Fatal Exposure - By Gail Barrett Page 0,70

the run?

Regardless, he appreciated her foresight. He grabbed the flashlight and flicked it on, then propped it against the box. He pulled out his sidearm and checked the rounds, then slid it back into his holster, making sure nothing would impede his draw.

Brynn joined him at the trunk, shivering hard in the frigid air. But it was the worry in her eyes that made his heart contract. This wasn’t a game. Hoffman was armed and dangerous. If he felt threatened, he’d kill them both.

“We’re not going near him,” he warned her. “We’re just going to find out where he is, then wait. When the hostage team gets here, they’ll rescue the girl and bring him down.”

“I know.”

“I mean it, Brynn. We can’t risk doing anything to harm that girl. You have to stay out of the way.”

“I said I would.”

Right. Like when she’d thrown that bottle at the gang member. Determined to convince her, he strode to her side. He gently gripped her shoulders, intending to read her the riot act. But the soft feel of her rocked his senses. Her alluring scent went straight to his head. And instead of arguing his point, a jumble of emotions muddled his thoughts—panic over her safety, guilt over his deception, fury over the torture she’d endured.

Unable to resist, he pulled her into his arms. Suddenly needing to kiss her, he slid his lips over hers, relishing her warmth, her taste, giving vent to a deluge of emotions he couldn’t express—fear, tenderness, love.

He loved her. He ended the kiss and pulled back, poleaxed at the thought. But it was true. He didn’t know when it had happened, but he had fallen head over heels in love with this amazing woman.

And his timing couldn’t be any worse.

“We’d better go,” she said.

“Yeah.” Swearing at his predicament, he picked up the flashlight and closed the trunk. He helped her over the fallen tree trunk, then led the way down the overgrown trail, trying to stifle his unruly thoughts. Right now he had to concentrate on Hoffman. He’d worry about his future with Brynn later, once they’d rescued that runaway girl.

The flashlight bobbed over the ground. Dried leaves crackled under their feet as they hiked along. The road turned even wilder, more downed trees and branches sprawling across their path, more proof that a car hadn’t driven this way in years.

A few minutes later, the farmhouse loomed into view, and his hopes tanked even more. The house was completely dark. The roof had partially caved in. Even the chimney had collapsed, littering stones across the ground. A huge tree grew through the sagging porch.

Still, he circled the perimeter, crawling through the bushes and weeds. Finally he shone the flashlight through a broken window, but there was no sign anyone had used it in decades, aside from squirrels and mice.

“He can’t be here,” Brynn murmured.

“I know.” So where had he gone? “Give me a minute. I’ll go inside and make sure.”

He climbed the rickety porch steps, the boards protesting under his weight, and worked his way to the door. He checked the rooms on the bottom floor, then climbed the narrow staircase and flashed his light around. But every room had the same peeling wallpaper, moldy, water-stained ceilings and piles of trash.

A minute later, he rejoined Brynn outside. “You’re sure he wouldn’t have used the cabins near the office?” Puffs of frost accompanied his words.

“I’m sure. He needs somewhere private where no one will hear the noise.”

His belly tensed, that unhinged feeling threatening to overwhelm him at the thought of the torture she’d endured. But he couldn’t go there yet. He had to stay in control until he had Hoffman in his sights.

And then he’d make sure that bastard paid.

“Let’s try the lookout tower.” He knew he was grasping at straws. The detectives who’d investigated Erin Walker’s death would have searched the area, taking note of anything odd. Still, Erin had gone there for a reason. And what other option did they have?

Aware that time was dwindling quickly, he took the lead, trying to envision the camp’s layout in his mind. Hoffman couldn’t have gone to the lake. That campsite was too far away, without an easy way in. They’d already discounted the office, cabins and farmhouse. So where had he taken that girl?

Dodging a decaying tree stump, he tried to reason this out. The night Erin Walker had died, Hoffman had attended a reception in D.C. He’d been present for the senator’s speech, which had ended by