Authors: Alex Kingwell
Extreme Exposure
A Preview of the Next Book in the Chasing Justice Series
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For Les, for cheering me on.
E
mily Blackstock spotted the first gunman as she was about to make coffee. It was just after five, well before sunrise. Pale moonlight washed the inky night with enough light to see across the rocky ground to the end of the long lane. A pine tree, battered by Atlantic winds, marked the entry to the road.
The man stepped out of the shadows behind the spindly tree.
Emily gave a small start. She dropped the coffee carafe onto the counter, and it fell into the sink with a loud crash.
Oh, God. Please don’t let him hear.
She jerked back from the open window, thankful she hadn’t turned on the kitchen light, then leaned forward to steal another look. The man gave no sign he’d heard. Tall and burly, he stood facing the old fisherman’s cabin, arms held at his sides. His right arm looked several inches longer because of the gun in his hand.
Clutching her arms against her chest, the scene played out in her mind as a nightmare she’d dreamed every night for weeks. Icy numbness spread to the pit of her stomach. How had they found her? She had been so careful, cut all connections, and even ditched her car. Used only cash. Picked a place to hide so remote it wasn’t even a dot on a map.
Trusted no one.
Right now, how didn’t matter. They’d found her. And they’d sent someone to kill her.
Not if I can help it.
A glance out the patio doors at the back of the cabin underlined her dismal options. The cabin sat on an island that sloped steeply to the sea. It was surrounded by rocks. No trees for cover. No neighbors. To the front was the road—and those men. To the back, the ocean. Jumping in would be sure death. Those cold, churning waves would swallow her whole.
Up front, the man beside the tree made a beckoning motion with his arm.
She squinted up the road. Two more men, barely in her sight line, climbed out of a dark sedan.
It was all she could do not to scream. Escape one man, maybe. But three? She was as good as dead.
The three men stood in a huddle at the end of the lane. Soon they would come. She couldn’t just stand here. She had to try something, move.
Move!
Pulse banging in her throat, she crept around the table and chairs in the cramped dining area. She reached the patio door in seconds, paused to slip on a pair of sneakers, unlocked the sliding glass door, and opened it. She tugged at the screen door, but it refused to budge. Finally, it scraped open. Flinching at the noise, she slipped out, closed both doors. It wouldn’t fool them for long, but every second counted.
Standing against the back wall, cold wind lashed her face and whipped her thin shorts against goose-bumped legs. The air smelled damp, briny. Angry waves crashed against the rocks below.
She crossed the small patio, crept down four wooden steps to the ground, then sprinted away from the cabin. Eyes trained on the ground, she jumped recklessly from one wave-washed boulder to another. It was an obstacle course of deep crevices and slippery seaweed.
Her heart beat louder and louder. It had been a mistake to think the cabin was safe. But what else could she have done? They had found her in town, almost killed her.
Tears blinding her, she ran on, landed on a large boulder. Rough rock scraped her bare arms and legs as she slid down on her backside to the rock below. Glancing back, it was too low to see the cabin or any of the men. They were coming, though, and it was getting lighter out. Her eyes darted over the rocks, seeking a place to hide. There was nothing. It would soon be daylight. They’d find her.
There was only one option. She had to get to the edge of the rocks, find a place to climb down. Try to stay out of the water. The waves would toss her back. Or sweep her out to sea.
Not daring to look behind her, she pressed on. The wind beat against her skin, stinging her, leaving a sticky film. Her lips tasted of salt. She’d never ventured this close to the water before. The rocks were too slippery, the waves too high.
Shouts behind told her she had been spotted. A second later, a sharp pop split the air.
Gasping, she dropped to the ground and crouched behind a small boulder. A bullet hit the rock. Razor-sharp fragments of granite pelted her skin like hot needles.
On her feet again, another bullet whizzed by. The last rock was in front of her. From there, it was a sheer twenty-foot drop into the roaring blackness. Blood chilled in her veins. There was no place to climb down.
Across the channel, down a ways, a man stood on the rocky cliff and looked in her direction. A small boat drifting below came into view in the gray light.
They had a fourth man, in the water and ready to go. If she went in, he would make sure she was dead.
Struggling to control her rising panic, she looked behind her. One of the men chasing her was closing in, maybe twenty steps away. The man looked at her with a steady gaze, nothing in his expression. Holding the gun at his side, he walked closer to get a better shot.
It was over. Instead of panic, she felt oddly detached, like she was floating above the rocks, watching herself. She pictured herself already dead.
Something fired in her brain. She was going to die, but she could at least delay it. No use making things easy for them.
Emily pivoted, stepped over the ledge, and plunged into the sea.
