Bones Don't Lie (Morgan Dane Book 3) Read online

  “Ms. Dane. Nice to see you.” He gestured with the barrel of the rifle. Her hand was bloody.

  Ms. Dane lifted her hands. Her skin and lips were blue, and she staggered as she tried to get to her feet. Even if he hadn’t found her, she wouldn’t have lasted much longer. She was running on pure determination, which he admitted, she had in spades.

  It was a shame she had to die.

  “Where’s Kruger?” he asked.

  “He went ahead for help.” She swayed on her feet. “I can’t walk anymore.”

  Kruger would never leave her.

  “Liar.” King whipped the rifle around and smacked her in the face with the butt of the stock. She crumpled to the ground and lay in the snow, unmoving. He hadn’t delivered a full-force blow, hadn’t meant to knock her out, only to stun her. But she was a more delicate creature than he was accustomed to handling. Whatever. At this point, he needed to be flexible and keep his eyes on the prize. Now he would use her as bait.

  He aimed the rifle at her face. “Come on out, Kruger. I know you can hear me. You have three seconds to show yourself before I pull the trigger.”

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Heart-hammering, Lance stared at the sheriff’s back. Wavering, he hesitated for a fraction of a second. If he jumped the sheriff, King could shoot Morgan. But if he didn’t, King would definitely shoot them both. He could not, under any circumstances, allow either of them to be taken prisoner by King. That would be the end.

  Surprise—and the sheriff’s own confidence—would be Lance’s best weapons.

  He took as deep a breath as his ribs would allow. Pushing off his good leg, he launched himself at the sheriff’s back. He looped his cuffed hands over the sheriff’s head. Pulling hard, he yanked the chain joining the cuffs into the sheriff’s windpipe. The sheriff dropped the rifle. His hands went to his throat. He grabbed Lance’s arms and tried to relieve the pressure. But Lance had the upper hand, and he wasn’t letting go. If this didn’t work, he and Morgan were both dead.

  There would be no more running. No more game of cat and mouse. The mice didn’t have any more chase left in them.

  The sheriff gagged, a sick choking sound emanating from his throat as he fought to breathe. He thrashed, clawing at Lance’s hands and using his size and weight to attempt to pull Lance off balance.

  King was large, strong, and trained in defense and arrest tactics. He dropped one hand to his belt and freed a knife from its sheath. Reaching over his shoulder, King jabbed the point at Lance’s head. Lance ducked his head out of the knife’s path, but the effort cost him leverage.

  The sheriff grabbed Lance’s wrist with his other hand, eased the pressure on his own throat, and heaved Lance forward with brute strength. King pinned Lance’s wrist just below his own collarbone. Lance dropped his weight and fought to hold his position.

  The knife came at Lance’s eye next. He shifted his head. His arms trembled. Agony seared through his ribcage. Exhausted, hypothermic, and injured, he was nearing his limit. It would be now or never.

  “Last chance!” he yelled in the sheriff’s ear. “Drop the knife.”

  King’s answer was another sweeping arc of the blade toward Lance’s face.

  Lance shifted away, fighting to maintain the hold on King’s neck. If he had two good legs, he’d put a knee into the sheriff’s back for leverage. But with his injuries, he was lucky to be standing.

  The knife swept toward his head again. He caught a flash of metal as the blade whispered past his eye, missing his eyeball by millimeters. His eyebrow stung where the sharp point nicked him.

  The sheriff grunted and pulled hard on Lance’s wrist, attempting to give himself more breathing room. Lance planted his forearms on the sheriff’s upper back and rolled his arms inward. If he could press on the side of the sheriff’s neck, he could cut off the blood supply to his brain.

  But King wouldn’t give up the leverage. With a grunt, the sheriff lowered the knife and stabbed under his own armpit, aiming at Lance’s midsection. The blade kissed his belly with a flicker of heat.

  Lance opened his mouth to tell Morgan to run. He couldn’t hold King much longer. He couldn’t maneuver or gain leverage. But he didn’t have any air to shout either. Every ounce of remaining strength in his body pulled against the sheriff’s neck.

