The Third Grave (Savannah #4) - Lisa Jackson Page 0,140

his eyes centered on the lodge, when the front door flew open.

Ashley Jefferson stood in the doorway, backlit by the eerie light from a lantern when a squeal erupted from the porch near the chimney stack. A male in agony, yelling and screaming, “Ash! Shoot her! Shoot her!”

Nikki!

He was too late! Though Reed hadn’t noticed her vehicle. She was here. And in trouble.

Weapon drawn, he sprinted toward the lodge, running between the parked cars, and was about to announce himself when he heard Delacroix’s voice ordering Tyson Beaumont to stand down.

So she was here?

A shot rang out.

His body jolted.

His gun flew from his hand.

Hot pain scorched his shoulder.

Thud! His head bounced off the passenger door of Ashley Jefferson’s Bentley.

White light flashed behind his eyes.

Intense pain blasted through his brain.

He blinked. Trying to grasp on to consciousness. Aware of blood flowing from his arm and the stars in the night sky above him appearing to circle and spin.

A second later, the blackness prevailed.

* * *

Another shot.

A bullet zinged past Nikki’s head.

Too close!

How?

Where had the blast come from?

Tyson? Ashley?

Or her husband?

God, where was Reed?

But a woman’s voice had rung out, demanding Tyson drop his weapon. Delacroix? But why was she here? How did she know? Had Reed contacted her?

It doesn’t matter. Just run!!!

Frantic, Nikki raced deep into the woods, trying to get some distance from the lodge. Despite being injured, Tyson was still equipped with night goggles, could follow her tracks. She ran wildly, dashing and darting, stubbing her toes, thrashing through the undergrowth that tried to trip her. She couldn’t fall. Wouldn’t make it easy for him!

“Ty?” Ashley screamed from somewhere near the lodge. “Where are you . . . Oh, Jesus!” She’d reached him, Nikki assumed, but she didn’t look over her shoulder, just ran. Fast. Cobwebs and branches slapping her, brush tangling her legs.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

The blasts thundered as he shot wildly, bullets zipping all around Nikki, striking and splintering wood from saplings too close for comfort.

For a split second she wondered about Reed.

Hadn’t she seen him? Somewhere out here in the forest?

“Shoot her!” Tyson yelled at her, gasping. “That bitch . . . that . . . fuckin’ bitch . . . she tried to cut off my balls!”

“I-I already . . . There was someone . . .”

“For God’s sake, Ash! Just fuckin’ blow her away!”

Blam!

Tyson yowled again.

“What the fuck?” Ashley screamed. “Who’s that? Who the . . . ?”

Another blast. Tyson yowled again. “Run!” he yelled, not at Nikki, but she took off anyway, running headlong to the river.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God!

Nikki tripped over an exposed root and went down hard, her chin bouncing on the ground, hard. Jarring her.

Blam! Blam! Blam!

“Who the fuck is shooting?” Ashley screamed just as Nikki reached the river and the sagging pier. At the last moment, she thought of her phone. If she lost it or it became waterlogged it would prove useless. At the last second, she crammed it into the open hull of a canoe.

Something sharp sliced into her palm and she gasped.

God, what?

Too late she realized she’d sliced her hand on a gaff, a long pole that curved into a huge hook and was used to haul big fish into a boat. Obviously it had been forgotten and left to rust in the rotting canoe. Blood bloomed between her fingers. Pain burned in her palm.

Could she use it?

As a weapon?

If she needed to?

Shoot her!

Tyson would stop at nothing to kill her.

She grabbed hold of the hook, swinging it from the boat and deciding if she needed to, she could drop it at any second. But just in case . . .

Why the hell not? She plunged into the cool water, splashing loudly, finding deeper water, then diving.

The gaff wasn’t much of a weapon, she thought, slipping into the current.

But it was something.

And all she had.

CHAPTER 34

A drenaline burned through Delacroix.

Her finger was tight over the trigger as she took aim and fired off several quick shots.

From her hiding place behind a split trunk of a maple, she had watched the horrific tableau unfold, with that prick Tyson Beaumont with his night goggles, taser and gun. He’d come after Nikki Gillette and as Delacroix got her first shot off, he’d attacked. Somehow Gillette had gotten the upper hand, if just temporarily. The reporter had cut him with something, then vaulted over the rail to leave him bellowing like a stuck pig while firing wildly, bleeding and calling for his girlfriend to help him run Gillette to