place started to go up. Charles . . . freed himself. He had another tool or something.” She shook her head. “Everyone was screaming. I don’t know. It was hot. It was so hot.” Her eyes went wild for a second but then she seemed to rein it in. Zach squeezed her hand and she took another breath, continuing. “He fought Axel. Axel caught fire.” She squeezed her eyes shut for a second. “Charles freed us and dragged us out.”
Reed faltered, sitting down hard on the edge of the stone structure, the impact stealing his breath. Why? What was going on?
“Where is he?” Zach asked.
Arryn pointed through some trees nearby. “He went that way. Right through there. He’s injured. Pretty badly, I think.”
“You’re sure he went that way? There are explosives—”
“Yes. He went through there. I watched him.”
“Zach,” Reed said, pointing his finger to the soft earth where deep footprints could be seen in the mud. Zach followed Reed’s finger and then met his eyes, pressing his lips together.
Reed started to stand, opening his mouth to tell Zach he’d go after him. It’d rained most of the day. There’d be more footprints. He could follow Charles’s right off the property where he’d obviously avoided any explosives. But as he stared at the intense look on Zach’s face, he sat slowly back down. “Go,” Reed grated. He moved over, putting his arm around Arryn so Zach could stand. “Go now.”
This was Zach’s battle. The one he’d been waiting two decades to wage.
Zach let out a controlled breath and then he turned, running, taking the same path Charles Hartsman had taken.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Zach ran, his weapon raised, following the footprints that had sunk deeply into the mud, stepping in the same places Charles had stepped. Charles was injured. He’d been shot hours ago, and must have lost a lot of blood. He couldn’t be too far ahead. No more than five minutes.
The footsteps veered left, toward the river and Zach followed them, running as fast as he could through the reedy brush, his breath coming in panted exhales. He heard sirens in the distance, fire trucks responding to the fire, and—he hoped—uniform cars on the lookout for Charles. After ten minutes or so, he caught glimpses of the injured man through the trees, a hundred feet beyond. “Stop, Hartsman!” he called, but the man kept running, surprisingly fast and agile for a person who had a bullet in him, had fought a madman, inhaled a lungful of smoke, and dragged three people from a burning building.
Zach jumped over rocks and brambles, hot on Charles’s heels, though the fugitive managed to maintain the gap between them. The river rushed past as Charles led Zach closer to the water, Zach slipping once on the edge of the shore, regaining his footing, and continuing on.
“You can’t run forever, Charles,” Zach called, breathless with exertion as Charles headed uphill now, toward the entrance to the Combs-Hehl Bridge. Where the fuck is he going? Zach’s chest heaved as he ran up the hill after him, stepping onto the shoulder of the bridge. The wail of sirens grew closer. A few cars sped by, crossing from Ohio into Kentucky. Ahead of him, Charles slowed, tripped, caught himself and began walking, a staggered limp. Zach lifted his gun. “Stop or I’ll shoot!” he yelled, his voice booming in the still night air.
Zach’s heart slammed against his ribs as he fought to catch his breath. There was nowhere Charles Hartsman could go. He’d caught him.
After all these years. He’d caught him.
Charles made his way to the edge of the bridge, stepping to a break between the concrete guardrail and leaning against a steel beam. Zach slowed, his weapon raised. “There’s nowhere to go, Charles.”
Charles crossed one foot in front of the other, taking a casual stance, though his body visibly shook with what looked like deep fatigue. His chest was slick with blood from the bullet wound at his shoulder, his right arm and half of his flank red and blistered, the skin peeled back in spots. He’d been burned. Badly. Moonlight washed over him, the black letters of a tattoo standing out stark against his sickly, gray-cast skin.
Caleb.
Zach felt a pinch in his chest and shook it off, keeping the serial killer who’d terrorized his wife in his sights. His wife, who still bore the physical and emotional scars of what this man had done to her.
Charles gave him a small, tired smile. “Lieutenant Copeland.”