  The pine trees around him spun. He couldn’t breathe. Tiny stars rushed at his eyes, and his vision began to tunnel.

  They weren’t going to make it. The sheriff was a bull. Lance could hold on, but he couldn’t finish him.

  A thud sounded next to Lance’s ear, and the sheriff went limp. His body sagged, and Lance saw Morgan standing behind him, the sheriff’s AR-15 raised butt-down over her shoulder. She’d knocked the sheriff out.

  It was over.

  Relief drained his adrenaline high, leaving him weak and shaky.

  Lance released his hold on the sheriff’s neck. The weight of the falling body dragged him off balance and onto the ground. Lance fell sideways. His shoulder hit the snowy grass. He rolled over to his back. Snow fell on his face as he stared up at the dark sky and snowy treetops.

  At Morgan.

  She stood over the sheriff’s prone body, the AR-15 in her hands pointed straight at King’s head. Dark hair waved around her face, and snow whirled around her. In a moment of almost giddy light-headedness, Lance imagined her as Wonder Woman.

  He blamed oxygen deprivation.

  “Now what?” Morgan shook. She looked like she could barely hold on to the rifle.

  “Cover me. Shoot him if he moves a muscle.” Lance staggered to his feet. After testing the sheriff’s consciousness with a solid kick, he took his weapon and searched his belt for a handcuff key. Finding it, Lance unlocked the cuffs on his wrists. Setting them aside, he worked the sheriff’s coat off. Then he peeled off King’s next two layers before rolling the sheriff to the base of a tree and cuffing his hands around the trunk. He collected the knife from where it had fallen and searched the rest of the sheriff’s pockets.

  Lance brought Morgan the coat. After removing her handcuffs, he wrapped the heavy coat around her.

  She slipped her arms into the sleeves. Lance zipped it to her chin. Then he dressed in the sheriff’s extra shirts, a thin base layer and a fleece zip-up. They were still warm from King’s body, but Lance didn’t care.

  Heat was heat.

  Setting the rifle aside, Morgan dug in the pockets of the sheriff’s coat and started pulling out all the supplies a good woodsman packs when going into the forest: protein bars, flashlight, compass, a reflective emergency blanket. “Matches and fire starter sticks. We can build a fire.”

  She also found a handgun that was not a police issue. She returned it to the pocket.

  “We’ll fill this with snow and let it melt.” She shook an empty water bottle.

  “I don’t want to spend the night out here,” Lance said. He wanted to get the hell out of the woods, but his ribs felt like he’d been run over by a car.

  “How far are we from the nearest building?” Morgan asked.

  Lance scanned the area. “I’m honestly not sure. It seems like we covered some ground, but I’m betting we didn’t get that far. Could be a few miles.”

  “We’re both hypothermic and likely risking frostbite,” Morgan said. “Getting warm has to be our first priority. I vote for a makeshift shelter and a fire. Then we reassess our physical condition. Right at this moment, I wouldn’t make it another mile.”

  Lance nodded. She was right. Breathing was becoming more painful.

  She glanced at the sheriff’s prone body. “He’ll freeze to death if we leave him there.”

  “Probably.” Lance didn’t care. “After everything he’s done, he deserves to freeze to death.”

  “That’s exactly what King would say.”

  Damn.

  She was always right, but the moral high ground felt as attainable as Mount Everest.

  “Fine. But you get warm first.” Lance began looking for dry wood
, not an easy task in the snow, when it felt like a truck was parked on his chest. But he scoured the underside of a fallen log for enough to get a flame going. Morgan, dwarfed in King’s coat and gloves, brought some dryish sticks and pine needles to the spot under the fir tree, where they were sheltered from the worst of the snowfall. If Lance could get the fire going and eat a protein bar, maybe he’d find a way to pull a few branches over them for better protection from the elements.

  But Morgan was already on it. “I’m stealing your bootlaces.”

  She arced two branches over them, forming a fir tree lean-to that blocked the wind. She tied them in place with his laces.

  In twenty minutes, they had enough flames to warm their hands over. Lance added some twigs and coaxed the flames higher. Then he grudgingly spread the emergency blanket over the sheriff.