* * *
Matt Herrington stood on the mainland setting up the perfect photo. Thick, dark clouds broke at the horizon to reveal a band of red reflected in the water like fire. In fifteen minutes the sun would be up. Showtime.
Matt peered through the wide-angle lens of the camera. On the right of the frame, a small section of the island just up and across the channel protruded into the water. Black and rugged, it was a striking contrast to the water and sky.
He jerked his head back from the camera. Somebody was running on the rocks on the island. A thin, dark shape silhouetted against the flaming sky.
Right into the middle of his perfect picture.
Hairs rose on his neck. Somebody was in a heck of a hurry. Legs pumping, taking long strides. Arms outstretched for balance. It brought to mind a kid pretending to be an airplane, except this was no game.
Higher up, circles of light bounced off the rocks. Two people—no, three—chased the first person. He snapped a telephoto lens onto the camera. The one being chased was small. He scanned up the rocks, focused on the others. They were bigger. Men.
A sick feeling of dread formed in his gut. What was going on? He couldn’t call for help, since there was no cell phone service. Clenching his teeth, he instinctively snapped pictures.
If the kid went into the water, his chances would be dim. The current was running fast, with big waves and treacherous whirlpools that could suck in the strongest swimmer. Dangerous even for the rowboat.
The kid reached the edge of the rocks, glanced in Matt’s direction. Short hair. A boy?
The boy turned around as one of the men stepped closer to him. The man was easily twice his size. Father?
Holding his breath, Matt waited for him to offer the boy a hand. Put an end to this drama.
Big Guy reached out an arm. But not to help. He was in a shooting stance.
Fighting a wave of nausea, Matt struggled to breathe as the boy turned, stepped out over the rocks, and jumped into the water.
Big Guy walked to the edge of the rocks, leaned over, and fired into the water.
Matt felt the shock like a punch in the gut. He yelled with impotent rage as the two other men joined Big Guy at the edge of the rocks.
The men looked his way, paused a moment, as if debating their options. They backed away, disappeared up the rocks. Must have thought he was too far away to be a viable target in this wind.
For a moment, he couldn’t move but in the next instant his mind cleared. Was the kid alive? Doubtful, but there was always a chance. He had to do something. Get his boat over there. Grabbing his gear, he scrambled down the craggy rock face, hiking boots finding familiar footholds. At the bottom, he untied the line tethering the boat to a boulder near the water’s edge, hauled it in, and jumped aboard. The small outboard sputtered to life on the second yank of the starter rope.
Starting out across the channel, he drove the boat crosswise into the current, opened the throttle wide, and clutched the steering stick to avoid getting thrown overboard. If the kid was alive, it was a guessing game where he would surface. But it would be somewhere on the other side, maybe straight ahead if the current carried him down the channel.
The boat thumped over the waves and water slopped in, pooling in the flat bottom. The skiff lifted on a big wave and for a moment he couldn’t see anything but a brightening sky. It came down and he had a clear view of the cold gray water again. The sun was up, a yellow beach ball on the horizon and the sky’s vivid colors were fading into pink as night turned into day.
Agonizing minutes passed before he made it across the channel. The boat was built for stability, not speed, especially not with a three-horsepower outboard.
“Where are you?” he said through gritted teeth, his chest tightening as his eyes darted over the choppy waves. “Come on. I know you’re here.”
Two minutes later, he glimpsed something dark in the white froth down the channel. Riding closer, he cut the engine, half stood to get a better look. There was something there. The top of a head, the kid’s dark hair.
Relief surged through him, making him light-headed. He made a wide circle with the boat, fighting waves for a half minute before he managed to pull up alongside him. Not a boy, but a girl. She stared at him, wide eyed, thick strands of short hair pasted to a pale face. Her arms flailed in the water.
Cutting the motor, he resisted the urge the dive in. If the boat drifted, they’d both be dead. Snatching a life vest, he leaned as far as he could out of the boat, his thighs digging into the wood rail. Icy water drenched the sleeves of his sweater.
“Grab the life jacket,” he yelled, holding on to one end so he could drag her in.
The girl snatched a corner of the life jacket, tried to tug it away. “Leave me alone.” The words came out as a moan.
“I’m trying to help you.” Realizing he was scaring her even more, he modified his tone. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He wanted to wrap his hands around Big Guy’s meaty throat, squeeze the life out of him.
She wasn’t a girl, but a woman, maybe in her midtwenties. The hair was very dark, maybe black. It was impossible to tell the exact color because it was wet. Her pale face with delicate features gave her an ethereal kind of beauty, adding to an impression she would disappear if he didn’t get her out of the water soon.