The Prey Read online

  She couldn’t let Bobby win.

  Through her failing vision she noticed John moving carefully away from Peter, away from her. She could attack without Bobby’s full attention. And keep his gun away from Peter.

  She inched forward.

  “Bobby, the FBI has surrounded the house,” John said. “You won’t get away.”

  “I have hostages,” he said mockingly. “Worked with your sister, eh? Sorry she had to be blown up, she was kind of cute. Too bad I didn’t have time to screw her.”

  Anger spread across John’s face. “She didn’t die,” he said. “She made it. I disarmed your amateur attempt at making a bomb. You failed.”

  “You lie!” Bobby pointed the gun straight at John’s head.

  Rowan screamed and lunged at Bobby, the poker in her hand.

  A gun went off. Bobby’s? Then another shot. A third explosion. Rowan didn’t know where the sounds were coming from; they seemed to be coming from everywhere.

  Bobby turned, eyes wide in rage and pain, and fired as she ran straight at him with the poker. A hot flash of pain hit her left shoulder but she kept moving forward. If she failed, John and Peter would die.

  The sick sound of the poker cutting into Bobby’s flesh was followed by an inhuman scream. She stumbled and fell on top of him. Each breath hurt her chest.

  Large hands pulled her off. She looked up through the haze. “Peter,” she whispered. “Run. I couldn’t . . .” she coughed and sputtered.

  “Shh,” he told her and laid her down gently. His lips moved in silent prayer, but Rowan didn’t know if he was really quiet or if she just couldn’t hear him. He turned to Bobby and made the sign of the cross.

  John interrupted Peter. “Don’t you dare pray for him,” he said as he knelt at Rowan’s side.

  “He’s dying,” Peter said simply.

  “I hope he burns in hell,” John said.

  Bobby tried to speak as he clutched the poker sticking out of his stomach. Nothing came out but a gurgle and blood. He sputtered, convulsed, then lay still, his eyes open and fixed.

  “John,” Rowan murmured, eyes closed.

  “I’m here. Open your eyes.”

  “You’re—you’re alive.” Her eyes fluttered open, then closed again.

  “Yes. So are you. Peter, call an ambulance.”

  “Why—Peter?”

  “Roger called him to come out. We didn’t know where you were. Tess is safe. You bought us enough time.” He leaned over and kissed her, his tears falling on her face. He took off his shirt, wincing as the material pulled out of his wound, and pressed it against the gushing hole in her left shoulder.

  “I—I thought you were dead. The bomb.” She coughed, her voice weak.

  “Stay with me, Rowan. Don’t let him win.”

  “I-I—” She coughed again.

  “Shh. Don’t talk.”

  “The ambulance is on the way,” Peter said as he squatted and handed John towels. John quickly tossed his shirt aside and held the towels to Rowan’s bleeding wound.

  Agent Thorne and two other Feds John didn’t recognize were searching the place. One knelt beside Bobby and confirmed he was dead.

  “How is she?” Thorne asked, worried.

  “She’ll make it,” John said through clenched teeth. She has to. I don’t want to live without her. I don’t know if I can.

  “John.” Rowan’s voice was weak, her breathing shallow.

  “Shh. Save your strength.”

  “I-I love you.”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks. “Rowan, you know I love you. Stay with me.”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t talk.” Her blood spread under his fingers, but he kept firm pressure on her shoulder. “Don’t you dare die on me.”

  She closed her eyes and gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. She coughed.

  “It’s over, Rowan,” John said. “It’s over.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  Rowan woke up numb and burning at the same time. Her mind was foggy. She tried to open her eyes, but failed. Everything seemed fuzzy and gray. She had to be dead.

  Sounds. Beep-beep-beep. A low-level hum. Even breathing. Smells. Clean, antiseptic, sterile.

  She tried to speak, but it came out a hollow squeak.

  “Rowan?”

  His voice sounded far away, down a long tunnel. She tried to answer, but her throat was raw and dry. She’d give anything for water. Was this hell? An eternal thirst . . .

  “Rowan, it’s John.”

