In Safe Hands (Search and Rescue #4)(103)

“No!” she said out loud, making herself jump at the volume. No passing out. She was moving too slowly already. How many times had the sheriff hit Chris? She needed to run.

Using the hand still clutching the doorknob and the other braced against the doorframe, she managed to pull herself up until she was standing. Her knees wanted to bend, her body to crouch, as if she were trying to balance on a sloped roof. She had to ignore everything—the breeze, the night sky, the open darkness, and her terror—especially her terror. If she allowed it in, it would take over and make her useless, and then Chris would die.

Chris, she thought, staring at the wood floor of the porch just outside the door. Forcing one foot forward, she crossed the threshold and stepped outside.





Chapter 22


Daisy promptly threw up. The force of it took her by surprise, and she stumbled forward another step as she vomited, bile burning her nose and throat. Her head buzzed with the violence of it, and she choked and heaved for several precious seconds before turning back toward the door. Leaning down, resisting the urge to run back into the house—the burning house—she grabbed Tyler by the coat again and pulled hard. His body lurched forward, pushing her back, and she half ran and half fell down the four porch steps.

At the bottom, she almost stumbled onto the concrete walkway, but she dropped Tyler and caught the railing, afraid that if she went down to her knees again, there would be no way she could get back up. Once she regained her balance, Daisy turned, staring at the ground immediately in front of her feet, and started to run in the general direction of number 304.

The yard was rough and lumpy and tried to catch her toes, tripping her a few times, but she didn’t fall. Her breathing was harsh, too fast for the short distance she was traveling. The scrubby brown grass ended, and she stepped off the curb, jolting her whole body when she landed. She watched the asphalt in front of her running feet, and then the tan fender of the squad was in front of her, and she couldn’t stop in time.

She bounced off the SUV, stumbling back several steps before she managed to catch her balance again and plow forward. Skirting the squad, she stepped over the curb onto more grass. The living room window would be right in front of her, she knew. All she had to do was look.

Chris. Repeating his name like a mantra, she forced her gaze from the ground and up at the house in front of her. Although still muted, the scene was much bigger now that she was directly in front of it. To her relief, Chris wasn’t dead. He was even on his feet, locked in a battle with the sheriff. As she watched, he landed an uppercut, sending Coughlin’s head snapping back with the force of the blow.

The sheriff recovered quickly, though, and hammered at Chris, driving him back toward the far wall. The movement jolted Daisy, and she rushed for the front porch. Her shins hit the first step, sending her sprawling over them. After a stunned moment, she started to crawl.

The front door hadn’t been closed completely, and Daisy shoved through the entrance. She’d expected crashes and thuds, or at least some sounds of a fight, but silence greeted her. Furious that she’d let Tyler delay her, frantic about what she was going to find, she tried to lighten her footsteps as she ran left toward the room she’d been watching though the window.

The sheriff had his back toward her as he bent over an unconscious—please let him just be unconscious—Chris. Without allowing herself to hesitate, she charged toward Coughlin. In his hunched position, it was easy to reach up and wrap her arms around his neck.

With a roar, he straightened, but she hung on, clasping her hands together and pressing her left forearm against the side of his neck. Although she’d practiced the hold in training, she’d never actually used it until that moment, and she hoped desperately it would work. If her arm wasn’t positioned correctly, or if she wasn’t applying enough pressure to cut off the flow of blood to his brain, he could shake her off like a fly and then kill her just as easily.

The seconds felt like hours as he grabbed at her encircling arms. Then, just as she worried she’d messed up the hold, he went down hard, taking her with him to the floor. When Chris had taught her the move, he’d told her to help the unconscious person down so they weren’t injured, but there was no slowing the sheriff’s bulk when he went limp.

His body landed partially on top of hers, driving the air from Daisy’s lungs in a pained grunt. She knew she had only a short time before he recovered consciousness, and she fought her way out from under his bulk. Shoving him onto his left side, she managed to wriggle free.

Unsnapping his holster, she slid out his gun. Daisy wasted a precious second debating what to do with the weapon. Except for some practice dry firing and cleaning the pistols Rory had lent her, she hadn’t had any experience with firearms. Daisy thought of tucking it in the back of her waistband, but she wasn’t sure if her yoga pants would hold the heavy gun.

The sheriff groaned and, in her panic, she slid the weapon across the wood floor away from them both. It skidded to a halt a few feet from Chris’s unmoving form. Ripping her gaze away from him, she refocused on the sheriff. If she allowed herself to dwell on Chris’s stillness, Daisy knew she’d lose her ability to do anything useful.

With a hard shove, she rolled Coughlin onto his stomach. He was moving his arms slightly, and she knew she had to act fast before he was fully conscious and able to fight her. He kept his handcuff case on the left rear of his duty belt, and Daisy fumbled to remove the cuffs.