Take the Key and Lock Her Up (2 page)

Don’t panic. Use your training. You don’t have a partner to lean on this time. You
have to do this.

She inched forward again and collided with a wall, banging her forehead against the
concrete block. She let out a low curse before she could stop herself. She tensed,
listening, waiting, praying that the suspect hadn’t heard her.

Her pulse raced so hard she could hear each thump of her heartbeat rushing through
her ears. When no one leaped out at her from the dark, she edged to her right, following
the wall until she turned a corner. The darkness gave way to blessed light. A row
of short, rectangular windows ran along the top of the wall, illuminating a long,
narrow corridor.

Her fear of what lay behind her in the dark trumped her fear of what might lie ahead.
She hurried forward. Half a dozen doors were built into the wall on her right at regular
intervals. Each of them was solid, except for a small, square glass inset near the
top. She pressed her back against the wall between two of the doors, clutching her
gun.

She tried to open the door closest to her. Locked. She turned, stood on her tiptoes,
barely able to reach the bottom of the glass window in the door. Peering inside was
as useless as staring down into a dark well. Continuing down the row of doors, she
tried each knob. All locked, until she reached the last one. The knob turned easily
in her hand. Determined not to give herself time to think—and freeze—she clutched
her gun and ran inside.

As her eyes adjusted to the meager light from the hallway that filtered in, she inventoried
the room. Approximately nine by nine, it was empty, except for a cot against the far
wall. And there, huddled on that cot with a blanket thrown over her, was a woman.
She lay facing away from Emily, her long brown hair draped over her shoulders.

Virginia Hawley.

Emily took a quick glance behind her and hurried forward, crouching down beside the
cot.

“Mrs. Hawley,” she whispered. “I’m Detective O’Malley. I’m here to help you.”

No response.

When she gently touched the woman’s shoulder, what should have been warm flesh was
soft and cool, without the resistance she’d expected. Emily frowned and pulled the
blanket back. Her breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t touched a shoulder. The
blanket had been covering a pillow. But that wasn’t all it had covered.

Bile rose in her throat at the sour, musty smell of the blanket and cot. Lying on
the cot beside the pillow was a pile of bones. What had once been connected with muscles
and flesh had nothing left to hold them together, nothing to indicate whether the
person they’d once belonged to had been young or old, male or female.

Except for the long dark hair.

Fighting down nausea, Emily forced herself to lean over the pillow to look at the
woman’s face. As she’d expected from the condition of the rest of the corpse, there
was nothing to see except a grinning skull. The hair draped across the pillow appeared
to be human, but it was attached to the skull with some kind of cord. This poor woman
had decomposed a long time ago. She wasn’t Virginia Hawley.

The realization of what Emily had stumbled into hit her like a hurricane, sweeping
away her caution and what was left of her courage. The long row of doors. The damp,
rotten smell that filled the air. The skeleton on the cot in front of her. This wasn’t
a basement. It was a prison. How many victims were down here? How many were in the
other rooms, the other cells? And where was Mrs. Hawley?

Coming in here without backup had been a mistake, a potentially
fatal
mistake. She had to get out.
Now
. She lunged to her feet. A faint shuffling noise sounded behind her. She whirled
around just as the door slammed shut.

Chapter Two

F
EAR MADE IT
seem like hours had passed since Emily had been locked in the cell. But the display
on her phone told her it had been only fifteen minutes. The thick maze of concrete
walls blocked signals from getting in or out, so the phone was essentially useless
except for the LED light. She’d used that to examine the corpse, finding several pieces
of jewelry lying among the bones. A gold wedding ring. A mother’s ring, with a diamond
in the middle, surrounded by five birthstones. Next to that was an engraved silver
bracelet with a little round charm for each of the five children.

Worried that the light from her phone might attract the suspect’s attention, Emily
had used it for only a short time before putting it away. The only light now was from
the thick square of glass high up in the door, but it barely penetrated the gloom.