  Suddenly she was back in the beach house, the smell of death surrounding her. Everything came back. The videotape of all the people Bobby killed. The whip. Peter. The gunshots. Stabbing Bobby with the poker. Pain. Intense pain in her shoulder. She’d been shot before, but nothing felt as awful as this. It was as if her arm had been severed and reattached to befit Frankenstein’s monster.

  John. John had been shot. “J-John.” Had she spoken? She couldn’t tell; her ears throbbed.

  “Shh, honey. It’s me. It’s me. You’re okay. You’re going to be okay now.” He sounded greatly relieved. Worried and tired, but relieved.

  She felt him grasp her hand. She was alive. And John was alive.

  Bobby was dead. She’d killed him.

  Maybe there was a God after all.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Stop. There’s nothing for you to be sorry about. Bobby’s gone. And you’re okay.”

  She started coughing. “Wa-ter.”

  Something touched her lips. A straw. She sucked as hard as she could and managed to bring up a sip of water. It coated her throat and she was grateful for its coolness.

  “Tess is okay?” She vaguely remembered John telling her Tess was alive, but she had to hear it again.

  “Yes, she’s fine. Broken arm. Both Roger and Quinn are going to make it, too.”

  “But—how—?” Then she remembered John saying that she’d bought them enough time. Enough time to get away from the bomb.

  She felt tension leaving her body, as if the uncertainty had kept her worried even while she’d been unconscious.

  “How long—?” How long had she been here? A day? Two? Longer?

  “Shh. Don’t talk, sweetheart.” She felt a feather of a kiss on her hand.

  “Rowan, I want you to listen to me. Don’t talk, just listen. You had nothing to do with Bobby’s crimes. Nothing. I know you, I know the guilt is eating at you. But you must not blame yourself.”

  He squeezed her hand. “Rowan, I saw the video Bobby forced you to watch. Please, please don’t let it torment you.”

  The images on that videotape would forever be etched in her mind. She would have done anything to spare John the pain of seeing his brother like that.

  She forced herself to open her eyes. Slowly. As they adjusted to the bright lights, she focused on John.

  He hadn’t shaved in two, three days. His hair even looked longer, not the perfect military cut he’d maintained for the three weeks she’d known him.

  Three weeks. Had everything happened in that short a time? It didn’t seem possible. It was as if her entire previous life had been a short prologue leading up to a long, torturous book she’d been forced to read.

  So much death. So much blood. But it was over. Truly over.

  “Peter?” She was certain she’d seen him there, at the house with Bobby. Heard his familiar, kind, loving voice.

  “He’s fine. He’s here, waiting for you to recover.” He brought her hand up to his lips and kissed it, then brought the straw to her mouth. She sipped, feeling a tad stronger than the first time she drank.

  “You’ve just been through hell and back. You’re alive. I’m alive. We’ve made it. We’re going to get through this because we’re together.”

  “John—”

  “Rowan, you love me. You told me so, and you can’t take it back.”

  “I do. I love you,” she whispered. But how could she explain that she still wasn’t a complete person? That sh
e needed time to think about everything that had happened, to really and truly put it behind her? She’d never forget, but she felt hope that she could move on. Move forward.

  “But—” she began.

  “No buts, I said.” He leaned over and lightly kissed her. “Together, Rowan. We’ve been loners for so long, both of us. But together we’re stronger.”

  Together we’re stronger. She smiled weakly. “Yes, we are.”

  John tensed when someone knocked on the door. Still in protection mode. Surprisingly, the thought didn’t bother her like it did before. It was comforting to have someone care about her. Especially someone she loved.

  John turned without letting go of her hand, relaxing when Quinn Peterson walked in. A large swatch of gauze was taped above his left eye, partially covered by his sandy hair, and his wrist was wrapped in an ace bandage.

  “You’re awake,” Quinn said, relieved.

  “You thought I was a goner?” she asked. Her voice wasn’t strong, but at least she was coherent.

  “No, you’re a survivor.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “The Butcher is back.”

  Rowan closed her eyes. “Dammit. She doesn’t deserve this!”

