Love You More (Tessa Leoni, #1)(101)

“Quarter mil.”

Bobby nodded.

“In other words, two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to betray the uniform. Two hundred and fifty thousand reasons to kill Brian Darby, kidnap Sophie Leoni, and threaten Shane Lyons.”

D.D. considered it. “Tessa Leoni shot Trooper Lyons. He betrayed the uniform, but even worse he betrayed her family. Now the question is, did she get from Lyons the information she was after?”

“Name and address of the person who has her daughter,” Bobby filled in.

“Lyons was a minion. Maybe Brian Darby, too. They pilfered the troopers’ union to fund their gambling habit. But somebody else helped them—the person calling the shots.”

Bobby glanced at Sophie’s photo, seemed to be formulating his thoughts. “If it was Tessa Leoni who shot Trooper Lyons, and she’s made it this far, that means she must have a vehicle.”

“Not to mention a small arsenal of weapons.”

“So maybe she did get a name and address,” Bobby added.

“She’s going after her daughter.”

Bobby finally smiled. “Then for the criminal mastermind’s sake, the bastard better hope that we find him first.”





38



Some things are best not to think about. So I didn’t. I drove. Mass Pike to 128, 128 southbound to Dedham. Eight more miles, half a dozen turns, I was in a heavily wooded residential area. Older homes, larger properties. The kind of place where people had trampolines in the front yard and laundry lines in the back.

Good place to hold a kid, I thought, then stopped thinking again.

I missed the address the first time. Didn’t see the numbers in the falling snow. When I realized I’d gone too far, I hit the brakes, and the old truck fishtailed. I turned into the spin, a secondhand reflex that calmed my nerves and returned my composure.

Training. That’s what this came down to.

Thugs didn’t train.

But I did.

I parked my truck next to the road. In plain sight, but I needed it accessible for a quick getaway. I had Brian’s Glock .40 tucked in the back waistband of my pants. The KA-BAR knife came with a lower leg sheath. I strapped it on.

Then I loaded the shotgun. If you’re young, female, and not terribly large, shotgun is always the way to go. You could take down a water buffalo without even having to aim.

Checking my black gloves, tugging down my black cap. Feeling the cold, but as something abstract and far away. Mostly, I could hear a rushing sound in my ears, my own blood, I supposed, powered through my veins by a flood of adrenaline.

No flashlight. I let my eyes adjust to the kind of dark that exists only on rural roads, then I darted through the woods.

Moving felt good. After the first twenty-four hours, confined to a hospital bed, followed by another twenty-four hours stuck in jail, to finally be out, moving, getting the job done, felt right.

Somewhere ahead was my daughter. I was going to save her. I was going to kill the man who had taken her. Then we were both going home.

Unless, of course …

I stopped thinking again.

The woods thinned. I burst onto a snowy yard and drew up sharply, eyeing the flat, sprawling ranch that appeared in front of me. All windows were dark, not a single light glowing in welcome. It was well after midnight by now. The kind of hour when honest people were asleep.

Then again, my subject didn’t make an honest living, did he?

Motion-activated outdoor lights, I guessed after another second. Floodlights that would most likely flare to life the second I approached. Probably some kind of security system on the doors and windows. At least basic defensive measures.

It’s like that old adage—liars expect others to lie. Enforcers who kill expect to be killed and plan appropriately.

Getting inside the house undetected probably was not an option.

Fine, I would draw him out instead.

I started with the vehicle I found parked in the driveway. A black Cadillac Esplanade with all the bells and whistles. But of course. It gave me a great deal of satisfaction to drive the butt of the shotgun through the driver’s-side window.

Car alarm whistled shrilly. I darted from the SUV to the side of the house. Floodlights blazed to life, casting the front and side yard into blinding white relief. I tucked my back against the side of the house facing the Cadillac, edging as close as I could toward the rear of the home, where I guessed Purcell would ultimately emerge. I held my breath.

An enforcer such as Purcell would be too smart to dash out into the snow in his underwear. But he would be too arrogant to let someone get away with stealing his wheels. He would come. Armed. And, he probably thought, prepared.

It took a full minute. Then I heard a low creak of a back screen door, easing open.

I held the shotgun loosely, cradled in the crook of my left arm. With my right hand, I slowly withdrew the KA-BAR knife.

Never done wet work. Never been up this close and personal.

I stopped thinking again.

My hearing had already acclimated to the shrill car alarm. That made it easier for me to pick up other noises: the faint crunch of snow as the subject took his first step, then another. I took one second to check behind me, in case there were two of them in the house, one creeping from the front, one stalking from the back, to circle around.

I heard only one set of footsteps, and made them my target.