The Killing Hour Read online

  Time’s up, Kimberly. No actors here. No paint guns, no bulletproof vests. She had one last ploy.

  She counted his footsteps. Timed his approach. And then, in the next heartbeat, as he was upon her, his giant form swooping down on her own, she dropped to the ground and curled her arms protectively over her head.

  She saw the man’s face, faintly caught by the distant lights. His eyes went wide. He tried to draw up short, his arms flailing wildly. He made one last desperate move, careening left to spin around her.

  Kimberly adroitly stuck out her leg. And he went flat on his face on the ground.

  Ten seconds later, she flipped him over on his back, dropped down on his chest and placed the silver blade of her serrated hunting knife against his dark throat.

  “Who the fuck are you?” she asked.

  The man started to laugh.

  “Betsy?” Tina called nervously. No answer. “Bets?”

  Still nothing. And then it hit Tina, the second thing that was wrong. There were no other sounds. Shouldn’t she be hearing car doors opening or closing? Or even Betsy heaving as she dragged the spare to the ground? Surely there should be some noise. Other cars. Crickets. The wind in the trees.

  But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing. The night had gone completely, deathly still.

  “This isn’t funny anymore,” Tina said weakly.

  Then she heard a twig snap. And then she saw his face.

  Pale, somber, maybe even gentle above the black collar of his turtleneck. How in the world could someone wear a turtleneck in this heat? Tina thought.

  Then, he hefted up the rifle and leveled it against his shoulder.

  Tina stopped thinking. She bolted for the trees.

  “Stop laughing. Why are you laughing? Hey, stop!”

  The man laughed harder, a steady ripple of spasms moving down his large frame and tossing her from side to side as easily as if she were a small boat caught in a rough wake. “Toppled by a woman,” he gasped with an unmistakable Southern accent. “Oh, please, honey . . . don’t tell my sister.”

  His sister? What the hell?

  “All right. That’s it. Move one more muscle and I will slit your throat.” Kimberly must’ve sounded more impressive this time. The man finally stopped laughing. That was better. “Name?” she asked crisply.

  “Special Agent Michael McCormack. But you can call me Mac.”

  Kimberly’s eyes widened. She had a sudden bad feeling. “FBI?” she whispered. Oh no, she’d taken out a fellow agent. Probably her future boss. She wondered who would make the call to her father. “You know, Quincy old fellow, you were a star among stars here at the Bureau; but I’m afraid your daughter is just too, er, freaky for us.”

  “Georgia Bureau of Investigation,” the man drawled. “State police. We’ve always had a soft spot for the Bureau, though, so we stole your titles.”

  “You little—” She was so angry she couldn’t think of a word. She whacked his shoulder with her left hand, then remembered, oh yeah, she had a knife. “You’re with the National Academy,” she accused him, in the same tone of voice others used for addressing vermin.

  “And you’re a new agent . . . obviously.”

  “Hey, I still have a knife at your throat, mister!”

  “I know.” He frowned at her, his easy tone throwing her for another loop. Was it her imagination, or had he just shifted to get more comfortable beneath her? “Why are you carrying a knife?”

  “They took away my Glock,” she said without thinking.

  “Of course.” He nodded as if she were a very wise person, instead of a highly paranoid aspiring federal agent. “If I might ask a personal question, ma’am. Umm, where do you hide the blade?”

  “I beg your pardon!” She could definitely feel his gaze on her body now, and she immediately blushed. It was hot. She’d been working out . . . So the nylon shorts and thin blue T-shirt didn’t cover much. She was training after hours, for God’s sake, not preparing for an interview. Besides, it was amazing the things you could strap to the inside of your thigh.

  “Why did you chase me?” she demanded, pressing the tip of her knife deeper against his throat.

  “Why did you run?”

  She scowled, pursed her lips, then tried another tack. “What are you doing out here?”

  “Saw the light. Thought I’d better investigate.”

  “Ah ha! So I’m not the only one who’s paranoid.”