  Huddled around their tiny fire, they ate the sheriff’s power bars and drank melted snow. Lance leaned back against the tree, pain and exhaustion finally besting him now that the acute danger had been neutralized. He balanced the AR-15 across his thighs, the muzzle aimed in the sheriff’s direction. Morgan had King’s service revolver in her hand and the extra handgun in her pocket. She leaned on his shoulder. Twenty feet outside their small shelter, the sheriff didn’t move.

  The sound of a snapping twig startled Lance. Pain sliced through his ribs, stealing his breath. He must have fallen asleep.

  Something rustled the foliage, farther away this time.

  Lance lifted the rifle in his lap, scanning the clearing, looking for the sheriff. But another rustle in the distance told him King was running away.

  Next to him, Morgan came awake in an instant. She mouthed, “What is it?”

  He whispered, “King is gone.”

  A little while later, voices floated through the trees from the direction opposite where King had run.

  Ten minutes passed before Mac and Sharp walked into the clearing in backpacks and hiking gear.

  Relief swept through Lance, warming him as much as the fire had.

  Morgan stumbled to her feet, and Mac caught her in a hug.

  Sharp dropped to one knee next to Lance. “Are you alive?”

  “Yes.” Lance struggled to sit up. The sky was lighter. Was it close to dawn? “How did you find us?”

  “Hold on, let me give the rescue party our coordinates.” Sharp spoke into his radio. After he lowered it, he jerked a thumb toward Mac. “That guy is freaky good in the woods. He tracks like one of the K-9s.”

  “We didn’t wait for the official rescue party to get it together,” Mac said. “The two of us could move faster anyway.”

  Sharp set his backpack on the ground and opened it. “But they aren’t far behind us. We’ll have you both out of here in no time. Since you’re not dying, we won’t call for a helicopter. Mac is trying to figure out the closest spot we can rendezvous with a four-wheeler.”

  Lance straightened. Pain in his side nearly split him in half. “King got away. It must have been just before you arrived. He was handcuffed around that tree. I must have dozed off.” Lance wanted to kick himself.

  “Passed out is probably a more accurate description,” Sharp said. “You’re in rough shape.”

  Mac was crouching where King’s prone body should have been. Mac stood and scanned the ground. “He went north. We can catch him if we move now.”

  “I’m surprised you didn’t kill him.” Sharp handed Lance a bag of trail mix.

  Lance ate a handful of raisins and nuts. “I wanted to.”

  And if he had, he wouldn’t be worried about the sheriff getting away right now.

  “I’ll bet you did.” Sharp handed him a bottle of water and patted his shoulder. “You did good. Everything is going to be all right. We’ll find him.”

  “You’ll wait for the police to catch him, right?” On the other side of the fire, Morgan sat on a rock. She smiled at him through the smoke.

  “Right,” Sharp grumbled.

  Lance leaned back against the tree. He knew who had killed his father, and the sheriff couldn’t possibly get far. He and Morgan were alive and together. Everything would be all right, as long as he had her.

  Chapter Fifty

  An hour later, Sharp hiked through the forest behind four state troopers. He could see why Mac Barrett was an asset to his search and rescue team. He loped along the trail in an effortless gait, tracking the sheriff like a frigging golden retriever.

  The trail led into a clearing. A cabin sat in the center of the open space. Fresh tracks in the snow led to the front door. King was inside. They all knew it. Tension connected the team members like an invisible current.

  The troopers fanned out, motioning for Sharp and Mac to fall behind them.

  Grudgingly, they did.

  But not far.

  One trooper scouted ahead. Crouching beneath a window, he took a selfie stick and his cell phone from his pocket. Raising the phone just above the windowsill, he used his camera to spy inside. He lowered the phone and crept back to the group. “He’s standing in the middle of the room. He’s armed and injured.”

  “Think we have any chance of talking him into laying down his weapon and coming outside?” the leader asked.

  All the men shared a there’s no way in hell that would ever happen look.

  “Then let’s go get him.” The leader motioned toward the cabin.

  The troopers flanked the entrance. With no warning knock, they breached the door, sweeping through the doorway. Boots thudded on wood as they shouted commands.

  “Police!”

  “Let me see your hands!”

