Secrets Never Die (Morgan Dane #5)(41)

The attacker rolled onto his hands and knees, then got to his feet. Lance levered a foot under his body. He stayed low, bending his knees, readying himself for his opponent’s next attack. The man adjusted the NVGs on his face and circled to the left. Lance moved as well, toward the saddles. He spotted his penlight on the floor under the saddle rack.

Is this the man who killed Paul?

Is he now after Evan?

The man reached into his pocket and withdrew something. Lance squinted in the darkness. A knife? A soft click confirmed a switchblade, and an extra jolt of adrenaline shot into Lance’s veins.

The attacker lunged, sweeping the blade toward Lance’s belly. Lance jumped back, twisting his body just in time to avoid the flick of the knife. The man lunged again, the switchblade stabbing at Lance’s face. Lance blocked, forearm to forearm. Pain zinged through his arm as their bones connected. His attacker fell back, then rallied.

Lance dove for the ground, and his fingers closed on the penlight. He rolled back to his feet just as the knife came at his belly. But Lance clicked the penlight on and shone it directly into his attacker’s NVGs. The amplified light would be blinding. The man’s lunge faltered, and he raised one hand to block the light.

Lance went for the knife hand with an outward sweep of his forearm. He continued to circle his hand, hooking it around and over the attacker’s arm and trapping it against his own shoulder. Then he shoved the man’s upper body backward and kicked his feet in the opposite direction. The assailant went down on his ass and lost his grip on the knife. It fell to the floor.

Lance moved toward him. The son of a bitch was his.

The man reached behind him and pulled a handgun from the small of his back. He pointed it at Lance’s head. Lance froze, his hands rising in front of his body, palms facing his opponent. His attacker backed toward the exit, glancing behind him, then disappeared through the doorway. Lance stumbled into the aisle. But the man was gone. He heard the retreating slap of shoes in mud as the man ran away.

Lance’s vision had begun to clear, but he was in no shape to give chase, especially not unarmed. He returned to the tack room. Kneeling on the floor, he swept a hand under the chest and retrieved his handgun. Sliding it into its holster, he contemplated his next move. If he called the sheriff, would he get arrested?

Possibly.

Would the sheriff even believe him?

Not likely.

The sheriff might be able to talk Steve Duncan into filing trespassing charges or Colgate would stick Lance in a holding cell for interfering with his case. Morgan could get Lance out, but all that would take time away from finding Evan.

Lance couldn’t take the chance. He wouldn’t be able to find Evan from a jail cell.

The sheriff had his own agenda, and he’d made it clear that it was the opposite of Lance’s. Colgate wasn’t a dirty cop, but his mind was made up. This time, Lance couldn’t trust the sheriff to have his back.

Also, Lance did not want Jake to know he’d searched the farm. If the boy were helping Evan, Lance wanted him to feel safe doing so. Lance could follow him another day. Plus, he didn’t want Jake to abandon helping Evan.

Lance made sure the tack room showed no sign of their struggle. Then he slipped out into the darkness. The trip back through the woods to his car seemed much longer than his initial approach. The rain had increased to a downpour. He slogged through the mud back to his Jeep.

It was four thirty when he climbed into his vehicle. Morgan would be up within the hour. He turned the Jeep toward home. Originally, he’d intended to slip back into the house so she wouldn’t know he’d left. He doubted that could happen now. He touched the throbbing knot at the back of his head and felt a lump rising.

She was going to be pissed and rightfully so. He’d gone alone, nearly been stabbed, and possibly let the man who had killed Paul escape.





Chapter Sixteen

Morgan chugged her first cup of coffee standing in front of the pot and immediately poured another. At four forty-five in the morning, anger and worry had already cleared the sleep from her head.

Where was Lance?

When she’d woken in an empty bed a half hour before, she’d checked the house, then thought maybe he’d gone for a run. But his running shoes were in the bedroom closet. She’d texted him. When he didn’t answer, she’d tried calling, but the call had immediately been sent to voice mail.

She turned and lowered herself into a dining room chair.

Where could he have gone in the middle of the night?

Dog tags jingled as Rocket and Snoozer lifted their heads from the carpet near her feet. Both dogs stood and trotted toward the front door. She heard the quiet chirp of the alarm as it was deactivated. She followed the dogs to the foyer. She exhaled as Lance came through the front door, tension rolling off her skin. He carried muddy boots in one hand. He was covered in mud and bits of organic debris.

But he was all right.

He set his boots in the rubber tray by the front door.

She wanted to kiss him, but she also wanted to shake him. Did he have any idea how worried she’d been for the last thirty minutes? She took two deep breaths, then walked closer and chose the kiss, because in the end, all that really mattered was that he was back, safe and sound. He looked surprised when her mouth left his.

“Where were you?” she asked.

“Jake O’Reilly’s farm. Let me shower and change. Then I’ll tell you everything.”