  “That’s true, ma’am. It would appear that we’re both equally paranoid. I can’t stand the heat. What’s your story?”

  “I don’t have a story!”

  “Fair enough. You’re the one with the knife after all.”

  He fell silent and seemed to be waiting for her to do something. Which was an interesting point. What was she going to do now? New Agent Kimberly Quincy has just made her first apprehension. Unfortunately, he was a fellow law enforcement officer whose title was already bigger than hers.

  Damn. Double damn. God, she was tired.

  All at once, the last of the adrenaline left her, and her body, pushed too hard too fast, simply collapsed. She slid off the man’s chest and let her aching limbs sprawl in the relative comfort of the thick green grass.

  “Long day?” Southern Boy asked, making no effort to get up.

  “Long life,” Kimberly replied flatly, then promptly wished she hadn’t.

  Super Cop didn’t say anything more, though. He tucked his hands beneath his head and appeared to be studying the sky. Kimberly followed his gaze and for the first time noticed the clear night sky, the sea of tiny, crystal stars. It was a beautiful night, really. Other girls her age probably went for walks during nights like this. Held hands with their boyfriends. Giggled when the guy tried to steal a kiss.

  Kimberly couldn’t even imagine that sort of life. All she’d ever wanted was this.

  She turned her head toward her companion, who seemed content with the silence. Upon closer inspection, he was a big guy. Not as big as some of the ex-Marines in her class, but he was over six feet tall and obviously very active. Dark hair, bronzed skin, very fit. She’d done good to take him out. She was proud of herself.

  “You scared the shit out of me,” she said at last.

  “That was uncalled-for,” he agreed.

  “You shouldn’t skulk around at night.”

  “Damn straight.”

  “How long have you been in the program?”

  “Arrived in June. You?”

  “Week nine. Seven to go.”

  “You’ll do fine,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “You outran me, didn’t you? And trust me, honey, most of the beautiful women I’ve chased haven’t gotten away.”

  “You are so full of shit!” she told him crossly.

  He just laughed again. The sound was deep and rumbly, like a jungle cat’s purr. She decided she didn’t like Special Agent McCormack very much. She should move, get away from him. Her body hurt too much. She went back to gazing at the stars.

  “It’s hot out,” she said.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You said you didn’t like the heat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He waited a heartbeat, then turned his head. “Heat kills,” he said, and it took her another moment to realize that he was finally serious.

  Tree branches scratched at her face. Shrubs grabbed her ankles, while the tall grass tangled around her sandals and tried to pull her down. Tina pressed forward, panting hard, heart in her throat, as she careened from tree to tree and tried frantically to get one foot in front of the other.

  He wasn’t running behind her. She heard no stampede of footsteps or angry commands to halt. He was quieter than that. Stealthier. And that frightened her far more.

  Where was she going? She didn’t know. Why was he after her? She was too afraid to find out. What had happened to Betsy? The thought filled her with pain.

  And the air was hot, searing her throat. And the air was wet, burning her l
ungs. And it was late, and she’d run away from the road, instinctively heading downhill, and now she realized her mistake. There would be no savior for her down in these deep dark shadows. There would be no safety.

  Maybe if she could get far enough ahead. She was fit. She could find a tree, climb high above his head. She could find a ravine, duck low and curl up so small and tight he’d never see her. She could find a vine, and soar away like Tarzan in the animated Disney movie. She would like to be in a movie now. She would like to be anywhere but here.

  The log came out of nowhere. A dead tree probably felled by lightning decades ago. She connected first with her shin, couldn’t bite back her sharp cry of pain, and went toppling down the other side. Her palms scraped savagely across a thorny shrub. Then her shoulder hit the rock-hard ground and her breath was knocked from her body.

  The faint crackle of twigs behind her. Calm. Controlled. Contained.

  Is this how death comes? Slowly walking through the woods?

  Tina’s shin throbbed. Her lungs refused to inhale. She staggered to her feet anyway and tried one more step.

