The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,139
old stones!
Just leave, Ashley. For God’s sake, get in your car and take off! Please, please, please!
“Shhhh!” he hissed back. Tyson was moving again, the floorboards creaking with each of his approaching footsteps. He was at the corner.
Close. He was so damned close. Nikki’s heart thundered, nervous sweat slathered her body. She bit her lip and willed herself to remain still. Unmoving. Pressed tight to the rocks.
But she could hear his breath, could feel him nearby.
She was trapped!
Cowering against the stone wall, Nikki slid her phone into her pocket and reached for the box cutter, a pathetic weapon against a taser, night-vision goggles and a gun. Two guns, she reminded herself, two damned guns and two shooters!
Crap!
Think, Nikki, think!
You’ve been in tight places before!
With trembling fingers she reached into her pocket and withdrew the church key. No match for a gun. But . . .
She hefted the bottle opener’s weight and then, hidden from Tyson’s view by the chimney stack, flung it as she had Mikado’s frisbee, skating the key through the air, whizzing it away from the lodge until it landed with a sharp thud on a tree in the surrounding forest.
“What the . . . ?” Tyson moved. The floorboards groaned.
Go! Go!
But he didn’t take the bait. Didn’t jump off the porch. Didn’t race after the sound, was still only inches from Nikki. She heard his uneven breathing, sensed his indecision.
Go! Chase after it! Fetch, damn you!
“What the fuck?” he whispered under his breath.
Now what?
“Ty?” Ashley called.
“Shh!” he hissed.
Nikki didn’t dare breathe. In just a second or two, Ashley would discover her and then she’d be a sitting duck. She had to risk leaping over the rail. It was the only way that she had the slimmest of chances! Oh, Lord. She looked across the railing to the forest not twenty yards beyond. Could she risk it? If she could spring over the rail, drop to the area beneath the deck, then if he was looking for her bolt across the open way into that border of—
As her eyes scanned the woods, she thought she saw something shift. Movement in the dense, dark foliage.
Her heart stilled.
Reed!
He was here! She felt a second’s elation, then sudden, horrifying dread.
Tyson had night vision. With his goggles, he could detect not only movement but see images. Oh, God, no.
Reed would be an unwitting target!
That couldn’t happen!
She wouldn’t let her husband pay for her damned mistakes! Tyson was shifting again.
Looking into the forest?
Spying Reed?
Even now, taking aim?
“Who the fuck are you?” Tyson whispered under his breath.
He’d seen Reed. Even now was probably locking Reed into his sights. In a nanosecond, Nikki reached into her pocket, her fingers clamping around the box cutter. Noiselessly, she slipped the cutter from her pocket and slid the blade from its sheath. A shallow, but razor-sharp weapon.
Used the right way?
Deadly.
Give me strength.
Pulse pounding in her ears, she dared peek around the corner of the chimney.
Tyson Beaumont was there. Inches from her.
Staring not into the forest, but straight at her!
His gun was level with her head, his night goggles a dark mask on his white face.
“I knew it!” he spat.
She couldn’t get around him! Not with the building to her back and him blocking her path. Beneath his goggles, he gave her a dark, evil grin. Gloating. He’d won and he reveled in it. Fear curled her insides. He was going to kill her. Like he’d done with all the others. She knew it.
In that instant Nikki dropped and threw herself at his legs.
“Hey!” Tyson yelled, startled, backing up, juggling his gun.
A deep female voice ordered, “Police! Tyson Beaumont, drop your weapon!”
“What the fuck?” he cried, momentarily distracted as he looked sharply into the woods.
Nikki grabbed hold of one of his thick calves, nearly knocking him over. The gun flew out of his hand and skittered across the decking, dropping between the rails.
“You crazy bitch!”
She sliced upward.
Threw all of her weight into the jab that tore through his pants and buried deep in his groin.
Doubling over, flailing, he squealed in pain. “Eeeeeoooow!”
She let go. Fingers sticky with his warm blood, she threw herself away from him, scrambled to her feet and, placing two hands on the rail, vaulted to the ground. Landing, she swept the area for the gun.
“You bitch. You goddamned fuckin’ bitch!” he roared from the decking. “Ash! Shoot her! Shoot her!”
The sound of a gunshot cracked, splitting the night.
* * *
Every muscle tense, every sense heightened, Reed sprinted across the parking lot. His gun was drawn,