What was taking her backup so long? She leaned against the wall by the door, gun drawn.
Should she risk shooting the lock in the door? Would that break the lock or just jam
it?

A dull thud echoed in the cell, startling her. Someone was rapping on the door. Tuck?
Jones? She edged out from the wall to take a look.

A man stood peering through the glass inset. She jerked back even though she doubted
he could see her in the dark. All
she’d
been able to see of
him
was that he was tall and had close-cropped raven-black hair, like the suspect. He
definitely wasn’t blond-haired Tuck or vertically challenged Jones. He must be the
man who’d taken Hawley.

Was Hawley with him? Emily hoped not. If she was forced to shoot, she didn’t want
to have to worry about him using the victim as a human shield. Several minutes ticked
by in silence. Had he left? Or was he still there, waiting, toying with her? She bit
her bottom lip to keep her teeth from chattering and tightened her hands around her
gun.

Ping.
A muffled, metallic sound filtered through the door.
Ping.
Her finger jumped on the trigger, nearly firing her Glock. She forced herself to
ease the pressure and focus on the noise.
Ping.
What was he doing out there?

A loud thump vibrated through the wall behind her, and the door fell back into the
hallway with a loud crash. The man she’d seen through the window stepped into the
cell, looking around as if to find her. She swung her Glock toward him. Her mind registered
that he wasn’t holding a gun just as she squeezed the trigger. At the same time, he
dove at her, knocking her gun arm up. The bullet whined harmlessly past him and buried
itself in the wall.

They both fell, a tangle of arms and legs. He twisted, bearing the brunt of their
fall, landing on his back with a solid
whump
and a guttural curse. She landed on top of him, her chin smacking his hard chest.

For the space of a heartbeat, neither of them moved or spoke. He blinked, as if stunned
from slamming his back and maybe his head against the concrete floor. Her gaze darted
around the room, which had lightened to a murky gray because of the open doorway.
Where was her gun? There, lying three feet away. She lunged for it. He cursed and
grabbed her, turning and pulling her beneath him. Now
she
was the one flat on her back and he was the one on top. She desperately tried to
shove him off her.

He tightened his hands around her wrists. “Stop fighting me before you hurt yourself.”
His deep voice rumbled in his chest, vibrating against her own. “I’m here to help
you.”

“I’m a police officer, Detective Emily O’Malley,” she uttered through clenched teeth
as she kept struggling to free her hands. “Let me go.” Without waiting for his response,
she jerked her knee up, aiming for his groin.

He twisted, easily blocking her assault, then used his weight to press her down so
she could barely move. It seemed like every muscle in his body was plastered to her
softer curves. She gave up her ineffectual struggles and squinted up at him in the
dark, trying to confirm whether he was the man who’d kidnapped Hawley.

With the light from the open doorway behind him, she could see only the vague outline
of his face and his eyes since he was so close. But his voice—he’d sounded exasperated
, concerned,
when he’d told her he was there to help. Definitely not what she’d expect from a
psychopath. Then again, what should she expect of a psychopath in this situation?

For one thing, he’d probably have a gun. And if he had locked her in this cell, wouldn’t
he have used a key to open it instead of breaking down the door? Yes—he would have.
Which could mean only one thing. He
wasn’t
the man she’d chased into the basement.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

His gaze dipped to where her breasts were crushed against him, and he cleared his
throat. “My name is Devlin.” His white teeth flashed in a wry grin. “But given our
current . . .
predicament
. . . you can call me Devil.”

Her face flushed hot as she realized exactly what he meant by “predicament.” His body’s
response to their closeness was starting to harden against her belly. A completely
inappropriate tingle of awareness shot through her, making her grit her teeth.

She tugged her hands again, trying to free them and to free herself from this impossible
and embarrassing situation. “If you’re here to help, then prove it by letting me go
and getting off me.
Now
.”

He let out an exaggerated sigh. “Only if you promise you won’t try to castrate me
again,” he teased, even as he subtly shifted his hips so that he wasn’t pressed so
intimately against her.

