Page 3 of Cursed (Decorah Security 2.0, #14)

CHAPTER TWO

In the background, Morgan heard the sound of running feet, doors slamming, an engine roaring to life.

Tires spun on gravel as the truck in back of her made a U-turn and sped away, leaving her alone on the shoulder of the road—staring into the golden eyes of the jaguar.

Details assaulted her. The animal looked to be about two hundred pounds of spotted, muscular body, with huge paws and a black-tipped muzzle.

Once Andre Gascon had mentioned the jaguar myth, she’d researched the animals, because she was always thorough in her preparations for an assignment.

She knew that the cats were most common in Central America. But they also inhabited the southern United States. Still, no matter where they lived, they were seldom seen during the day—or at all.

As she stood facing the cat, all the stories she’d read about local residents mauled in the bayou and left for dead came bubbling to the surface of her brain.

With a start, she realized that the gun was still dangling beside her leg like a cold blob of iron. She raised the weapon now, taking it in a two-handed grip as she faced the animal.

One thing she knew, if the cat was responsible for the deaths in the bayou, she wasn’t going to be his next victim.

She thought that with one part of her mind. With another part, she decided that the animal looked too regal to be a man-killer. She didn’t know how she came to that conclusion. She only knew that laying the blame for the bayou killings on the shoulders of this beast felt wrong.

Drops of rain began to trickle onto her head and shoulders as she stood on the shoulder of the road, still as a statue, facing the jaguar.

For several moments, it continued to regard her with that unnerving intelligence.

She didn’t know what she would have done if it had come any closer.

Maybe fired a warning shot into the air.

But she didn’t have to put her nerves to the test because the animal took a step back, then another, moving slowly as though it knew that spooking a woman with an automatic pistol was a bad idea.

When the jaguar had backed away several paces, it turned and flipped its tail at her like an annoyed house cat. Then, with a mighty leap, it took off, before racing away into the darkness under the trees, lost to her sight in seconds.

She blinked and breathed out a sigh, wondering if the whole incident had been a fantasy. Then she reminded herself that she hadn’t been the only one to see the cat. The men in the baseball caps had taken off like frightened weasels.

Lowering the gun, she looked up and down the narrow blacktop ribbon. The cat had come to her rescue—like he’d known she was in trouble. But she had another problem. The whole time she’d been on this road, she hadn’t seen another vehicle—except the truck that had been following her.

Earlier, there had been no point in calling 911. By the time help arrived, the men would have done whatever they’d planned.

Now the situation was different. Climbing back into the car, she set the gun on the passenger seat and pulled her cell phone from her purse. But when she tried to make a call, she couldn’t get a connection. Either this part of Louisiana was too isolated, or the storm was interfering.

As if to bolster that theory, a bolt of lightning flashed in the clouds in front of her. Several seconds later, thunder rumbled.

So now what? The car’s brakes were weak. If she had another choice, she wouldn’t drive. But staying here was dangerous, since the guys in the truck could come back after they figured the big cat was gone.

Hopefully, she could make it to Belle Vista—then arrange to have the car towed to another gas station. Or maybe even to another town.

Andre Gascon came running through the rain from the field behind his house. Still moving fast, he made a dash for his car, dove behind the wheel and started the engine at the same time he stomped on the accelerator, then skidded down the driveway.

Morgan Kirkland should be here by now. Janet had heard from a friend in town that Morgan had stopped in St. Germaine for gas. Probably she’d let on where she was going, which was a big mistake. Because he wouldn’t put it past Bubba Arnette or one of his buddies to do something to her car.

Andre clenched his fists and cursed. He’d asked her to drive straight through from New Orleans. But he hadn’t insisted, because he hadn’t wanted to creep her out before she even got here.

If anyone had asked him how he knew she was in trouble now, he would have put it down to intuition.

But that was a lie. He knew .

And in truth, he’d been waiting for something bad to happen since this morning.

The sky looked like the inside of a coal mine. It wasn’t because night was coming. He still had time before sunset. The darkness came from the storm clouds hanging heavy over the bayou.

