Page 51 of Beyond Her Reach (Bree Taggert #10)

The rain intensified, pouring through the forest, soaking Bree’s hat and dripping down her back. The woods seemed to get even darker—and colder. Bree shivered.

She pictured the blood on Claudia’s garage floor. Was she injured? Was she even still alive? The temperature would continue to drop throughout the night. Was Claudia somewhere warm or out in the elements? Hypothermia could set in quickly on a wet, frigid night.

Greta barked. A shot rang out ahead. A bullet slammed into a tree next to Bree.

Bits of bark exploded. She rolled behind a fallen tree.

Next to her, Zucco and Juarez dropped to the ground.

Collins stumbled and fell. She dropped her flashlight and Greta’s leash.

The dog—still on the scent—bolted into the trees.

Her black coat vanished into the darkness.

Collins cupped her hands around her mouth and yelled out a recall command in German, but the dog didn’t return. Had the rain drowned out the command? A female scream split the wet air.

More shrieking, then a gunshot. Collins levered to her feet and ran toward the sound. Bree lunged forward and followed.

“Circling around,” Juarez said in her earpiece. “Don’t shoot me.”

In her peripheral vision, Bree saw Zucco follow him to the right.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Bree heard Elaine Gibson shout, her voice panicked.

Collins and Bree surged forward. Jogging had been hard enough, but the full-out sprint challenged Bree’s wind. She struggled to suck in oxygen through her swollen nasal passages. Her lungs heaved. Lack of oxygen made her lightheaded. She kept her legs pumping through sheer force of will.

“There!” Collins said and veered to the right.

Bree shined her gun light onto two shifting shadows. Greta had Elaine by the calf. The dog’s head shook back and forth as she tried to drag the suspect backward, to Collins, to her handler. Her black coat rendered her nearly invisible against the dark forest floor.

“Shoot it!” Elaine was shrieking now, her voice high with pain and fear.

Bree arced her light in a semicircle.

Ten feet away, Marina Maxwell held a handgun, pointing in the direction of Elaine and the dog. “I can’t. I can’t see. I’ll shoot you. I’m not that good.”

Marina? Where’s Harrison?

“You’re useless!” Elaine’s flailing hands closed on a stick lying on the ground. Grabbing it, she swung it at the dog, striking her in the side. The dog didn’t react at all.

Bree pointed her weapon at Marina. “Drop the gun, Marina!”

Instead, Marina pivoted, the gun’s barrel swinging toward Bree.

Before she could squeeze the trigger, a gunshot sounded.

Bree flinched, then froze, waiting for the bullet to strike her, for the searing pain of the gunshot.

Nothing? No pain. She looked down at her torso. No red blotch. No holes. Did she miss?

Someone gasped. Bree’s head snapped up.

Marina’s mouth gaped. Her eyes widened with horror and pain. She dropped to her knees, revealing Zucco standing behind her, weapon raised. The gunshot Bree had heard was Zucco shooting Marina. Juarez skirted around her, kicked Marina’s gun away, and handcuffed her.

Greta resisted Collins’s command to release, and the handler had to drag the K-9 off Elaine. Bree moved forward while Collins praised her dog. Bree reached for the cuffs on her belt. She stomped toward Elaine. “Don’t move.”

“You won’t take me to jail,” Elaine snapped. She rolled sideways, pulled a knife from her coat pocket, and slashed her own throat. Blood gushed.

Fuuuuck.

Bree wanted Elaine to be held accountable and for the families of the victims to have answers and closure.

Death was too easy. She rushed forward and kicked the knife to a safe distance.

Juarez turned away from Marina and shined a light on Elaine.

Bree dropped to her knees and tried to stem the flow of blood with both hands.

It wasn’t going to work. She needed a towel or something.

The corner of Elaine’s mouth curled upward in a satisfied gotcha sneer.

“Oh, no. You’re not going to die on me,” Bree said. Elaine was wearing a scarf. Bree removed it and used it to stanch the blood flow. She applied pressure. “Give me more light.”

Juarez changed the angle, highlighting the wound.

Elaine’s face contorted in an angry snarl. She writhed, trying to evade Bree’s hands on her neck.

Bree leaned on her hands, increasing the pressure. “Where is Claudia?”

“You’ll never find her,” Elaine whispered.

“She’s going to die.” She choked, then mouthed, “Fuck you” before her eyes rolled backward and she lost consciousness.

She was still alive, though. For a brief second, Bree contemplated not trying so hard to save her life.

Bree had killed bad people before in the line of duty.

Their deaths didn’t keep her up at night, something she wasn’t proud of.

In fact, her lack of guilt often disturbed her.

But this was different. If she let Elaine die, it wouldn’t be an act of self-defense.

It would be a choice. She’d be issuing judgment, which wasn’t her job.

Apparently, she had lines she couldn’t cross. Good to know.

“Cuff her while I keep pressure on this wound,” she called to Juarez. “Is everyone Ok ? How is Greta?”

“The dog seems fine,” Collins said, relief in her voice. A repetitive high-pitched squeaking noise indicated Collins had rewarded the dog with the stuffed hedgehog toy she loved. “Maybe a little sore on one side. Her armor protected most of her.”

“Marina?” Bree asked.

“Shot in the upper arm,” Zucco yelled. “Putting pressure on it. I have a tourniquet on my duty belt. I’ll secure it.”

Juarez handcuffed Elaine and searched her pockets.

“Is Marina conscious?” Bree asked.

“Yes,” Zucco said.

“Marina, where’s Claudia?” Bree yelled.

Marina didn’t respond.

Bree shouted, “Where’s Harrison?”

Still, Marina refused to answer.

Bree cursed, then updated dispatch and requested aid. What a fucking mess. Was Harrison still out there? Armed?

Where is Claudia?

“Juarez, take over here.” Bree moved aside as his hands replaced hers.

He’d pulled latex gloves from his duty belt.

Bree hadn’t had time. Her fingers were coated with Elaine’s blood.

But the flow coming from the wound seemed to be lessening.

The scarf wasn’t completely saturated. She didn’t see any gushing or spurts of blood that would indicate an arterial spray.

“Help is on the way,” Bree said. “I’m going back. Collins, is Greta good to work?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Collins responded. “She won’t quit.”

Juarez nodded. “Zucco and I can handle things here.”

“I know you can.” Bree stood, wiping her hands on her pants. “Collins, let’s go. We have a victim to find.”