Protective Confinement. Cassie Miles

a reminder. “We need to take him alive.”

      The detective nodded. “There are other murders to solve.”

      Murder? Dash hoped not. He hoped they’d be in time to rescue Dr. Cara Messinger.

      He gave a nod to the two men with the ram. They drew back and let go. The door crashed open.

      Dash raced through. “FBI. Freeze.”

      His warning echoed through empty space. He ran through the front room and kitchenette, charged into the bedroom and bathroom. His men swarmed into the place, searching for a man who wasn’t here.

      Dash should have known that the capture wouldn’t be so easy. For years, this serial killer had eluded the FBI’s top profilers and forensic ViCAP experts.

      Was Russell Graff the Judge? Or had they been wrong? Had the trace on his e-mail been a mistake?

      Dash stood in the bedroom of the bungalow and faced the mirror. His gun hung loosely at his side. With his other hand, he pointed to the mirror.

      “That’s one hell of a clue,” Dash said.

      The reflective surface was almost completely covered with photographs of Cara and scribbling that would provide hours of analysis for the profilers.

      Dash knew they were on the right trail, and they didn’t have much time. It was after midnight on Saturday. Technically, it was Sunday—the fourth day that Cara Messinger had been missing.

      The Judge always killed on the fourth day.

      RUSSELL’S HOARSE CRY ECHOED through the night, piercing her eardrums. “You’re mine, Cara.”

      She ducked behind a juniper and wished herself invisible. The aftereffects of the drugs he’d been feeding her had distorted her perceptions while, at the same time, sharpening her senses. The fresh scent of juniper and earth mingled with the rank smell of her own fear. Which way should she run? Where should she go? She couldn’t think, couldn’t decide.

      After she’d worked free from the ropes and climbed through the window, she’d faced a vast, surreal vista of low sage, cactus and trees. Faraway porch lights glimmered from other small houses. There was a two-lane road. No traffic. In the distance, she’d spied an intersection and a lit gas station attached to another building. A diner? A convenience store? Go there. They might be open all night.

      Her instincts had kicked in then, warning her not to make a beeline toward the neon signs. She’d be too easy to track, too easy to find.

      Instead, she’d run in the opposite direction. Her long khaki skirt tangled around her legs. The hard, rock-strewn soil tore at her bare feet.

      The waning moon hung low in the west. She circled toward the gas station. Then she heard him. He screamed like a wild predator. An animal. “You’re mine.”

      Terror raced through her. Hiding behind the juniper, she heard gunshots. Not just one. He fired a whole clip. As she huddled in the dark, she imagined the bullets tearing through her body, leaving ragged, bleeding tatters in her flesh. A hallucination. She hadn’t been hit. But she felt the wounds; they were as real as the cut on her arm.

      She remained utterly still, a rabbit hiding from a hawk, and she prayed. Someone would hear his rampage. Someone would call the police.

      Though her heart raced, a heavy pall of exhaustion weighted her down. She sank to her knees. Peering through the juniper branches, she watched as he loped toward the gas station, full of vigor, terrifying in his purpose.

      Abruptly, he stopped. His neck craned, and he stared in her direction. She felt his gaze. Her skin prickled. Don’t move. Don’t let him see you.

      He threw back his head and yelled, “Cara!”

      Her name ricocheted off the landscape. The sound was terrible and insane. Then came a low, threatening whisper that cut through the night air. “I’ll never stop until I have you. Never.”

      He turned back toward the house and went inside.

      Now. She should move now.

      Gathering her strength, she stumbled toward another tree. Though she hadn’t planned it this way, she was close to the intersecting road. If a car came this way, she might flag them down. But her strength was gone. She could barely put one foot in front of the other.

      An explosion erupted behind her. The small house where she’d been held captive burst into flames. She saw Russell’s car driving away. Toward this road. She had to get away from the road.

      Frantically, she backtracked. Her breath came in shallow, rapid gasps.

      Which way should she run? Toward the gas station or farther into the sheltering darkness? Her toe stubbed painfully against sandstone. She fell facedown. Get up, Cara. You have to run, have to escape. But the rich smell of the earth comforted her.

      Mother Earth would protect her. She was part Navajo. They were dineh, people of the earth.

      She closed her eyes. Consciousness faded.

      When her eyelids opened, she was aware that much time had passed. The moon had almost set. The edge of dawn lightened the skies. It was a new day, and she was looking up into a pair of the most intensely blue eyes she had ever seen.

      “Are you Cara?” he asked.

      She nodded. Instinctively, she knew she could trust this man. He wouldn’t hurt her.

      “I’m Dash Adams. I’m with the FBI and I’m here to help you,” he said. “It looks like your feet are hurt. May I help you stand up?”

      “Yes.” She appreciated his courtesy in asking rather than grabbing her.

      She struggled upright. Her muscles were weak, and the world was spinning. No way would she be able to walk. Gently and carefully, he scooped her off the ground and held her. “You’re going to be all right, Cara.”

      She believed him. Her cheek rested against his windbreaker. Her head tilted back, and she studied his face. His forehead was smudged with grime. Dark stubble outlined a strong jaw. His deep-set blue eyes shone with a determined light.

      He’d said his name was Dash, and he was with the FBI. What was the FBI doing here? She knew there was a simple answer, but her brain wasn’t working properly. Only one coherent train of thought presented itself. “I want to go home.”

      He said nothing. Didn’t he hear her? She repeated, “I want to go home now.”

      “It’s not safe. He knows where you live.”

      “Russell Graff.” Her blissful moment of forgetfulness was over. A series of nightmare images clicked through her mind. The stun gun. The Judge. The ropes. Drugs. Spiders. She was lucky to still be alive. “You didn’t catch him.”

      “No.”

      She jostled in his arms. “He said I belonged to him. He would never stop until he had me again.”

      He gazed down at her. The expressive light from his eyes communicated with her at a deep, primitive level. He was a warrior, her protector. “I won’t let that happen.”

      She became aware of many other people. There were flashing lights from police cars and an ambulance. Firefighters controlled the flames from the small house where she’d been held captive. The stucco walls had crumbled—destroyed by the fire. Soon the embers would turn to ash and blow away on the arid winds.

      More than anything, she wanted to forget that this had ever happened, to erase the pain and the humiliation of her abduction.

      Suddenly, she was surrounded. Dozens of voices asked questions, while other hands reached for her.

      She fastened her arms tightly around Dash’s neck and looked up at him. “Don’t leave me.”

      “I won’t let you out of my sight.”

      At the ambulance, Dash handed her over to the paramedics,