and she felt warmth steal over her cheeks.

Her older brother's lips quirked as he addressed Cole. “Her color is coming back.”

The doctor chuckled and edged out the door. “Even faster than I expected.”

As the man disappeared, Jake's demeanor grew more serious and he took up a position on the other side of the bed, reaching down to touch her shoulder. “You okay, Twig?”

The hoarse question from her big brother, along with the suspicious glint in his eyes, tightened her throat. Jake was the rock in the family. The one who kept his emotions on the tightest leash. She'd rarely seen his control falter; only when someone he loved was hurting or in serious trouble did he reveal his softer side.

“Yeah. I'm fine. How can I not be, with all you guys watching out for me?”

Truth be told, she wasn't fine. Every inch of her body ached. But they didn't need to know that. Besides, as her gaze swept over the three men clustered around her bed, she realized Cole looked worse than she felt. “You need to go home and get some rest. What time is it, anyway?”

“It's 1:15. And Mom will be here in eight hours.”

“You called Mom?” Alison regarded Cole in dismay.

“The story's all over the news. I wanted her to hear it from me, not some reporter.”