Never Die Alone

Until he captured Zoe.

Then there would be no reason to hesitate.

The ritual would be quick. Orderly. Complete.

Thinking ahead, pressing through the deep woods, he licked his lips in anticipation of ru

What satisfaction that would bring.

He couldn’t wait.

The trees thi

“Gotcha,” he said, knowing that the dog had flushed Zoe out of the forest.

Perfect.

It was just a matter of time before he reached her, and he was going to savor every sweet second of his revenge. She looked frantic, hobbling feverishly. The dog barked again and she glanced over her shoulder, only to turn and try to run in the opposite direction.

As if she had an escape route.

As if she actually thought she could get away.

And then he heard it.

The distinctive hum of traffic.

What?

Heart pounding, he focused on the space between Zoe and the horizon, and spied a pickup truck traveling beyond the fence line. And after the truck came two cars. And a semi heading the opposite direction.

“Fuck!” he swore, the sound a rattling rasp. He sprang into action, ru

He was go

But if he didn’t reach her before she flagged down the driver of a passing vehicle?

Oh, shit!

Myra would be beyond pissed.

Adrenaline firing his blood, he shot across the brush-covered land. His legs pumped as each breath was drawn in and expelled through his bruised windpipe. Faster! Faster! He’d been an athlete in school, a hunter afterward, and could run miles without difficulty. But it was hard to run in hunting boots, packing a gun and being beaten as he had been. Still, he should be able to overtake a wounded girl.

Pushing his muscles, pumping his arms, he focused on Zoe, ignored the pain, and ran flat out.

He’d make it.

He’d stop that little bitch.

Or, damn it, he’d die trying.

Selma De

“No, no, we’re just here to ask a few questions,” Bentz assured the distraught woman.

At that point, she let the detectives into her home. Sitting on a floral rocker by the window, the woman chain-smoked while she answered questions about the twins. Most of the information confirmed what Bentz had already learned from Bria

Bentz got it. He’d been in her position when his Kristi had been abducted years earlier.

“I just want them back,” Selma whispered, crushing out her third or fourth cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

“We’re doing all we can.”

She stared into space, unblinking, her mind somewhere else.

“Do you mind if we have a look at their car?” Bentz asked. She nodded numbly, but didn’t move from her chair. Instead, she reached for her half-empty pack of cigarettes on the table where her phone and the ashtray sat. “I mean, now,” Bentz clarified.

“What?” Her hand paused midair. “Oh, yes . . . sorry. It’s out back in the lot. One of the visitor’s spots.”

“We’ll probably have it towed to the garage,” Montoya said.

“Oh . . . but if the girls return . . .” Her voice faded. “Sorry. Certainly. I’ll get the keys.” She retrieved a set of keys and then led them outside to a lot that was surrounded by low-growing shrubs. Roughly half of the spots were taken by vehicles. “The manager will be glad if you do take it. I’m . . . I’m, um, not supposed to have any extra cars here for longer than, I don’t know, five hours or so. But the manager, Stan, he’s cutting me a break. You know, because of the situation.” Her voice caught and she cleared her throat, then pointed out a fifteen-year-old Toyota. Selma De

They found nothing out of the ordinary. A pair of sunglasses along with the registration and car owner’s manual in the glove box. A phone charger, pack of gum, and mess of tissues and gas receipts in the console. A warm, half-drunk soda in the cup holder. Gum wrappers and half a dozen French fries under the front seats. In the back, two jackets, a collapsible umbrella, and some trashy magazines were tossed over the faded seat. Montoya checked the pockets of the two jackets and found lip balm, a bracelet, and a ticket stub from a movie dated six months earlier.

Nothing that looked as if it belonged to anyone but the twins.

A total bust.

Still, they called to have the car towed, just in case. Leaving Selma with their cards, the detectives headed across town to a two-storied home built at the turn of the previous century.

As he searched for a parking spot, Montoya’s cell phone rang from its spot in the empty cup holder. He picked it up, saw the caller ID, and clicked the cell off. “Speaking of my family. Second call I got today. They’re all thinking I should be hunting for Cruz,” Montoya said as he slowed for a red light, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. Cruz was Montoya’s brother, a bad ass who had recently lost his Harley to a fleeing nun. The desperate woman had stolen it, and Cruz had taken off after her. “No one’s heard from him, can’t reach him, so they all have decided that I, as the one cop in the family, should drop everything and chase him down.”

Bentz smothered a smile. Montoya’s tight-knit family was always bothering him in one way or another. “Did you tell them you’ve got other things to occupy your time?”

“Like a full-time job nailing bad guys, as well as dealing with a wife and kid? Even though Abby’s on hiatus from her photography for a while, she still expects me to be home and spell her with Ben and, you know, she needs a break. Geez, he’s only three months and hasn’t figured out sleeping through the night yet. We’re all sleep deprived.” He snorted and frowned, brackets lining his mouth. “So someone else in the family can go looking for Cruz. He’s a big boy anyway, a grown man.” Frowning at the traffic on the street, he finally found a parking spot close to a fire hydrant. “It’s okay, right?” he asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. “We’re cops. The good guys.”

“If you’re willing to risk a ticket.”

“From someone on the force? Bah. Look, if I get one from some meter maid who doesn’t know the drill, I’ll fight it. Like I said, ‘We’re the good guys.’” He was already out of the car and locking up. They made their way under an arbor and through a garden of exotic tropical plants to a two-storied front porch that ran the width of the building and was decorated in finely detailed wrought iron.

They were met at the front door by a pretty if harried-looking woman who seemed a little nervous when they introduced themselves. Erin De