Page 51 of Hunting the Crossbow Killer

“What are you going to do? You don’t even have a gun.”

He notched an arrow in his bow. “I’m hunting the Crossbow Killer.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

He shoved Grace in the back, making her stumble and almost fall on the leaf-strewn forest floor.

“Hurry up,” he told her.

She glared at him over her shoulder.

He laughed.

“What do you want from me? If you’re really the Crossbow Killer, you would have killed me in the parking lot. Abducting people isn’t what he does.”

“He, as in I, don’t miss what I aim at either, like that idiot you cops arrested. I’m smart enough to attach the feathers to my bows after I take down my target instead of letting the arrow fly wherever it wants because of a feather dragging it down, like that kid you’ve been giving credit for my hard work. Oh, and I don’t burn down cabins, either. Although now that I think of it, that could be fun, setting the woods on fire and watching an entire mountain burn.” He shoved her again. “Keep moving. And show some respect or I’ll end this right here.”

“Where are we going? I can make better time if you tell me our destination.”

He suddenly jerked her to a stop. “Oh, man. This is definitely new territory for me, taking a living victim. Your phone’s on, isn’t it? You’ve got an open mic, an open call and you’re trying to get me to give up our location. Hand it over.”

“I don’t have it. I left it in my car.”

He backhanded her, whirling her around. She fell against a tree, biting her lip to keep from giving him the satisfaction of crying out. The metallic taste of blood filled her mouth.

“Phone,” he demanded. “Now.”

She was about to lie again and say she didn’t have it, anything to stall for time, to give someone a chance to trace her line. But suddenly the arrow was pointing directly at her head. He couldn’t miss from three feet away, especially since he’d admitted he attached his feathers after shooting the arrows. He really did know what he was doing, which meant he was even more skilled and deadly than she thought. She pulled out her cell phone and handed it to him.

He dropped it to the ground and stomped on it until it crunched into little pieces. His lips curled in a sneer as he kept the arrow pointed at her. “Now move. Straight ahead. Hurry.”

As much as possible, she tried to slow them down without being too obvious. She carefully stepped over fallen logs, skirted farther around bushes than necessary. And the entire time she scanned the woods around them, searching for something, anything or anyone to give her a chance to escape.

Had her former boss received the call she’d speed dialed in her pocket? Was he even still in the area where he could help her? She hoped he was, and that help was on the way. But she had to assume the worst, that she was on her own. She’d been trained in hand-to-hand combat, trained to try to outthink an opponent who was bigger than her or had her outgunned. There had to be a way out of this. All she had to do was find it.

The distant sound of gurgling water caught her attention. A waterfall? Or something man-made like an outdoor shower? How could she use it to her advantage?

He shoved her again, almost making her fall. “Quit stalling. I don’t have time for this. I need to make my statement and get out of here before they figure out where I am.”

She stopped and looked over her shoulder. “What kind of statement are you—”

This time he hit her with the bow, the arrow’s razor-sharp edge slicing across her hand. She gasped at the fiery pain and grabbed the wound, pressing it hard to try to stop the bleeding.

“Move,” he gritted out, holding up the bow again, the now bloody arrow less than a foot from her face.

She whirled around and hurried forward. His words kept running through her mind. He wanted to make a statement. And he’d complained about someone else taking credit for his work. Niall. He must have heard the media reports and come to Mystic Lake. He clearly didn’t want someone else being labeled the Crossbow Killer. That distinction was entirely his. And he was here to prove it. To make a statement. How does a killer make a statement?

He kills.

Which meant he was definitely planning to kill her, but he apparently had a specific place in mind to do it. He was in a hurry to reach his destination and do what he’d planned. Knowing she’d had her phone on didn’t change their direction. It only had him pressing her to hurry.

They were close, then. Had to be. Close to wherever his statement was going to take place. Which meant it was go time. She had to make a run for it. But she was bleeding, and wearing soft leather shoes that didn’t grip the ground, not the kind of hard-soled hiking boots he had on. He was bigger, taller, withlonger strides. And he was armed. How was she going to make a run for it with any real hope of getting away and not being shot?

Think, Grace. Think.

The sound of the water was getting closer, louder.

“Hurry.”

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