  A faint whistle through the dark. A short stabbing pain. She looked down and spotted the feathery dart now protruding from her left thigh. What the . . .

  She tried to take a step. Her mind commanded her body, screamed with primal urgency: Run, run, run! Her legs buckled. She went down in the knee-high grass as a strange, fluid warmth filled her veins and her muscles simply surrendered.

  The panic was receding from her consciousness. Her heart slowed. Her lungs finally unlocked, giving easily into that next soft breath. Her body started to float, the woods spinning away.

  Drugs, she thought. Doomed. And then even that thought wafted out of her reach.

  Footsteps, coming closer. Her last image, his face, gazing down at her patiently.

  “Please,” Tina murmured thickly, her hands curling instinctively around her belly. “Please . . . Don’t hurt me . . . I’m pregnant.”

  The man simply hefted her unconscious form over his shoulder and carried her away.

  Nora Ray Watts had a dream. In her dream it was blue and pink and purple. In her dream the air felt like velvet and she could spin around and around and still see the bright pinpricks of stars. In her dream, she was laughing and her dog Mumphry danced around her feet and even her worn-out parents finally wore a smile.

  The only thing missing, of course, was her sister.

  Then a door opened. Yawned black and gaping. It beckoned her toward it, drew her in. Nora Ray walked toward it, unafraid. She had taken this door before. Sometimes she fell asleep these days just so she could find it again.

  Nora Ray stepped inside the shadowy depths——

  And in the next instant, she was jerked awake. Her mother stood over her in the darkened room, her hand on her shoulder.

  “You were dreaming,” her mother said.

  “I saw Mary Lynn,” Nora Ray countered sleepily. “I think she has a friend.”

  “Shhh,” her mother told her. “Let her go, baby. It’s only the heat.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Quantico, Virginia

  7:03 A.M.

  Temperature: 83 degrees

  “GET OUT OF BED.”

  “No.”

  “Get out of bed!”

  “No.”

  “Kimberly, it’s seven o’clock. Get up!”

  “Can’t make me.”

  The voice finally disappeared. Thank God. Kimberly sank blissfully back down into the desperately needed blackness. Then . . . a bolt of ice-cold water slapped across her face. Kimberly jerked upright in the bed, gasping for breath as she frantically wiped the deluge from her eyes.

  Lucy stood beside her, holding an empty water pitcher, and looking unrepentant. “I have a five-year-old son,” she said. “Don’t mess with me.”

  Kimberly’s gaze had just fallen on the bedside clock. Seven-ten A.M.

  “Aaaagh!” she yelped. She jumped out of bed and looked wildly around the room. She was supposed to be . . . supposed to do . . . Okay, get dressed. She bolted for the closet.

  “Late night?” Lucy asked with a raised brow as she trailed behind Kimberly. “Let me guess. Physical training or firearms training or both?”

  “Both.” Kimberly found her khaki pants, tore them on, then remembered she was supposed to report to the PT course first thing this morning, and ripped off her khakis in favor of a fresh pair of blue nylon shorts.

  “Nice bruises,” Lucy commented. “Want to see the one on my ass? Seriously, I look like a side of beef. I used to be a trial lawyer, you know. I swear I once drove something called a Mercedes.”

  “I thought that’s what drug dealers had.” Kimberly found her T-shirt, yanked it on while walking into the bathroom, then made the mistake of looking in the mirror. Oh God. Her eyes looked like they’d collapsed into sunken pits.

  “I spoke to my son last night,” Lucy was saying behind her. “Kid’s telling everyone I’m learning to shoot people—but only the bad ones.”

  “That’s sweet.”

  “You think?”

  “Absolutely.” Kimberly found the toothpaste, brushed furiously, spit, rinsed, then made the mistake of looking in the mirror a second time, and fled the bathroom.

  “You look like hell,” Lucy said cheerfully. “Is that your strategy? You’re going to scare the bad guys into surrendering with your looks?”

  “Remember which one of us is better with a gun,” Kimberly muttered.