  “Am I missing something?” John asked.

  “My roommate at Quantico, Miranda Moore, lives in Bozeman, Montana,” Rowan said. “She’d been attacked by a serial killer and lived. Years ago,” she explained quickly when she saw the shock on John’s face. “That’s how we know each other. After her attack, she decided to join the FBI.”

  “Oh, she’s one of yours.”

  “No, she never graduated Quantico.” Rowan glared at Quinn. He stared back at her. She shook her head. No, he didn’t understand. Maybe he never would. It sure didn’t help that he and Miranda were both so stubborn.

  “What happened?” she asked Quinn after an awkward silence.

  “Another college student is missing, but the sheriff is certain it’s the Butcher. He called me this morning and asked me to go up there and help. I’ve already cleared it with my office.” He paused, his jaw tight. “The bastard has been killing for fifteen years. We have to find a way to stop him.”

  Quinn looked so distraught Rowan wondered if it was really the killer or the thought of facing Miranda after all this time that had him worried. The Quinn Peterson she knew didn’t back down from a professional challenge.

  “You’ll do what you do best, Quinn,” Rowan said. “You’ll investigate.”

  “Every year he kills and still eludes the police.”

  “Maybe he’ll slip up.”

  She and Quinn stared at each other. Contrary to popular belief, most serial killers—especially the sadistic kind like the Bozeman Butcher—didn’t want to be caught. His job was to stop them. Rowan had confidence that if the Butcher made even a small mistake, Quinn’s steadfast doggedness would stop him.

  “I’m leaving tonight for Seattle to pick up clean clothes, then I’m heading for Montana in the morning,” he said. “I just wanted to come by and wish you well. You deserve a little happiness.” He looked pointedly at John.

  “I’m making it my number-one priority,” John said, bringing her hand up to his lips. The simple, romantic gesture moved her.

  “Give my best to Miranda,” Rowan said as Quinn turned to open the door.

  He glanced over his shoulder and she couldn’t read his face. “I will.” He left.

  “Did I miss something?” John asked.

  “No. Just Quinn being arrogant and stubborn.” And Miranda, she thought.

  “I figured that out working with him these last weeks.” John smiled. “But he’s a good guy.”

  “Yeah, he is. One of the best.”

  John leaned over and kissed her lightly on the lips, then kissed her hand again.

  “I hear you have a cabin in Colorado. Believe it or not, I’ve never been to Colorado. Tess is taking a civilian job with the FBI in Washington, so there’s no reason for me to hang around L.A. Besides, I just have this little studio with nothing but a bed and radio. What say you and I head off for a little R & R? Indefinitely.”

  Rowan sighed and closed her eyes.

  She loved John. And for the first time since she was ten, Rowan felt like she could love someone who would be around for a long, long time.

  Was it fate? Destiny? She didn’t know. But she couldn’t imagine waking up alone in bed anymore. She didn’t want to fall asleep with her Glock as her only companion. She wanted more. A friend. A lover.

  A husband.

  That was down the road. Their love had been forged in a hellish world created by Bobby MacIntosh. The thought of her sick, sick brother made her stomach roll over and she stifled a sob.

  But Bobby was dead. And this time, it wasn’t a lie.

  “Rowan? Are you okay? We don’t have to rush anything—”

  John sounded so defeated, as if she might turn him away.

  “No, no,” she said.

  “That’s okay. I understand.”

  “No!” she said more firmly. She swallowed, opened her eyes and looked at him, willing him to understand what she really meant.

  “I love you John.”

  “I know. You’re just not ready for—”

  “Shh.” She motioned for more water. If he was going to make this difficult, she needed more fuel.

  She swallowed the cool liquid and started again. “I need you.”

  At first he looked skeptical, then optimistic. “I never expected to hear that from you.”

  “I never expected to say it. To anyone.”

  She squeezed his hand.

  “Does that mean you don’t mind me joining you in Colorado?”

