to check in with them. If he didn’t, his boss, Chance Miller, would want to know why he hadn’t. As a member of the hostage-rescue team, Dallas had an obligation to follow protocol. Even when he wasn’t on duty.
“Sometimes we don’t get what we want,” Carly panted. “Sometimes we get what we don’t want. Zane is Josh’s son. He’s your nephew. And he needs me. I have to go home.”
“You left him alone?”
“Of course not! He’s only six!”
“There are plenty of people who leave kids younger than that at home alone.”
“I’m not one of them. He’s with my friend, and... I’m worried.” They’d reached the end of the dirt path and pounded onto a paved one, their steps in sync, their breathing almost synchronized, her gasping breaths matching his steadier ones almost perfectly.
She was obviously a long-distance runner, but he doubted she was a sprinter. She was slowing, the speed zapping her energy. He slowed with her, his body humming with adrenaline as he scanned the woods to either side, looking for a glint of metal, a subtle movement. The perp would be a fool to stick around when the police were so close, but people were often willing to be fools if the cause was important enough, what they stood to gain big enough.
“You’re worried about the guy with the gun,” he said.
She nodded but didn’t speak, every bit of her energy pouring into muscles that he could see trembling.
She was done, but she’d keep going. Whatever was driving her—her son, her fear, her need to escape Dallas—forced her to continue. He grabbed her arm again. Gently, because his adoptive father, Timothy Morgan, had taught him how real men were supposed to treat women. It had taken him a couple of years to learn the lesson, to understand that true strength lay in gentleness, calmness, kindness. Once he’d learned it, he hadn’t forgotten. Sometimes, though...sometimes he reverted to the troubled inner-city kid who’d walked into the Morgans’ suburban home carrying nothing but a plastic bag filled with old clothes.
She jerked away, stumbling as she accidentally stepped off the pavement and onto icy grass.
“Stop,” he said as gently as he’d grabbed her arm. His work gave him plenty of practice calming frantic people. He’d dealt with parents who’d lost kids, spouses who’d lost partners, people desperate to find friends, neighbors, lovers. He knew how to keep his voice steady and his approach soft.
“I can’t,” she said, her voice breaking. There were no tears in her eyes or on her cheeks, but she was on the verge of losing it.
“Eventually, you’ll have to.”
“Not until I’m home.”
“What’s your address?” he asked, studying her face, trying to find some hint of who she was, what she really wanted. All he saw was a woman who shouldn’t have been his brother’s widow. She was too young, too tired, too skinny. Too desperate. Josh’s widow should have been full figured, smiling, made-up and fake. She wouldn’t have had a care in the world, and she sure as anything wouldn’t have had a son.
“I told you, I made a mistake contacting you,” she panted.
“I’m sure you remember my response.”
“I don’t have time to play games, Dallas.”
“Neither do I. You said you needed my help. I plan to give it.”
She shrugged, rattling off an address in DC. He knew the neighborhood. It was part of a revitalization project designed to beautify the city. Not far from HEART, and filled with young professionals who loved the hustle and bustle of city life, young families who enjoyed the community vibe, older men and women who were on their own and loving it. It was the kind of neighborhood he and Lila had planned to live in until they’d found out she was pregnant. Then they’d chosen a cute house in the suburbs halfway between his parents and hers. They’d decorated the nursery yellow because Lila hadn’t wanted to know the gender of the babies. He tried not to think about that or about the way she’d looked when she’d picked him up from the airport that last night—her belly softly rounded and pressing against the pink sweater she wore. She’d been six months pregnant and glowing with it. He’d told her that she’d never looked more beautiful.
He released Carly’s arm, pulled out his cell phone and sent a text to his boss, shoving aside all the old memories and focusing on the present. That was how he’d survived the first year, and it was how he continued to survive.
The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away.
Only Dallas hadn’t been ready to let Him take anything, and he’d spent most of the past few years trying to get over the anger and bitterness the loss had caused.
Chance replied to his text, promising to send someone over to Carly’s place to keep an eye on things. He also asked for an explanation.
Later was all Dallas offered. Something was going on. Something that was putting a six-year-old kid in danger. He wanted to find out what, and he wanted to know exactly how Carly had gotten involved in it. Maybe she was an innocent bystander who’d been pulled into something, or maybe she was responsible for the trouble she’d found herself in.
Either way, he planned to keep the kid safe.
If there was a kid.
He slid the phone back in his pocket, made certain his Glock was hidden beneath his jacket and reached for Carly’s arm again.
She sidestepped him. “Who were you texting?”
“My boss.”
“Why?”
“He’ll send someone to your place. We need to speak with the police.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“They threatened to take my son,” she said, so quietly he almost didn’t hear.
“The police?”
“No.”
“Then who?” He knew he sounded impatient—because he felt impatient. He didn’t play games, didn’t keep secrets. He was a straight shooter and honest, almost to a fault.
“If I knew that, I’d have called the police the first time I was contacted.” She started moving again. In the wrong direction. Heading for her vehicle, he assumed.
“We need to talk to the police,” he repeated, not following her, because he knew she wouldn’t go far. She needed his help more than she probably needed just about anything. She’d admitted as much when she’d given him her address.
She made it about a hundred feet before she stopped, turning around to face him, her dark ponytail swinging in a wide arc as she moved. “If they find out I’ve gone to the police, they’ll take my son. I’ll never see him again.”
“Is that what they told you?”
“Yes.”
“They’ll have to get through some very well-trained people to get to him, Carly. Come on.” He held out his hand and was surprised when she moved toward him. “We’ll talk to the police, and then I’ll bring you home.”
“I can bring myself home,” she muttered, but she’d reached his side, her eyes vibrant green against her tan skin. He could see that clearly now. Just like he could see that her running vest was navy blue rather than black. The world was waking, the sun bringing color to life—light brown grass, gray-black pavement, and the dark brown freckles on Carly’s cheeks, threads of red and gold in her dark hair. She tucked a loose strand back into her ponytail holder, white scars crisscrossing a couple of her knuckles, her fingernails short and chipped. She worked with her hands, he’d guess, but he wasn’t sure what kind of manual labor would afford her a place in a posh neighborhood in DC.
“What’s your friend’s name?” he asked, wondering