  “Yeah, and remember which one of us is better with a pitcher of water!” Lucy brandished her weapon triumphantly, then, with a final glance at the clock, replaced the pitcher on top of her desk and headed for the door. Then she paused. “Seriously, Kimberly, maybe you should curtail the midnight sessions for a bit. You have to be conscious to graduate.”

  “Have fun shooting,” Kimberly called after her exiting roommate while frantically lacing her sneakers. Lucy was gone. And in another second, Kimberly was also out the door.

  Kimberly was a lucky girl after all. She could pinpoint the exact moment when her whole career fell apart. It happened at eight twenty-three A.M. That morning. At the FBI Academy. With only seven weeks to go.

  She was tired, disoriented from too little sleep and a strange midnight chase with a Georgia special agent. She’d been pushing herself too hard. Maybe she should’ve listened to Lucy after all.

  She thought about it a lot. Later, of course. After they’d taken away the body.

  Things started out fine enough. PT training wasn’t so hard. Eight A.M., they did some pushups, then some sit-ups. Then the good old jumping jacks everyone learns in grade school. They looked like a sea of blue-clad kids. All obediently standing in line. All obediently going through the motions.

  Then they were sent out to run three miles, using the same course Kimberly had jogged just last night.

  The PT course started in the woods. Not a difficult path. Hell, it was paved. That would be one hint of where to go. The signs were another hint. Run! Suck it in! Love it! Endure.

  They started as a herd, then gradually thinned out as people found their individual paces. Kimberly had never been the fastest in her class. She generally wasn’t the slowest either.

  Except this morning. This morning she almost immediately fell behind.

  Vaguely, she was aware of her classmates pulling ahead. Vaguely, she was aware of her own labored breathing as she struggled to keep up. Her left side ached. Her feet were sluggish. She stared down at the blacktop, willing one foot to land in front of the other.

  She didn’t feel well. The world tilted dangerously, and she thought for a moment that she was honestly going to faint. She just made it off the path and grabbed a tree for support.

  God, her side hurt, the muscle stitched so tight it felt as if it had a vise-grip on her lungs. And the damn air was so hot already, filled with so much humidity that no matter how many times she inhaled, she couldn’t get enough oxygen.

  She headed deep
er into the woods, desperately seeking shade. Green trees whirled sickeningly, while goose bumps suddenly burst out across her arms. She started shivering uncontrollably.

  Dehydration or heat sickness, she thought idly. Is that good enough for you yet, Kimberly, or would you like to take this self-destructive streak a step further?

  The woods spun faster. A faint roaring filled her ears while black dots spotted in front of her eyes. Breathe, Kimberly. Come on, honey, breathe.

  She couldn’t do it. Her side wouldn’t unlock. She couldn’t draw a breath. She was going to pass out in the woods. She was going to collapse onto this hard, leaf-strewn ground and all she wanted was for the dirt to feel cool against her face.

  And then the thoughts rushed her all at once.

  Last night, and the genuine terror that had seized her by the throat when she’d seen a strange man standing beside her. She had thought . . . What? That it was her turn? That death had come for every other woman in her family? That she’d barely escaped six years ago, but that didn’t mean death was done with her yet?

  She thought that she spent too much time with crime-scene photos, and though she would never tell anyone, sometimes she saw the pictures move. Her own face appeared on those lifeless bodies. Her own head topped shattered torsos and bloodied limbs.

  And sometimes she had nightmares where she saw her own death, except she never woke up the moment before dying, the way sane people did. No, she dreamt it all the way through, feeling her body plummet over the cliff and smash into the rocks below. Feeling her head slam through the windshield of the shattered car.

  And never once in her dreams did she scream. She only thought, finally.

  She couldn’t breathe. More black dots danced in front of her vision. She grabbed another tree limb, and hung on tight. How had the air gotten this hot? What had happened to all the oxygen?

  And then, in the last sane corner of her mind, it came to her. She was having an anxiety attack. Her body had officially bottomed out, and now she was having an anxiety attack, her first in six years.