Page 103 of In Safe Hands
She bounced off the SUV, stumbling back several steps before she managed to catch her balance again and plow forward. Skirting the squad, she stepped over the curb onto more grass. The living room window would be right in front of her, she knew. All she had to do was look.
Chris. Repeating his name like a mantra, she forced her gaze from the ground and up at the house in front of her. Although still muted, the scene was much bigger now that she was directly in front of it. To her relief, Chris wasn’t dead. He was even on his feet, locked in a battle with the sheriff. As she watched, he landed an uppercut, sending Coughlin’s head snapping back with the force of the blow.
The sheriff recovered quickly, though, and hammered at Chris, driving him back toward the far wall. The movement jolted Daisy, and she rushed for the front porch. Her shins hit the first step, sending her sprawling over them. After a stunned moment, she started to crawl.
The front door hadn’t been closed completely, and Daisy shoved through the entrance. She’d expected crashes and thuds, or at least some sounds of a fight, but silence greeted her. Furious that she’d let Tyler delay her, frantic about what she was going to find, she tried to lighten her footsteps as she ran left toward the room she’d been watching though the window.
The sheriff had his back toward her as he bent over an unconscious—please let him just be unconscious—Chris. Without allowing herself to hesitate, she charged toward Coughlin. In his hunched position, it was easy to reach up and wrap her arms around his neck.
With a roar, he straightened, but she hung on, clasping her hands together and pressing her left forearm against the side of his neck. Although she’d practiced the hold in training, she’d never actually used it until that moment, and she hoped desperately it would work. If her arm wasn’t positioned correctly, or if she wasn’t applying enough pressure to cut off the flow of blood to his brain, he could shake her off like a fly and then kill her just as easily.
The seconds felt like hours as he grabbed at her encircling arms. Then, just as she worried she’d messed up the hold, he went down hard, taking her with him to the floor. When Chris had taught her the move, he’d told her to help the unconscious person down so they weren’t injured, but there was no slowing the sheriff’s bulk when he went limp.
His body landed partially on top of hers, driving the air from Daisy’s lungs in a pained grunt. She knew she had only a short time before he recovered consciousness, and she fought her way out from under his bulk. Shoving him onto his left side, she managed to wriggle free.
Unsnapping his holster, she slid out his gun. Daisy wasted a precious second debating what to do with the weapon. Except for some practice dry firing and cleaning the pistols Rory had lent her, she hadn’t had any experience with firearms. Daisy thought of tucking it in the back of her waistband, but she wasn’t sure if her yoga pants would hold the heavy gun.
The sheriff groaned and, in her panic, she slid the weapon across the wood floor away from them both. It skidded to a halt a few feet from Chris’s unmoving form. Ripping her gaze away from him, she refocused on the sheriff. If she allowed herself to dwell on Chris’s stillness, Daisy knew she’d lose her ability to do anything useful.
With a hard shove, she rolled Coughlin onto his stomach. He was moving his arms slightly, and she knew she had to act fast before he was fully conscious and able to fight her. He kept his handcuff case on the left rear of his duty belt, and Daisy fumbled to remove the cuffs.
Grabbing his left hand by the thumb, she twisted it onto his back and secured the cuff around his wrist. Holding the section between the cuffs in her left fist, she reached for his other hand with her right.
Before she could grab it, he rolled, swinging his left arm and jerking the cuffs out of her hand. The open side of the restraints flew toward her face, the metal forming a dangerous hook, capable of gouging eyes or delicate flesh. Ducking, she brought up her hands to protect herself, falling hard on her shoulder. She tried to roll, but Coughlin had followed her, pinning her back to the floor.
She thrust up her arm, sending a palm-heel strike toward his nose. When he jerked back, avoiding most of the impact, Daisy took advantage of the space he’d created and flipped onto her stomach. In her head, she could hear Chris coaching her. Keep fighting, Dais. That’s the most important thing. Don’t give up.
Pulling her knees up under her, she drove her elbow into the sheriff’s ribs, taking a vicious pleasure in his grunt of pain. Without pausing, she swung back her head, feeling her skull connect with something so hard that the impact made her vision blur for a moment. Whatever she’d hit had made him yell and back off. She dragged herself free of his loosened hold and scrambled to her feet.
