Valley of Shadows

A key scraped against a lock and a door creaked open, dim light spilling out onto the faces of the men. Miranda blinked, biting back a gasp as she caught her first clear sight of them. Two she recognized. Liam Jefferson and Randy Simmons were regulars at Miranda’s bakery. Both were well known in the community, one a police officer, the other the director of the funeral home. Miranda couldn’t imagine either being involved in anything illegal. At least she wouldn’t have been able to imagine it before tonight.

Now she had no doubt as to their true nature. Not when the third man stood between them, blindfolded, his mouth duct taped, his arms pulled tight behind his back. Was this the friend Liam and Randy planned to cover with dirt? She’d thought she was hearing details of a crime being hidden, a murder already committed. The truth was so much more horrible than that.

Or it would be if she didn’t stop it.

No way could she run and leave the man to die. She’d wait until Liam and Randy went into the building, call the police, and then try to get close enough to read the license plate on the SUV.

As the men disappeared into the funeral home, Miranda dug through her purse, searching for her cell phone, her damp palm sliding over keys, a packet of tissue, a bottle of aspirin.

The phone wasn’t there.

In her mind’s eye she could see it, sitting on the kitchen counter, charging. Completely useless.

“Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of all the nights to leave it at home.” Her whispered words sounded harsh, her breath uneven. She’d write the license plate number down, then run to a neighboring house, pray someone was home and would let her use a phone.

The plan had barely formed when the door creaked open again. Randy stepped outside first, his gravely words carrying on the night air. “I don’t know about this, Lee. It doesn’t feel right.”

Liam stepped out next, tugging the blindfolded man, then shoving him ahead a few steps while he turned to close the door. “It doesn’t have to feel right. It just has to be done.”

“But—”

“But nothing. Morran is scum. Getting rid of him will be doing the world a favor.”

“And saving our behinds.”

“Yeah, well that’s the whole point, isn’t it? Now get him in the car.”

Randy seemed to stiffen at the harsh tone, but obeyed, reaching out for his prisoner’s arm. He never had a chance to grab it. In a flash of movement the blindfolded man lashed out with a foot, knocking him to the ground.

Miranda gasped, jerked back, then froze as Liam swung toward her. His eyes probed the shadows where she stood, his gaze sweeping the corner of the building. She wanted to run, but knew any movement would have him swooping down on her. Her heart hammered double-time as she waited for discovery. But Liam turned away, stepping back toward the man who stood still as stone, giving no indication that he had moved. Miranda wanted to call out, to warn him, but thick, cottony fear trapped her words. Liam took a step closer and the man pivoted, slamming a foot into his stomach.

Now both Liam and Randy were down, but they wouldn’t be for long. Already, they were struggling up. It wouldn’t take much time for them to subdue their bound and blindfolded prisoner, to drag him away. To kill him.

Miranda glanced around, looking for help, for inspiration, for some way to undo what was being done. Her gaze lit on a large planter that sat near the wall of the funeral home. As weapons went, it wasn’t much.

But it was all she had.

Praying for strength and for the element of surprise, Miranda moved toward it.

TWO

Hawke Morran had no intention of dying. Not tonight anyway. He had payback to deliver and he wasn’t heading to the great beyond until he did so. If he hadn’t been gagged, he would have told his captors as much, but Jefferson hadn’t taken chances. Not only was Hawke gagged and trussed, he was blindfolded. Unfortunately for Jefferson, he hadn’t killed Hawke when he’d had the chance. It was a mistake he’d soon regret.

Hawke had managed to knock both men off their feet, but the rustle of movement and huff of their breathing told him they’d soon be back up. He stood still, waiting, knowing he might have only one chance to bring them down for good.

If he failed, he’d be buried alive.

He didn’t plan to fail.

Rage fueled him, muting the pain that sliced through his skull, warming muscles already demanding a fight. Jefferson’s overweight buddy attacked from the left, his wheezing breath speaking of too many cigarettes and too little exercise. Hawke turned toward him, ducking low and then coming up hard, slamming his head into the man’s gut and hearing with satisfaction the crack of a rib.