  “Drop the weapon!”

  Sharp angled himself so he could see through the doorway.

  The sheriff stood in the center of the main room. His face was blotched, his nose was twice its normal size, and his eyes were bloodshot. In one hand, he pointed a handgun toward the floor. He cradled his other, swollen hand against his body.

  King had dislocated his thumb to escape the handcuffs.

  Crazy bastard.

  “Put the weapon down, Sheriff,” the lead trooper ordered.

  They all knew King. They’d worked together. But they would still put a bullet in him to stop him if they had to.

  King looked beyond the cops, to Sharp. Their eyes met. King’s mouth curled into a snarl.

  “Put the weapon down or I will shoot you!” the trooper yelled.

  Sharp knew in that moment of eye contact that King would not let the troopers arrest him. Nor would he take the chance of a nonlethal bullet wound. He would never go to jail.

  In one swift movement, the sheriff brought the gun to his mouth and pulled the trigger, blowing off the back of his head. Blood and bits of brain splattered across the worn wood behind him.

  King went out on his own terms.

  Sharp didn’t give a rat’s ass how he went out, as long as he ended up six feet underground.

  Chapter Fifty-One

  Late the next morning, Morgan sat in Lance’s kitchen and drained her second cup of coffee. Lance was still asleep. He’d refused to stay at the hospital the night before. They’d returned to his house in the gray hours just before dawn, crawled into his bed, and slept like corpses.

  The doorbell rang. Not wanting the noise to wake Lance, she hurried to the door and opened it. Mac and Stella stood on the front step, with all three of Morgan’s girls in tow.

  “Where’s Wance?” Sophie tried to zoom past Morgan’s legs.

  Morgan made a grab for her daughter. “He’s sleeping.”

  Sophie folded her arms and sulked. “I want to see him.”

  “I know,” Morgan said. “I’ll go in and see if he’s awake yet. Sharp is in the kitchen.”

  “We’ll take the kids into the kitchen.” Stella held up a box of donuts. “Who wants a donut?”

  “Save me one,” Morgan said over her shoulder.

  “Do you really deserve a donut?” Stella asked. “If it were Christmas, I’d fill your stocking with coal for th
e stunt you pulled last night.”

  Morgan and Lance had given their statements at the hospital the previous night.

  “I apologized twenty times already.” Guilt poked Morgan. “I should have answered your call. I should have told you where we were going. I’m sorry.”

  Stella humphed. “Maybe one donut.” She shook a finger at Morgan. “But you have to drink one of Sharp’s nasty concoctions.”

  “I promise.” Morgan held up three fingers like a Girl Scout.

  Shaking her head, Stella retreated down the hall. Her sister loved her. No matter what.

  Morgan opened Lance’s bedroom door.

  “You don’t have to be quiet,” he said. “I’m awake.”

  His eyes were open. Shirtless, he pushed the sheet down to his waist. Purple bruises mottled his ribcage. A small bandage on his side and another on his eyebrow covered the shallow knife wounds he’d sustained in his fight with Sheriff King. Just looking at him bare-chested made Morgan shiver. She’d layered her silk long underwear under a wool sweater. After their night in the woods, she might never be warm enough again.

  Morgan eased onto the side of the bed, taking care not to jostle him. “The kids are here. They were worried about you, so Stella and Mac brought them to visit. I hope that’s all right.”

  “Of course it’s OK.” Lance took her hand and traced the small bandage on her palm. “I’m fine.”

  She shook her head. “You have three fractured ribs and twenty stitches in your leg. You should have stayed in the hospital last night.”

  “Observation is hospital code for waking you up every thirty minutes. I needed actual sleep, and it could have been worse.” He touched a tender spot on her temple, where the butt end of King’s rifle had left a bruise.

  “Unfortunately, I can’t argue with that.”

  They’d been very, very lucky.

  Lance put his palms on the bed and pushed his body toward the headboard. His face went tight with pain.

  “You need a pill.” Morgan reached for a pillow and tucked it behind him. When he made a face, she said, “Remember what the doctor said. If you don’t take the medication, you won’t breathe deeply enough, and you’ll be at risk for pneumonia.”