  “I need a lot of work,” she admitted. “I still have some—problems. I don’t know if the nightmares are going to go away, or if I won’t snap at you or shut you out or—”

  “Rowan!” he said, his voice sharp. “Do you think I care? I have baggage as well. You know about Denny. And Reginald Pomera. If I have a chance, I’m going to go after him.”

  “I know. You’ll get your demon, John. Just like I got mine.”

  “But now,” he said, his voice softer and full of the love she felt from him, “I have someone to come home to. If you’ll have me.”

  “There’s no one I’d rather share my home with,” she said.

  She could put everything behind her. And she would much rather wake up with John by her side—in good times and bad—than live the rest of her life without love.

  “Then it’s a deal. As soon as they spring you, we’re going to Colorado. Together.”

  “That sounds perfect,” she said quietly before drifting off to a dreamless sleep.

  A silencer would do the trick, though he loathed guns. It made killing so impersonal.

  That was for later.

  First, Rowan needed to be broken. He wanted her to melt, to burn. He needed her emotion, her temper. Mostly, he wanted her fear. Then—only then—would he confront her.

  Until that time, he had many things to do. He’d marked the chosen for death. Nothing could now alter their fate. He was a god; fate would run its course. Then he and Rowan would meet again. She would know him and know fear.

  And beg for her life before she died.

  Read on for a sneak peek at

  THE

  HUNT

  by

  Allison

  BRENNAN

  In stores February 2006

  PROLOGUE

  I don’t want to die.

  Her breath came in shallow gasps, her mouth gaped open as she violently pulled air in and pushed it out. In. Out. Focus. Run, Miranda, run! But be quiet. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Wasn’t that a Dr. Seuss book? A hysterical giggle threatened to escape but she swallowed the sound. Quiet. Above all, breathe quietly.

  Miranda grimaced at the thrashing behind her. A sob escaped from her friend. Sharon, shut up! she wanted to scream. He’ll hear you! He’ll kill us!

  She ran faster even though Sharon
was falling farther and farther behind. Daylight was scarce. One, two hours left at the most.

  If they didn’t make it to the river, he would find them.

  I don’t want to die. I’m too young, please God, I’m only twenty-one. I won’t die! Not here, not like this.

  Miranda’s sight blurred as sweat dripped into her eyes. She didn’t dare wipe her face for fear of losing her balance on the rocky terrain. Her bare feet ached with each step, but they were so cold only the sharper rocks cut through the numbness. Watch where you’re going! One wrong step and you’ll break your leg and he’ll find you . . .

  A faint, familiar echo reached her ears. She wanted to stop and listen but didn’t dare slow her pace. She scurried another hundred feet before putting a name to the sound.

  Water! Running water.

  It had to be the river. What she’d promised Sharon would lead to freedom. She silently thanked Professor Austin and his tedious geology class. Without it, she wouldn’t have known where to run, the signs indicating a river was close. After the miles she and Sharon had already covered, surely now they would make it.

  From behind, a shriek.

  Miranda stopped at Sharon’s startled cry, whipped around, her heart gripped with dread. Sprawled on the hard ground, Sharon lay half obscured by undergrowth, sobbing in pain. Her shirt rode up, exposing bare buttocks to the cold Montana air.

  She stared at Sharon’s fallen body, the sound of the whip that had made those hideous marks ricocheting in her mind.

  “Get up!” Miranda urged, panic clawing her.

  “I can’t,” Sharon sobbed, her face buried in decaying leaves.

  “Please,” Miranda begged, not wanting to backtrack. She glanced over her shoulder, toward freedom. The water so close.

  She looked back at Sharon and bit her lip. He was still out there. If she stopped to help Sharon, he’d kill them both.

  She took a step toward the river. Guilt tickled Miranda’s spine. She knew she could make it.

  “Go,” Sharon said.

  Miranda almost missed the single word. Her eyes widened at the implication. “No, not without you. Get up!”

  For a moment, Miranda thought Sharon hadn’t heard her, by choice or distance. Then, slowly, the blonde pushed herself up on all fours. Sharon’s terrified eyes locked with Miranda’s. Please, Sharon, please, Miranda willed. Time is running out.