She squinted. Were those colored contacts? Looking closer, she could almost make out putty along his jawline. She tried to jerk free. The man was in disguise? Why?
He held her in place.
“Let go of me,” she gritted out, looking frantically around.
“No,” he said easily, also scanning the area. “Quiet little apartment building, isn’t it?”
His buddy laughed.
Thunder rolled outside.
“I have a feeling you’re the key to getting the Lost Bastards where we want them,” Smithers said, pivoting and tugging her down the hallway.
“No.” Anya pulled back, setting her feet. She opened her mouth to scream just as Smithers turned and clamped a hand over it, easily dragging her toward the stairwell at the end of the hall. She fought hard, trying to yell into his hand.
He lifted her and carried her down two flights of stairs to the basement. Unbelievable. It had been that easy to get into the building and avoid any guards? She struggled, but before she could harm him, they were on the back street next to a black sedan
The FBI agents were out front, damn it.
Snow smashed into her face, and the wind pierced her. She was about to be kidnapped because of a phone call? She shrugged back and shot her elbow into Smithers’s gut. He grunted and dropped her to her feet, still keeping a tight hold.
Tears filled her eyes as she battled against his strength.
Suddenly, an engine roared down the road, and a battered Chevy truck barreled close, smashing hard into the sedan. The sedan collided with a parking meter and metal crumpled with a loud crunch.
She yelped and jumped back, finally freeing herself. Her breath, heated, shot out of her in a loud exhale. Her heart thundered wildly. What in the world?
The truck swung around, and the passenger door was thrown open. “Get in,” bellowed a low voice.
She blinked at seeing Heath Jones, the detective from Lost Bastards. Her knees felt like jelly. D. J. Smithers scrambled beneath his jacket, yanking out a shiny gun. She had about two seconds to go with her instincts, so she did. She ran across the snow, leaping through the passenger side of the truck and slamming the door.
Heath punched the gas, and the truck fishtailed as it roared away from the sidewalk.
Bullets struck the side of the truck with an odd pattering sound. She screamed, curling forward.
“Get down.” Heath grabbed her neck and shoved her further down, sliding lower in the seat but not losing any speed. His hand was rough and his voice tense, but he didn’t hurt her.
She blinked, her heart thundering. The glove box fell open, and a gun dropped onto her knee. She grabbed it and held on tight. With a cop for a dad, guns weren’t foreign to her, but she’d never actually shot one.
The truck fishtailed again, around a corner and then several more. Finally, Heath released her neck. “Are you okay?”
“No,” she bellowed, shoving herself to the bench seat. Her ribs hurt from the rapid beating of her heart. “How?” She looked out the back window at an empty and snowy road.
Heath glanced her way. “How what?”
She swallowed and surveyed him. At least six foot four, tightly muscled, definitely strong and fast. Brown hair waved over his collar, and his greenish gold eyes pierced right through her. While the fake marshals had been shooting guns, there was no doubt this guy was twice as dangerous. What had she done, leaping into his truck? “Um.” She fumbled for the door handle.
“I’m driving too fast for you to jump out.” He kept his broad hands on the steering wheel.
She blinked, and her shoulders trembled. “What is going on? Why were those guys bugging my phone? Why do they want you?” she yelled.
His frown drew down his dark eyebrows. “That’s a very long story about a different case that has nothing to do with you, and I’m sorry. I had no clue they were getting close enough to start bugging phones of people I barely know.”
“They shot at you,” she whispered, her mind reeling. Good guys usually didn’t have people shooting at them.
Heath glanced her way once more. “Yeah. Again, sorry about that.”
She leaned her head back. Somebody had just shot real bullets at her. Bile rose in her throat. God, this was getting too confusing, and she was having trouble breathing as her adrenaline ebbed. She hadn’t slept in two nights. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw an image of her sister, in danger and hunting a serial killer. What had Loretta been thinking to set herself up as bait for a murderer? Even though she was an FBI agent, she was still human. Still vulnerable.