Agony pierced his skull, the hit he’d taken earlier allowing him no time to celebrate his victory. Nor did Jefferson allow time for Hawke to regain his balance. He came fast and quiet, but not quietly enough. Hawke spun on the balls of his feet, slashing Jefferson’s knee with his foot. The pop and scream of anguish that followed did little to satisfy Hawke’s rage. He wanted more. He wanted his hands free, wanted to wrap them around Jefferson’s neck until the man confessed every detail of the plan to set him up.

“Watch out!” A feminine voice cut through the haze of Hawke’s pain and fury, the sound so surprising he swung toward it. It was a bad move. He knew it immediately. Years of survival in a world where one wrong move meant death had taught him how swift and final the consequences of such mistakes could be.

He pivoted back toward the attack he knew was coming, the world tilting, the pain in his skull breaking into shooting flames that seared his brain. Something flew by his face, a crack and thud following so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d really heard them. Then silence. Thick. Heavy. Filled with a million possibilities. None of them good.

Footsteps rustled through grass, slow, cautious. Not the full-on attack Hawke expected. The air around him shifted, the scent of apples and cinnamon wafting toward him, mellow, sweet and completely unexpected.

He tensed, waited.

Fingers brushed his arm. Gentle, trembling, hesitant. “Are you okay?”

He nodded, gritting his teeth at the stars shooting through his head.

“Okay. Wait here. I’m going to find a phone. Call the police.” The voice was breathless and shaky, the fingers that brushed against his forearm starting to slip away.

He managed to grab them, holding tight when she would have pulled away. Whoever she was, whatever she’d come here for, she’d gotten herself into a mess of trouble. Leaving and calling the police wouldn’t change that.

“You want me to untie you first.” It wasn’t a question, but Hawke nodded anyway. He’d been determined to escape before. Now, he was desperate to. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be the only one lying at the bottom of another man’s grave.

The woman’s fingers danced over the tape that bound his wrists, pulling gently as if she were afraid of hurting him.

Come on, lady. Hurry up. He wanted to shout the words, convey by his tone just how desperate their situation was, but the tape over his mouth kept him mute, and he was forced to stand silent while she worked. Sweat beaded his brow, the dizzying pain in his head making him nauseous, but he wouldn’t give in to it. There was too much at stake.

Finally the tape loosened and he twisted his wrists, breaking through what was left of his bonds. The blindfold was next. Then the tape that covered his mouth.

He swung around, caught sight of the woman who’d freed him.

Soft. That was his first impression. Soft hair, soft full lips and soft eyes that widened as she took in his appearance. It was a reaction Hawke was used to and he ignored it, turning to search for his enemies. They were both on the ground. The heavier man lay in a heap, quiet groans issuing from between puffy lips. Jefferson was sprawled a few feet away from his buddy, a gun an arm’s length away and bits of a clay pot scattered around him. “Looks like it’s time to add flower pots to the list of deadly weapons.”

“Deadly? I hope I didn’t kill him.” The woman’s voice was as soft as her appearance, her hair swinging forward as she leaned toward Jefferson.

Hawke put a hand on her arm, stopping her before she could check for his pulse. “He’s not dead.”

But Hawke was tempted to finish him off. He might have if the woman hadn’t been watching him with wide, frightened eyes, or if his own moral code hadn’t altered drastically in the past year. An eye for an eye had once been his motto. Lately, that had changed. He hadn’t quite figured out what it had changed to, but killing Jefferson was no longer an option.

Somewhere in the distance, a siren blared to life, the sound spurring Hawke’s sluggish brain to action. “We need to get out of here.”

He moved forward, grabbed the gun that lay by Jefferson, checked the safety. He could feel the woman’s gaze, her fear and coiled tension.

“What are you doing?” she whispered, her voice shaky.

“Making sure we have protection.”

“Protection? From what? Neither of them look like they’re getting up anytime soon.”

“It’s not them I’m worried about.”