Page 17 of Secret Stalker

Chapter Six

Max crouched down beside a thick oak tree to examine an impression in the dirt. A shoe print, narrow, small and recent—probably the shooter’s. He glanced over his shoulder, just able to see Bex’s house through the scrub brush. She was inside now, probably hunkered down in a back bedroom with one of Destiny’s finest guarding her. But her car, with its shattered windshield, sat where they’d left it when he’d rushed her inside the house and called his SWAT team. The windshield was in a direct line from where he was, which pretty much confirmed that he’d found where the shooter had stood when he’d tried to kill Bex.

A static sound in his earpiece had him turning around. Twenty feet away, at his two o’clock, Colby crouched in full SWAT gear like Max was now wearing, and pointed toward Max’s eleven o’clock. He held up one finger, then made a circular motion. The shooter was close. Colby had spotted him. Too close to risk speaking into their earpieces, thus the hand signals. Max nodded to let him know he understood, then he looked to his left and made the same motions to Chris, who was also a good twenty feet away.

The rest of the team was out here, too. When Max had called them from Bex’s house, the strategy had been set—half the team would approach from the west, driving the shooter back toward the rest of the team. The plan had worked. And now the shooter was trapped between them.

Max waited, glancing from Colby to Chris, until they both signaled that the whole team was in sync. The static crackled in his ear again, and this time he heard Dillon’s voice, so low he wouldn’t have heard it if he wasn’t listening for it.

“Three, two, one, go.”

Max crept forward, as silently as possible, in perfect unison with his team. Sweeping his assault rifle out in front of him, he used the scope every few feet, hoping to see what Colby had seen. Five painfully slow minutes later, the shadowy figure of someone peering out from behind a tree, clutching a rifle, had Max freezing in place.

Ever so carefully, he signaled his teammates. Shooter spotted. He also signaled that this was his takedown. He was the closest. Hell, even if he wasn’t, he’d have demanded the right to finish this. Bex might not be his anymore, but he still cared about her—a fact that had been ruthlessly revealed to him today. And he wasn’t about to stand by while someone else took down whoever had tried to kill her. No, this shooter was his. And they were definitely going down.

Realizing the rifle was too bulky and cumbersome for such close quarters, he carefully set it against a tree. Then he pulled his pistol from his holster, motioned to his teammates and started forward.

The shooter ducked back behind the tree. Had Max been spotted? He stopped, listened, waited. When he didn’t see or hear anything, he started forward again.

Fifteen feet.

Fourteen.

Thirteen.

Something snapped up ahead. He froze. Was that a twig? Or had someone just ratcheted a round into a chamber?

Sweeping his pistol in front of him, he scanned the trees to his left, right. Chris and Colby were still within sight, just barely. They’d stopped, like him, and were waiting, listening.

Two minutes later, Max signaled his teammates and started forward again. His gaze was riveted on the tree where he’d last seen that shadow.

Steady and slow, inch by inch. He stopped a yard back from the thick tree. Breathing through his mouth, as quietly as possible. He played the waiting game once again. Then he heard it. Fast, shallow breaths. His prey was still exactly where he’d seen him, hiding behind the tree. And from the sound of it, he was practically hyperventilating—afraid.

Good. Max wanted him to experience fear, just like Bex had felt. He was about to spring around the tree when he spotted another shadow, a good thirty feet in front of him. The quick hand signal told him it was Dillon. And then the shadow disappeared behind cover. Dillon was letting Max know that he was close and in the line of fire. Time to switch strategies.

Max ever so carefully holstered his pistol. Then he slowly and quietly pulled the long serrated hunting knife from his boot. He listened to the shallow, rapid breathing. Crept a foot to his left, planning his approach. Without taking his gaze from the tree, he held a hand up in the air, letting his teammates know he was about to strike.

Three.

Two.

One.

He rushed forward, swinging around the tree. Wide, terrified eyes met his. He registered the identity of the shooter a millisecond before he struck, knocking the shooter’s rifle skyward and dropping the unneeded knife to the ground as he tackled his prey.

The capture was far too easy for Max’s liking. He’d wanted, needed, that explosion of violence against the person who’d nearly killed Bex. But his thirst for vengeance had been discarded the instant he’d seen how scared and pale his opponent was and realized there would be no fighting back.

Underbrush crashed around him from all sides as the rest of the SWAT team swooped out of their hiding places and aimed their rifles toward Max’s prisoner.

Marcia Knolls stared up at them, at the guns pointing at her head, then projectile vomited on Max’s vest.

* * *

MAXSTOODNAKEDfrom the waist up in front of Bex’s guest bathroom sink, trying one last time to scrub the stained, reeking fabric of his bullet-resistant vest. Thanks to an always-packed go-bag in his truck, he had a fresh shirt hanging over one of the towel racks. But he didn’t want to risk getting it soiled, so he hadn’t put it on yet. He scrubbed at the cloth on the vest one more time, then, realizing it was pointless, he swore and tossed it to the floor.

“I could have told you it was a lost cause.” Dillon stood in the bathroom doorway, a grin on his face. “Trade it with Blake. You two are about the same size.”

“Yeah, I’m sure he wants a vest that smells like vomit.”

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