Virgin River (Virgin River #1)(110)

“Drugs,” he said simply. “Just gimme what you got, then I’m getting the hell out of these mountains.”

“They’re in there… I have to get the key,” she said, indicating the drug cabinet.

“Forget it,” he said. As he held her, he tried kicking the wooden door. The whole cabinet shook and wobbled; she could hear the contents bouncing around.

“Don’t!” she cried. “You’ll break the vials! You want the drugs or not?”

He stopped. “Where’s the key?” he said.

“In the office.”

He pulled her backward, flipped the lock on the back door and said, “Come on. Let’s move it.” With one arm around her waist and the knife at her throat, he walked her out of the kitchen. She had no option but to lead him to the office.

He held her in front of him, hostage style, as they slowly shuffled down the hall to the office. As she opened the drawer to reach for the key, he started to laugh. He grabbed her hand. “I’ll take this,” he said, pulling at her ring.

“Oh, God,” she cried, retreating. But he easily pulled her back by the hair and threatened her with the knife right in front of her face. She froze and let him pull off the ring.

He shoved it in his pocket and said, “Hurry up. I ain’t got all night.”

“Don’t hurt me,” she said. “You can have anything you want.”

He laughed. “And what if I want you, too?”

She thought she might vomit on the spot. She willed herself to be brave, to be strong, to let this ordeal end.

But he was going to kill her. She knew who he was, what he’d done, and suddenly she knew—he was going to kill her. As soon as he had what he wanted, that knife would slice across her throat.

Lying on top of the desk were the Hummer keys, obvious by the trademark and remote. He scooped them up, put them in his pocket with the ring and steered her out of the office back toward the kitchen. And he muttered, “Asshole doesn’t pay me enough to sit in the woods with Maxine and a bunch of old bums. But this should catch me up.” And then he laughed.



Jack rolled out of bed to answer the ringing phone. “Mel’s in trouble,” came Doc’s gravelly voice. “Someone’s trying to get in the back of the house. Downstairs. She’s down there. Glass broke.”

Jack dropped the phone and grabbed his jeans off the chair. No time for a shirt or shoes, he took his 9 mm handgun out of the holster that hung on a hook in the closet, checked to be sure it was loaded and that he had one in the chamber and bolted out the door. He crossed the street at a dead run. He didn’t think—he was on automatic. His jaw ground, his temples pulsed and his blood was roaring in his ears.

There was an old truck at the clinic beside Doc’s truck and Mel’s Hummer. He knew exactly who was in there.

He looked into the front door window in time to see Calvin pushing Mel into the office, and they had come from the direction of the kitchen where the drug cabinet sat. He ran around to the back of the house and looked into the kitchen door window; they were still out of sight. Then they came back into view from down the hall and Jack ducked—but not before he saw that Calvin had a big, serrated knife against her neck. He waited; he wasn’t going to give him the time or opportunity to flee or to do any damage to Mel before fleeing. It was a long few seconds as he waited for them to get back into the kitchen. He could hear their movements, the man’s hostile voice as he held Mel.

They were almost to the drug cabinet when Jack kicked the door. It crashed open and bounced off the opposite wall, but he was already inside. Legs braced apart, arms raised, pistol pointed at the man who held his woman, he said, “Put down the knife. Carefully.”

“You’re gonna let me out of here, and she’ll come with me to be sure,” Calvin said.

Knife against her throat, Mel looked at Jack and saw a man she had never seen before. The expression on his face should be enough to terrify the man who held her. Bare chested, barefoot, his jeans zipped but not buttoned, his shoulders and arms frighteningly huge, big tattoos on his swollen biceps, he looked like a wild man. He looked over the barrel of the gun, his eyes narrow, and a set to his jaw told her he was going to act. There was no question. He did not look at Mel, but at Calvin. And for a woman terrified of guns, she was unafraid. She believed in him. She knew, in that instant, that he would risk his life for her, but he would never put her at risk. Never. If he was going to make a move, she wouldn’t be in danger. Her expression went from frightened to trusting.

Jack had less than a four-inch target—the left side of the man’s head. Right next to that was Mel’s head, Mel’s beautiful face. At her throat, the blade. He didn’t even have to think about it—he wasn’t going to lose her like this.

“You have one second.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw her cast a look his way, a look that in that split second told him she loved him, believed in him. Then her eyes dropped closed and her head dipped ever so slightly to the right.

“Back off, man—”

Jack took his shot, blowing the man backward, the knife flying out of his hand.

Mel ran to Jack. The arm that held the gun was dangling at Jack’s side and his other arm went around her. Jack held her close as she let out a long slow breath against his bare chest, clinging to him. He never took his eyes off the offender. A nice, neat hole was bored right into his head, a growing pool of blood spreading under him as he lay motionless.