The Gathering Dusk. Cynthia Eden

Farris lived in that quiet house on the cul-de-sac. George Farris...a twenty-seven-year-old software designer. A man who hadn’t shown up for work in the past two days and who had withdrawn from his friends and his family after exhibiting increasingly paranoid behavior. A man who...

      Fits my profile to a T.

      “You still think he has the victim in there?” Blake asked her.

      “Missy Johnson has been missing for two days.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “If he’s our guy...he has always kept the victims alive for seventy-two hours.” That was the reason they were moving in on the house. They couldn’t afford to waste time. This was it.

      “Then let’s do this,” Blake said, his voice little more than a growl. “I’ve got your back.”

      They advanced toward the house. She could see a car sitting in the driveway. Her left hand touched the hood, found it warm. Used recently, so our perp is probably inside. It was late afternoon, and there wasn’t exactly a way to hide their advance with so little cover. Those twisting pine trees weren’t going to cut it—

      “Movement,” Samantha whispered as her body tightened. “Curtain near the right front window just slid back. He’s watching us.”

      And he’d either panic and try to run...

      Or he’d attack.

      I made the profile on this guy. He’s been deteriorating, losing his humanity more and more. He won’t go down easy. He—

      The front window shattered and the muzzle of a gun poked through the broken glass. “Go!” Samantha yelled. “Weapon!”

      She ducked and ran, even as Blake did the same. A bullet thudded into the ground near her foot, and she felt the heat of another as it seemed to lance across her arm. She ran fast and hard, and she got to that front door even as bullets kept flying. Blake was right behind her.

      “FBI!” Samantha shouted. “Put down your weapon!”

      If his victim was inside, George Farris could be turning that gun on her.

      She nodded toward Blake. One powerful kick, and he had that door flying inward as the lock shattered beneath his foot. She heard the frantic thud of footsteps running inside and then—

      Samantha slammed into Blake, knocking him down just as a bullet sank into the wood near his head.

      “Fuck,” his deep voice rumbled.

      “You’re welcome,” she said, then jumped back to her feet.

      George was rushing down the hallway—she could see the back of his red hair.

      “Farris!” Samantha yelled. “Stop! Put down your weapon—”

      He swung toward her, his eyes seeming to bulge from his face. Terror and fury strained the lines of his pale skin and—

      He’s firing.

      “Don’t,” Samantha ordered but he wasn’t listening. Please, don’t. He was going to shoot. Shoot her, shoot Blake.

      Her finger squeezed the trigger, two fast pops that came from a hand gone dead steady. George’s mouth dropped open in shock even as a red circle of blood appeared on his chest. His gun fell from his fingers and he staggered back. George slammed into the white wall behind him, and a picture frame fell to the floor, shattering.

      Blake rushed forward and kicked the weapon farther away from the downed man. Samantha stood there, her gaze locked on George as he shuddered. Blood bubbled at his lips.

      “Where’s the victim?” Blake barked at the man. “Where is Missy Johnson?”

      Samantha shoved past the shock that had held her in its tight grasp. She rushed toward George. His bloody lips were curling. He was smiling.

      “Where is she?” Samantha demanded.

      But...

      George started wheezing. When she’d fired, there had been no time to think—she’d just reacted. He’d been aiming for her heart and she’d aimed for his.

      She hadn’t missed.

      The wheezing only lasted an instant, and then there was no breath at all. No gasps. No shudders. He was just gone.

      Her desperate gaze shot toward Blake. His face was grim, his green eyes flashing as he stared back at her. “Self-defense,” he gritted out. “You saved our asses. You—”

      Something crashed—a sound that had come from down the hallway. Her head jerked at the noise, but Blake was already moving. He raced down the hallway with his gun drawn. Samantha was right behind him, and she caught sight of the shut door on the left.

      There was a thump from behind that door. A pitiful moan and then...

      Blake grabbed the knob and thrust that door open. She was two steps behind him and when they got inside that little room, all of the breath left her in a quick rush.

      Missy Johnson was huddled in the corner, naked, her hands and feet tied, a gag in her mouth. Cuts covered her body, but she was alive.

      Alive.

      They’d gotten to her in time. “It’s okay,” Samantha said, voice soft. She put her gun in its holster and lifted her hands, palms out, toward the terrified woman. “We’re FBI agents, and we’re here to take you home.”

      * * *

      THE LITTLE CUL-DE-SAC was illuminated by a thousand lights.

      Samantha sat in the back of an ambulance, her gaze on the house. She’d protested—adamantly and, apparently, uselessly—but the EMT had insisted on checking out her arm.

      Turned out that one of George’s bullets had grazed her. Not bad enough for stitches, but the EMT had still wanted to patch the wound.

      Cop cars and FBI vehicles had swarmed. Yellow police tape was already up, sectioning off the crime scene. Neighbors were out, staring in that kind of numb, shocked horror. The kind that said, This shouldn’t have happened here. We live in a good neighborhood. It’s a safe place.

      When would people see? Sometimes, there were no safe places.

      News crews were there, too. Reporters who were broadcasting live, almost giddy with the rush of covering a story this big.

      A serial killer—taken down by the FBI. A victim rescued. A nightmare ended. Talk about a killer story.

      And right in the middle of all that chaos...well, there was FBI executive assistant director Justin Bass. The guy’s chest was puffed out, and his authoritative voice rang out clearly as he assured the reporters that his crack team had been confident of their success in locating Missy Johnson, that he’d known all along they would be bringing that victim back alive.

      Samantha just shook her head.

      “You’re all done, Agent Dark,” the EMT said, her voice cheerful, her brown eyes gleaming.

      “Thanks.” Samantha slid out of the ambulance, her movements slow. Bass was in charge of the circus out there, and she knew he liked to be the only one to handle the press. That was more than fine with her. Samantha didn’t exactly enjoy the limelight.

      The coroner had arrived earlier, and now she saw the black body bag being wheeled out. The reporters turned as one swarm to get video footage.

      Samantha sucked in a sharp breath, one that chilled her lungs.

      “You okay, Samantha?”

      His voice. A voice that she’d be able to recognize anywhere, anytime. Dark and deep, a voice that sank right beneath a woman’s skin.

      And made her think about things that—under the circumstances—she shouldn’t.

      Her head turned and she found herself staring up into Blake’s green eyes. Concern was on his face, worry in those eyes.