When she turned, the sheriff was up, as well, his eye red and already swelling. Chris’s voice rang in her head again. Don’t let up, Daisy. Keep the hits coming. She kicked out, not wanting to get close enough to land a punch. Her front kick drove him back a few steps, and then she swung her leg in a side kick, hoping to hit that same place on his thigh where she’d landed the blow on Ian.
His hand caught her ankle before she connected, and he jerked her forward. She stumbled, and the sheriff yanked again, knocking her onto her back. The air rushed out of her lungs when she hit, leaving her gasping. He followed her down, pinning her again, and then he swung.
His fist hit her face with such force that all her training disappeared. The only thing that remained was the pain and the bewildering knowledge that someone—the sheriff!—had hit her. She was used to grappling and punching bags, but none of that had prepared her for the brain-shattering reality of a true hit.
When her mind cleared and the pain faded enough for her to have a rational thought, she realized that Coughlin’s hands were around her throat. As she struggled against his hold, she stared at his face, at his normal impassive expression. The scariest part of everything was his lack of emotion. If he was about to kill her, he should at least be raging. There was nothing, though. His eyes were empty.
“This actually worked out for the best,” he said evenly as his fingers tightened around her throat. “You had to go next anyway. I hadn’t figured out how to cover up Deputy Jennings’s death, but now it can be a murder-suicide, a tragic possessive-lover kind of thing. It’s a shame. He’s a good cop. Too bad he’s so infatuated with you.”
She tried to fight, to shove him back, but his hands held her still. It was so wrong, that people would think Chris had killed her and then killed himself. Her training finally kicked in, and she grabbed his right arm with both hands in the first step toward freeing herself from his hold. The lack of air was already making her limbs clumsy and unwilling to follow her directions, and her fingers couldn’t keep their grip.
As her struggles weakened and her vision narrowed, all she could see was the sheriff’s emotionless face, and she thought of how unfair it was to be killed right after she’d finally managed to leave her house. To have a life. In a final burst of strength, she yanked at his wrists, trying to free her airway from his compressing hands. It was like his arms were made of concrete, though, and her weakening, air-starved muscles were no match for him. Her hands went limp and fell to the floor, and a gray cloud darkened her vision.
A loud boom was quickly followed by two more, and Coughlin’s face was covered in a waterfall of blood. She squeezed her eyes closed as it spattered onto her skin, right before his forehead crashed against hers. His hands had fallen away from her neck, and she sucked in air, trapped under his weight.
Then he was gone, pushed to the side, and she opened her eyes to see Chris’s face—battered and bloody and grim, but still more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen in her life. Something was running into her eyes, making them sting and water. When she touched the side of her face with her fingers, though, she winced and reconsidered any kind of contact.
“Dais.” He reached toward her with shaking hands and then pulled back, as if he was afraid of hurting her. “God, Daisy. I thought you were dead. I thought I was too late.”
“Hey, Chris.” It hurt to talk, but it also hurt to not move, so she figured she might as well say something. “You okay?”
“I’m fine.” It was an obvious lie. She just had to look at him to see that, but at least he was conscious and talking and not dead. “Where are you hurt? Is any of this your blood?”
She blinked. Her lashes felt gummy, and she didn’t know why. “What?” Raising her head, she looked down her front. Her hoodie had been light blue, but blood stained the top half, leaving it wet and sticky against her skin. If she continued to think about that, she’d throw up again, so she concentrated on Chris’s question, instead. Everything was aching and sore, but she didn’t feel anything that felt critical.
“Keep your head still,” he warned, pressing a hand on her shoulder. “Don’t move until Med checks you out.”
Lowering her head to the floor, she watched as Chris yanked out his phone and tapped the screen. As he held the cell to his ear, he let his other hand brush her cheek so, so lightly. Although she knew something was off, that she was too calm, Daisy just lay still and enjoyed the feel of his fingers on her skin as he talked to Dispatch. She realized how scared she’d been that she’d never get to experience his touch again.
