Die For Me: A Novel of the Valentine Killer (For Me #1)(52)
Author: Cynthia Eden

Yes. “Where?” Dane demanded.

“Five blocks away.”

“Five blocks?” Katherine’s voice had risen a few notches.

Dane yanked out his phone and got the captain instantly. “We’re moving.”

“Five-two-oh-seven Oakland Way,” John said. He was smiling.

Dane was too tense to smile. He wanted in that house. Wanted to bust his way inside now. But he knew the way this had to be handled. He gave the captain the address.

“Don’t move until I’m there,” Harley ordered. “I’m sending you backup. We go in right, and we take him down.”

Dane shoved the phone into his pocket. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to Katherine’s. “It’s almost over,” he promised her.

But a faint line was etched between her brows. “Five blocks? I-I thought I was safe, and he was just five blocks away.”

“Pretty soon he’s gonna be in a cage, and he won’t ever hurt anyone again.” With all of his kills, the bastard could get a needle shoved into his arm, or he could fry in the chair. Then Katherine’s nightmare would really be over.

Katherine grabbed his arm. Held tight. “Be careful.”

He always was.

She shook her head. “Don’t be cocky. Be careful. Valentine is smart, and he won’t go down without a fight.”

Good. Because Dane was more than ready for the battle.

“What are you doing, Detective? Are you trying to take my Kat away?” Valentine stared at the screen. Rewound the footage. Played it again.

The detective kept touching Kat too much. He’d thought their relationship was a ploy at first.

A way of getting to me.

But Kat looked at the detective differently. Her gaze softened when she stared at him.

And she touched the detective. Kat didn’t like to touch others. But she touched Dane Black. Far too much.

Valentine leaned forward and studied the scene once more. Something was off. He glared at the detective. The man had a past as f**ked-up as Valentine’s own. He would never do for Katherine.

And if he kept touching—

The detective was wearing latex gloves. Why? Why wear gloves if they were just running in to pack a bag for Kat?

Valentine backed away from the screen.

This scene wasn’t about getting clothes.

Dane Black had been searching for something in that house. Then he’d hauled ass out of there…because he’d found what he was looking for.

Valentine watched as the detective’s gaze darted toward the security box. There…there. Dane Black’s stare narrowed.

He’d worn the gloves so the guy wouldn’t disturb any evidence. And, while Katherine had been packing, Dane had—

He found me.

Valentine ran for the stairs.

The house was unassuming. Small and brick, nestled at the end of a narrow street. Darkness was coming, and heavy shadows stretched over the area.

From his position behind the patrol car, Dane glared at the house.

“Doesn’t look like the place a serial killer would call home, huh?” The question came from Anthony Ross. Like Dane, he stood behind the patrol car. The marshal had been one of the first responders to rush to the scene.

“It looks exactly like the place a serial killer would call home,” Marcus argued quietly from Dane’s side. “Not like they have flashing neon signs.” The profiler’s voice was tight.

“Signs would make the job a whole lot f**king easier.” Ross shifted his position and pulled out his gun.

Dane already had his gun ready. He was just waiting on the order from the captain. They had their search warrant—they had more than enough probable cause to bust through that door.

He just needed the captain to wave his hand. Come on, Harley. Come the f**k on.

Katherine was in the van to the left of Dane. After all she’d been through, the woman deserved to see them bring down Valentine. When Dane had left the van, Katherine had been quiet and tense, and he knew that she was worried.

Worried that Valentine would plan some kind of last-minute attack. And yeah, she was right. No way would Dane buy that a guy like Valentine would go down easy.

“Jail isn’t gonna be an option for him,” Marcus said, seeming to echo Dane’s thoughts. “Be prepared for anything in there.”

He would be.

Any damn thing.

Harley headed toward the men. Like Dane and the others, he was wearing a bulletproof vest. Police officers stood at the ready around them, just waiting for the signal to begin their run on the house.

As he approached, Harley stared into Dane’s eyes. “You ready for this?”

“Yes, sir.”

Harley nodded. “Then go drag that bastard out. Make New Orleans safe.”

Dane didn’t have to be told twice. He led the team toward the house. Half would follow him through the front door. Half would go with the marshal through the back.

The cops had the house surrounded. No one inside would get out.

“It’s all right,” Captain Harley said as Katherine eased from the van and stood beside him. “Those men know exactly what they are doing.”

She understood that. But knowing didn’t do anything to fight the gnawing fear growing within her. “I want it to be over.”

But…

She was afraid to hope.

Dane was at the front door now. She saw him motion to the men with him. Then he was kicking the door open. Rushing in. “He always has to be first,” she muttered.

“Dane doesn’t want anyone else to take his risks.”

But she didn’t want him risking his life.

Katherine was clutching her bag in her hand. The bag that held her gun. Being so close to Valentine, she wanted that gun out. In her hands.

Five blocks away. Nausea rolled in her stomach. Not from the remnants of the drugs, but from fear and fury. “I must have seen him,” she said. While she’d been jogging. Heading to work. “I never knew.”

“Probably because he looks different now. Just like you do.”

New hair. No tan. And she’d lost some weight. But…it would need to be more than that for him. She would remember his jaw. His eyes. His nose. If he’d been so close, why hadn’t she seen him?

The cops were inside now.

All she could do was wait.

The house was clean—almost too clean. As if no real person lived there. Magazines were neatly stacked on the coffee table. Not so much as a speck of dust on the TV tray. Books were carefully arranged—in alphabetical order—on the small shelf in a corner of the living room.