The Gathering Dusk (Killer Instinct 0.5)(2)

“Where’s the victim?” Blake barked at the man. “Where is Missy Johnson?”

Samantha shoved past the shock that had held her in its tight grasp. She rushed toward George. His bloody lips were curling. He was smiling.

“Where is she?” Samantha demanded.

But...

George started wheezing. When she’d fired, there had been no time to think—she’d just reacted. He’d been aiming for her heart and she’d aimed for his.

She hadn’t missed.

The wheezing only lasted an instant, and then there was no breath at all. No gasps. No shudders. He was just gone.

Her desperate gaze shot toward Blake. His face was grim, his green eyes flashing as he stared back at her. “Self-defense,” he gritted out. “You saved our asses. You—”

Something crashed—a sound that had come from down the hallway. Her head jerked at the noise, but Blake was already moving. He raced down the hallway with his gun drawn. Samantha was right behind him, and she caught sight of the shut door on the left.

There was a thump from behind that door. A pitiful moan and then...

Blake grabbed the knob and thrust that door open. She was two steps behind him and when they got inside that little room, all of the breath left her in a quick rush.

Missy Johnson was huddled in the corner, naked, her hands and feet tied, a gag in her mouth. Cuts covered her body, but she was alive.

Alive.

They’d gotten to her in time. “It’s okay,” Samantha said, voice soft. She put her gun in its holster and lifted her hands, palms out, toward the terrified woman. “We’re FBI agents, and we’re here to take you home.”

*



THE LITTLE CUL-DE-SAC was illuminated by a thousand lights.

Samantha sat in the back of an ambulance, her gaze on the house. She’d protested—adamantly and, apparently, uselessly—but the EMT had insisted on checking out her arm.

Turned out that one of George’s bullets had grazed her. Not bad enough for stitches, but the EMT had still wanted to patch the wound.

Cop cars and FBI vehicles had swarmed. Yellow police tape was already up, sectioning off the crime scene. Neighbors were out, staring in that kind of numb, shocked horror. The kind that said, This shouldn’t have happened here. We live in a good neighborhood. It’s a safe place.

When would people see? Sometimes, there were no safe places.

News crews were there, too. Reporters who were broadcasting live, almost giddy with the rush of covering a story this big.

A serial killer—taken down by the FBI. A victim rescued. A nightmare ended. Talk about a killer story.

And right in the middle of all that chaos...well, there was FBI executive assistant director Justin Bass. The guy’s chest was puffed out, and his authoritative voice rang out clearly as he assured the reporters that his crack team had been confident of their success in locating Missy Johnson, that he’d known all along they would be bringing that victim back alive.

Samantha just shook her head.

“You’re all done, Agent Dark,” the EMT said, her voice cheerful, her brown eyes gleaming.

“Thanks.” Samantha slid out of the ambulance, her movements slow. Bass was in charge of the circus out there, and she knew he liked to be the only one to handle the press. That was more than fine with her. Samantha didn’t exactly enjoy the limelight.

The coroner had arrived earlier, and now she saw the black body bag being wheeled out. The reporters turned as one swarm to get video footage.

Samantha sucked in a sharp breath, one that chilled her lungs.

“You okay, Samantha?”

His voice. A voice that she’d be able to recognize anywhere, anytime. Dark and deep, a voice that sank right beneath a woman’s skin.

And made her think about things that—under the circumstances—she shouldn’t.

Her head turned and she found herself staring up into Blake’s green eyes. Concern was on his face, worry in those eyes.

Samantha made herself smile for him. “Barely a scratch. I didn’t even need stitches.” The sun was starting to set, and the sky behind Blake was a dark red.

“I’m not talking about your arm.”

She lifted a brow.

“That wasn’t an easy scene.” He stepped closer to her. Instantly, she seemed to feel the heat that swept out from his body. “Taking a life is never easy.”

No, it wasn’t. Her gaze slid away from him and went back to that house. Except for that broken window out front, the place looked so normal. But it isn’t normal. George Farris probably killed two women in that house.

I killed him in that house.

Blake’s hand rose and touched her shoulder, such a light, careful touch. “Samantha?”

She swallowed. “It’s just a house.” She turned away from the house and began walking back toward the SUV that waited. They’d driven over together when her profile had paid off and she’d been so sure that George was the man they were after. So sure...

“It’s just a house,” she murmured without looking back again. “Just a house on a street.” And I killed a man inside.

She made it to the vehicle. Samantha was reaching for the driver’s-side door, but Blake’s hand rose, and his fingers—slightly callused—curled over hers. Startled, she glanced up at him.