His outrageous comment had her wanting to shoot at him. Again.

“I won’t try to knee you again. Promise.” She had no intention of keeping her word.
She’d use every dirty trick she knew if it would help her escape.

He laughed—a deep, husky sound that sent a delicious shiver all the way to her toes.
Good grief, what was wrong with her?

“Liar,” he said. “But I’ll take my chances and let you up anyway.”

As he eased to the side to lift himself off her, the light from the doorway struck
his face, and hers, giving both of them their first clear look at each other. He drew
in a sharp breath and froze above her, suddenly studying her with an intensity that
should have frightened her. But it didn’t. Probably because she was studying him just
as intently.

His nose was slightly crooked. But it did nothing to detract from the fierce, masculine
beauty of his features. Enviably thick lashes framed dark, hungry eyes that admired
her with open appreciation, sending excitement pulsing through her. He was all sharp
angles and perfect symmetry, framed with a light dusting of dark stubble along his
jaw, as if he hadn’t shaved in days.

Chemistry
. That was the only way she could explain this raw, physical attraction that had her
fingers curling into her palms. The only thing keeping her from being completely disgusted
with herself over her unwelcome fascination with this stranger was that he
was
a stranger. His face, just inches above hers, was handsome and compelling, yes. But
it was also completely unfamiliar. Which meant he was
not
the suspect.

Feet shuffled in the hallway. They both started as if coming out of a daze and looked
toward the door. Two men rushed into the cell, guns drawn. Devlin shoved himself up
and whirled around in one seamless movement that was astonishingly fast and graceful
for a man his size. He crouched in front of her,
as if he were trying to protect her
.

“Police,” one of the men yelled. “Hold it right there.”

Devlin slowly straightened, as if to make sure he didn’t spook the police, and held
his hands in the air. Emily certainly couldn’t blame him for that worry, not after
being shot at once already.

She scooted back several feet. The cell was almost too bright now because of all the
flashlights being aimed inside. Jones was the one who’d yelled “police” and was pointing
his gun at Devlin. Tuck stood beside him. And outside the cell, three uniformed officers
aimed their guns and flashlights at Virginia Hawley’s abductor.

Except that he
wasn’t
Hawley’s abductor.

When Emily had chased the suspect into the basement earlier, he’d turned and looked
directly at her before slamming the door. Only a few feet had separated them. And
the bright sun had shined straight down on his face. She knew exactly what he looked
like.

This man, Devlin, was tall and had deep black hair like the suspect, but that was
where their similarities ended. Devlin was far too . . . attractive, for lack of a
better word, than the other man had been. And Hawley’s abductor was clean-shaven,
with none of the sexy stubble that shadowed Devlin’s jaw.

“You okay?” Jones hauled her to her feet. “You have a red spot on your forehead. Did
this guy hit you?” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward Devlin.

Emily’s stomach sank when she saw Tuck handcuffing Devlin’s arms behind his back.

“Let him go,” she said. “He’s not the suspect.”

“But he hit you,” he insisted.

“No, no, he didn’t. I ran into a wall in the dark. No one struck me. I’m fine. Please,
Tuck, let him go. He’s a witness. He’s not the one who abducted Hawley.”

Tuck frowned but did as she asked. He removed Devlin’s cuffs and handed them back
to the officer he must have borrowed them from.

Devlin rubbed his wrists and gave Emily a crisp nod of thanks.

“Everyone, holster your weapons.” The men exchanged uneasy glances but did as she’d
ordered. Tuck made a show of resting his hand on the butt of his holstered pistol,
as if in warning.

Emily let out the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and hurried to explain.
“I chased the suspect and the victim into the basement. But both of them disappeared.”
She waved toward the cot on the far wall. “I came in here, saw the body on that cot,
and thought it was Hawley. But when I ran inside, someone closed and locked the door
behind me. This man, Devlin, busted the door open to let me out.” She glanced from
Jones to Tuck. “Please tell me you found Hawley and that she’s okay.”