Die For Me: A Novel of the Valentine Killer (For Me #1)(55)
Author: Cynthia Eden

If she hadn’t seen Valentine with Harley…if she hadn’t fired her gun…all of those men would be dead.

Dane would be dead.

She stared back at the fire. The flames were so big and bright.

Valentine had gotten away.

One day until Valentine’s Day. Just one.

He’d gotten away, but she didn’t think he’d run far.

Valentine smiled as he gunned his vehicle and hauled ass away from the swamp. He’d long ago mapped out a perfect escape route through that swamp.

Always have an escape plan. He’d learned that valuable lesson, thanks to Kat.

So he’d been prepared, just like a good Boy Scout.

He could see the smoke drifting in the air. Hear the scream of fire trucks and more ambulances as they raced to the scene.

Katherine had been so afraid. She’d screamed, desperate to get those men and women out of the house.

There wasn’t a timer, sweetheart.

As if he’d ever risk her safety that way. He’d never let the house blow while Katherine was close to it.

He’d had the detonator. He’d run into those woods deliberately. Then, with one push of a button on his cell phone, he’d triggered the blast.

He’d learned quite a few handy tricks over the past few years. When you had to vanish, had to discover how to become someone new, it paid to learn all the deadly tricks you could.

He’d watched. Seen the detective grab Katherine and rush away with her. He’d known that would be Dane’s response, of course. Get the girl to safety. Play hero.

And he was only playing.

That bastard would pay, soon enough.

Even with his injury—sweet Kat had barely clipped him—it had been so easy to slip away in the borrowed police uniform. Now, while the cops were distracted, searching the woods that were f**king empty, he would focus on his next victim. A victim who wouldn’t even see him coming.

Valentine’s Day was almost here.

Time to celebrate.

Ready to be mine, Kat? Always…mine.

– 16 –

Ronnie turned off the lights in her office and grabbed her bag. It was edging close to nine p.m. She should have left hours before, but she’d hung around, hoping to get the tox screen back on Trent Lancaster. The guy running the report didn’t seem to understand the concept of ASAP. Captain Harley would have to get on his ass.

Her tennis shoes squeaked on the tile floor. She passed Mr. Jarvis, the night janitor, and gave him a little nod. He had his iPod playing, so he barely glanced her way.

She exhaled and hurried toward the stairs. The day had been a bitch, and she just wanted to go home, shower, and crash into bed.

Preferably with Mac. Maybe he’d sneak over and join her. Before this damn case, they’d actually had plans for a romantic Valentine’s Day getaway.

Now no one in the precinct could look at the holiday the same way.

It’s about death, not love.

She pushed open the exit door and headed for her car. The Jeep waited for her under the gleaming light of the parking lot. She always left the Jeep under the light. Occupational hazard: she saw threats everywhere. Right then, she even had a can of Mace gripped in her hand.

Because I always see the dead. Everywhere I go. After the bodies crossed her table, they haunted her. Their stories haunted her.

But as she came closer to her vehicle, she realized something was wrong. Her back tire was flat. Completely and totally flat.

Hell.

Her eyes narrowed. The shower would have to wait a while. Ronnie glanced back over her shoulder at the building. She could change the flat on her own, no problem, but she wasn’t doing it. No way was she going to huddle down there, alone in the dark, and struggle with that tire. She turned on her heel and began to march back to the building. She’d get someone to help her. Mac immediately sprang to mind. The man was very good with his hands.

Standing out there alone had a bad horror-movie ending written all over it. She reached for the door handle so she could head back inside the building.

Only the handle wasn’t turning. The damn door was locked.

Crap.

Sometimes the lock would engage automatically. She’d complained three times to maintenance about the problem. But of course they hadn’t fixed it. Maintenance had their priorities, and the back door wasn’t one of them.

Ronnie grabbed her phone. She’d call Mac. He could come and meet her and help get her tire changed. Then maybe they’d leave together and…

Something jabbed Ronnie in the neck. She screamed, more in shock than pain because she hadn’t heard anyone or anything approach.

She was falling. Her phone flew from her fingers. She tried to spray the Mace that she still gripped in her left hand, and a line of liquid shot out of the canister.

But the spray didn’t hit anyone.

She hit the ground.

Her body was quickly becoming sluggish, the muscles refusing to obey her command to get up. To move.

She opened her mouth to scream, but something sticky and rough was shoved over her lips.

Ronnie struggled to keep her eyes open. Her lids wanted to sag. She couldn’t see the light from the building any longer. Couldn’t see her Jeep.

Couldn’t see anything.

As she slumped on the hard ground, Ronnie knew exactly what was happening to her.

An injection had been sent directly into her jugular vein. Fentanyl was coursing through her system, she had no doubt.

Just like with Savannah and Amy.

She wouldn’t be able to fight her attacker.

Not when he came to drive his knife into her heart.

Dane glared at the woods around him. The dogs were behind him, silent now. They’d been barking furiously at first.

Then they’d lost Valentine’s scent.

It didn’t f**king help that the woods backed up to an old highway. Valentine would have known that, of course. Dane was sure the f**ker had planned an escape. The bomb had been in place, so, yeah, it figured he’d have a vehicle around too.

“Keep searching,” Dane ordered the dogs’ handlers, but he didn’t have much hope that they’d turn up anything that night.

The scent of smoke was in the air, and as he headed back toward the smoldering remains of the house on Oakland, Dane saw the firefighters who’d gathered at the scene.

The captain was gone—headed to the hospital, as were at least five other cops who’d been injured in the blast.

Marcus glanced up, saw Dane, and hurried toward him.

“Was this in your f**king profile?” Dane demanded.

Marcus was pale. “He’s covering his tracks. The explosion was a necessity for him, not—”