A few drops hit the windshield, like fingers tapping against the glass, a ghostly presence begging admittance.

His stomach had long ago tied itself in knots.

He’d snapped awake at seven in the morning, after an almost sleepless night, prepared to hear a phone call telling him that she’d changed her mind and was taking an assignment at the South Pole instead. But she hadn’t made the call.

Relief had been like a cool breeze blowing on his feverish skin.

Still, he’d kept picking up the phone and putting it down.

Finally, he’d checked in with her office on the pretext that he wanted to make sure of her arrival schedule.

In truth, her itinerary had been engraved on his memory since she’d e-mailed it to him.

Her plane had landed three hours ago. She should have been here by now. Instead, he pictured her sitting in her car in the middle of the flash flood area.

The image turned him cold all over as he sped down the plantation road and onto the highway, his hands gripping the wheel so hard the knuckles turned white.

Morgan knew she was in trouble. The rain had picked up, restricting her vision.

But when she opened the car door a crack, she could see that the sides of the ditch were even slicker than before.

Her lips set in a grim line, she tried to back up, then rock the car forward, and onto the road.

After several repetitions, all she succeeded in doing was making the tires sink farther into the mud.

“Damn!” It was raining harder now. She could huddle inside the car and keep dry. But the longer the vehicle stayed in the ditch, the less likely she was to get it out. Maybe she could put something under the wheels. Like what?

Rolling down the side window, she spotted a big patch of spiky ferns. They were worth a try.

Her face a study in resignation, she scrambled out again, this time slipping in the mud and almost dropping her gun.

Tucking it in the waistband of her skirt, she walked down the road toward the ferns, raindrops pounding her now.

She’d gotten a dozen yards from the car when she heard a roaring noise. Not the jaguar. Something much louder and more ominous. The sound was nothing like an animal would make. Instead she knew she was listening to an elemental force of nature bearing down on her.

Her head jerked up, and she looked in all directions. She couldn’t see the danger. Not yet. But she turned and started running back to the relative safety of the vehicle.

She had taken only a few steps when a wall of something plowed through the trees on the other side of the road.

It was a dark wave of water, sweeping away everything in its path, catching Morgan in its cold embrace.

With the force of a tornado, it lifted her feet off the ground. A scream tore from her throat as the current spun her around like a plastic doll and flung her into the bayou.

She screamed again as the water carried her farther from the road. She was a good swimmer, but it was impossible to do more than keep her head above the surface.

Things whipped passed her. A black snake. A plastic milk jug. A clump of vegetation. Her jacket, shoes and skirt were torn from her body as though someone had rudely yanked them away.

When she felt her shoulder hit something, her arms shot up and clamped on. It was a young tree, bowing under the force of the water.

Desperately, she clung to the trunk, even as the water tried to tear her away and send her to join the clothing that had disappeared downstream.

Rain pelted her head. The sound of the roiling water rang in her ears. She was scared. And that was a strange novelty.

For the past two years—since Trevor had died in an ambush in the middle east—she’d been afraid of nothing and no one.

She’d walked into dangerous situations like someone else walking into a bedroom.

She’d disarmed men twice her size. She’d chased a fugitive across the roofs of Baltimore townhouses—jumping a five-foot gap three stories above the ground.

She’d thought she didn’t care what happened to her.

Yet now she fought the deluge that tried to sweep her away, inching into a better position so that the tree trunk partially shielded her from the worst of the current.

As she clasped the slippery bark, she knew that something within herself had changed. She didn’t want to die.

Not here. Not like this.

Andre screeched his SUV to a halt, taking in the scene in a split second. A torrent of water poured across the road, and Morgan’s car was stuck in a ditch on the other side. Unless she was below the dashboard for some reason, she wasn’t in the car.

Merde!

Fear was a vise, squeezing the breath out of his lungs. He wanted to rage in agony and anger. Instead, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called her name as he scanned the bayou and the water. “Morgan!”