Right Behind Her (Bree Taggert #4)(5)

“You should have called me.” Bree reached for her gun. “Stay here.”

But Adam was a Taggert, and they were a stubborn lot, always making choices that were the opposite of their own best interests. He jogged across the weeds at her flank. She reached the side of the barn, put out a hand to stop him, and hissed, “Stay behind me.”

The door was ajar. Bree peered inside, but all she saw was darkness and dust.

Leading with her weapon, she eased around the corner just as something crashed into the doorframe a few inches from her face.





CHAPTER THREE

Bree startled as a rock bounced off the barn doorframe and landed in the dirt.

“Sheriff!” she yelled, then ducked as another rock came sailing toward her. It hit the wood with the force of a line drive. She pulled back behind the barn’s doorframe. She was grateful the projectiles weren’t bullets, but a rock to the head could do plenty of damage.

Pushing Adam toward the house, she whispered, “Go back inside. Call 911. Tell them I’m here and request backup.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

Bree’s job would be easier if he was safe and out of the way. If he knew that was her reason, Adam would be insulted. So, she lied. “I know, but I need backup.”

He pulled out his phone and reluctantly retreated across the yard in a running crouch.

Bree focused on the barn. How many people are inside? Are they armed with anything besides rocks?

“This is the sheriff,” she called out. “Drop any weapons and come out with your hands on your head.”

“Fuck you!” a man shouted. Another rock hit the door, rattling the old hinges.

She heard the barn’s back door slide open. She peered around the doorframe again. A dark-haired man in jeans and a brown T-shirt was running into the woods, a small black backpack clutched in one hand. He weaved between the trees.

“Stop! Sheriff!” She quickly cleared the empty barn. She sprinted through the back door after him.

Ahead, he looked over his shoulder. His strides were unsteady, faltering as if he were drunk. Bree turned on the speed. She ran five mornings a week. He might have a head start, but she would catch him in no time.

The runner glanced back at her over his shoulder. Panic widened his eyes as he tripped over a tree root. He nearly went down, and it took him three steps to recover his speed. Bree almost had him.

So close.

She dug into the ground. Her quads burned as she drew closer.

Just a few more feet.

She reached out and tried to grab the back of his T-shirt, but her hand clawed empty air.

Finally, she dived at him, tackling him around the knees. They went down in the overgrown weeds. Bree’s chin bounced off his leg. She tasted dirt and blood, but she hung on.

“You bitch! Let me go,” he panted between gasps for air.

Bree’s lungs burned. She shouted only two words: “Sheriff! Stop!”

He rolled to his back and tried to scramble out of her grasp, kicking hard at her face. Bree turned away. His sneaker glanced off her chin, and pain zinged through her jaw as her teeth slammed together.

Grabbing ahold of his pant leg, she hauled herself up his body. He wasn’t fighting with any skill. His fists and feet flailed as he lashed out in wild desperation. Bree caught his wrists and pinned them to the ground on each side of his head.

“Ow! That hurts.” He whimpered, but he stopped fighting.

“Hold still.” She gasped for air and nearly gagged at the smell of his unwashed body. “Are you going to cooperate?”

He nodded.

Bree tentatively shifted her position, moving onto one knee beside him. When he didn’t resist, she rolled him onto his belly and handcuffed his wrists behind his back. Then she shifted him onto his side and sat back on her haunches while they both caught their breath.

Wind rustled through the branches overhead, and the trickle of water over rocks reminded her there was a stream at the edge of the property. A quick memory surfaced—Bree as a young child walking barefoot in the cool water, smooth rocks underfoot, catching tadpoles and salamanders.

The man wheezed.

Bree took one last deep breath and refocused on him. “Are you carrying any weapons? Is there anything sharp that’s going to stick me when I search your pockets?”

He shook his head. His body had deflated, as if the desire to fight had gone out of him. “Just a pocketknife, but it’s closed.”

She patted down the pockets of his jeans and tossed the contents onto the ground: cheap cell phone, folding knife, cigarettes, lighter, and wallet. She secured the knife in the leg pocket of her cargo pants.

“Do you want to sit up?” she asked.

He nodded and she rolled him over and helped him sit upright.

“What’s your name?” she asked.

Instead of answering, he glared at her, anger rolling off him in palpable waves. Blood trickled from a split lip. He spit in the weeds beside him.

Bree opened the wallet and matched the driver’s license photo to his face. His name was Shawn Castillo. She didn’t recognize the street address, but it was in Grey’s Hollow. “What are you doing here, Shawn? This is private property.”

He clamped his mouth shut.

Bree sized him up. He was ragged in an unwashed and unshaven way, but his jeans and sneakers were expensive brands. The leather wallet felt pricey too. She checked his birth date on his license. Forty-eight. He looked ten years older.