Survive the Hunt: 24 Hours - Final Countdown, #2

SURVIVE THE HUNT

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Diana Duncan

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Dear Reader

A Sneak Peek of Survive the Fire

Other books by Diana Duncan

About the Author

Prologue

"When you are pushed to the edge of all you have known and are about to step out into darkness, faith is knowing there will be something solid to stand on ... or you will learn how to fly." ~ Irish Proverb

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Riverside, Oregon, SWAT rear guard Aidan O’Rourke crushed nagging impatience as he coordinated the tactical operation forming in River View Mall’s parking lot. Too focused to think about anything other than the job. Too focused to worry. Too fucking focused to feel.

Yeah, keep telling yourself that.

Maybe, eventually, he’d believe it.

Hell, he shouldn’t have any problem. Incarcerating his emotions in a steel cage was his MO.

Sleet stung his face, but he ignored the shitty weather, just like he ignored dread’s smothering weight. Normally, he guarded the team’s back. But unless Captain Greene arrived, which didn’t look promising, Aidan was high-ranking officer. Team leader and incident commander by default.

Every member of Alpha Squad had answered the call-out except his younger brother Conall, the team’s door-kicker. Con was trapped inside the mall with a crew of ruthless bank robbers. Unarmed and defenseless.

Con’s lady, Bailey, was trapped along with him. The robbers held three additional hostages—the bank manager, a pregnant woman, and the O’Rourkes’ eighty-year-old neighbor and honorary grandma, Letty Jacobson.

Aidan had played with, worked with, and fought shoulder-to-shoulder beside Con. He admired and respected his brother. He loved him—with fierce loyalty. First and second of the siblings, he and Con had forged a nearly inseparable connection since little bro was born.

All four O’Rourke brothers shared not only the calling to be SWAT cops, but also a deep bond that strengthened as they grew into men. No goddamned criminals were gonna steal that from him.

Nine years ago, Aidan had become head of the family when his father was murdered, a victim of senseless violence. One wrenching loss was plenty. He’d vowed to protect his loved ones—at any cost.

He would get his brother out alive.

He prepared to head across the street, shoulders stiff in rebellion, his warrior’s instincts outraged at leaving the combat zone.

Move your ass, dammit. Stick to procedure and establish the on-site command post. Don’t let emotions interfere. Bring everybody out breathing.

Blinding light stabbed his peripheral vision, and he pivoted.

What the—?

A TV news crew had encamped in the rear of the parking lot, setting up cameras and floodlights around a white van. The lights illuminated Aidan, the team, and the mall. A slick blond male reporter sporting a salon tan postured in front of several cameras, emoting dramatically into a cordless mic.

Who the hell let civilians breach the inner perimeter? Aidan roared. Tighten up that line! Not even a fucking gnat gets through unless he’s packing a badge!

An abashed chorus of Yes, sirs swelled in the frosty air.

Aidan stalked toward the van. Kill those goddamn lights!

A petite woman with short, wispy brunette hair stepped in front of him. Dressed for the turbulent weather in a well-worn purple parka, red scarf, and matching gloves, she planted both palms on his Kevlar vest.

Option A: mow her down. He chose option B.

For now.

That’s Parker Dane, her low musical voice said. The award-winning anchorman.

He glanced down into intelligent hazel eyes and deliciously feminine, almost feline features. The startling jolt to his senses, the kick of heat in his belly was—anger.

Uh, huh.

I don’t care if he’s the Pope, in town to bless the masses. Kill those lights, they’re compromising my operation.

The exotic-looking brunette dropped her hands. Colorful beaded earrings swung as she waved at a stocky guy standing beside the van. Douse the lights while Parker rehearses. She turned back to Aidan. And you are?

Officer Aidan O’Rourke, acting SWAT Incident Commander.

Her eyes, a fascinating, changing combination of green, brown, and gold, inventoried the length of his body from tousled, sleet-soaked hair to scuffed combat boots, then back. Unwelcome warmth flash-flooded his bloodstream, and he clenched his jaw. You’re in a secured area. Clear out.

She tilted her head. Icy wind tumbled shiny chestnut curls around her face in an angelic halo. Talk about blatantly deceptive packaging. Her spicy tropical fragrance seemed incongruous in the dangerous winter night as she grinned up at him. What does SWAT stand for? Sure We Are Tempting?

Like a numb limb with circulation suddenly restored, long-dead and disturbing feelings tingled painfully to life. A distraction he didn’t need, and sure as hell didn’t want. I don’t have time for games, lady—

Zoe. She interrupted him, a rare occurrence. His fierce concentration and alpha dog dominance intimidated most people. Not the little gypsy, however, because she didn’t budge. Zoe Zagretti, with KKEY, your key to breaking news. See it happen as it happens. I’m Parker’s fact checker.

I’ll just bet you are. He was lusting after a reporter, for Christ’s sake. Perky harbingers of doom. Peddlers of destruction and death. Vultures, pimping out people’s anguish for the ratings god. Been there, done that, with bitter, painful scars on his soul to prove it.

He’d rather suck face with a scorpion.

He drilled her with the brain-piercing glare that made hardened felons cower. You’re endangering my officers and the hostages. Leave. Now.

Apparently immune to his death stare, she whipped a notepad and pen from inside a battered canvas bag. You can confirm there are hostages? How many? Who’s holding them?

He stepped closer, widening his stance, aggressively invading her space. I’m gonna say this once more. Pack your stuff, clamp a leash on your pet monkey and bug out.

She didn’t so much as blink. This is an opportunity to provide information to our viewers, and we have an obligation to take that opportunity. Any good news organization would do the same. Her small pointed chin jutted in a challenging angle. The public has a right to know the truth.

Frustration vised the back of his neck. He was used to being obeyed without question. The public has a right to safety. And protection from piranhas who rip personal tragedies apart on live satellite feed and feast on the bloody chum. If one person, one item of equipment, is still on the premises in two minutes, I will personally place you all under arrest.

Her pretty red lips parted in a shocked gasp. For what?

For starters, interfering with an officer in the line of duty.

You wouldn’t dare! Freedom of the press is a guaranteed Constitutional—

Try me. You’ll be on your way to jail before you can say ‘yellow journalism.’ He flicked a glance at his watch. One minute and forty seconds.

Not waiting for her reply, he pivoted and stalked away.

That’s when everything went to hell.

Two four-wheel-drive SUVs careened around the corner of the mall, studded tires sparking on the ice. Gunshots exploded and bullets screamed. Running, shouting cops dove for cover, returned fire.

Adrenaline fueled his system, and his body moved before his brain fully engaged. He whirled and lunged at Zoe, taking them both down in one leap. Cushioning her head in his hand, he rolled on the frozen pavement, absorbing most of the blow, then rolled again, pinning her petite body beneath him.

She didn’t make a sound, didn’t move as he snatched his Glock from his thigh holster and fired at the retreating SUVs.

Shit, too far away, moving too fast.

Shrieking, strobing police cars chased the SUVs into the raging storm. He inhaled frosty air. Holstered his weapon. He rolled to one side and scooped the woman from underneath him. You all right?

Her small body limp, Zoe stared sightlessly as swirling sleet pelted her colorless features—bleached by death.

His heart stopped.

I let her down.

I let her die.

Chapter 1

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July 26th, 10:00 a.m.

Zoe! Aidan woke shouting her name. Panting, he sat up and blinked away stinging sweat. He glanced at sun-dappled mocha walls, then at the digital clock on the nightstand. He wasn’t in that dark parking lot. He was in his bedroom. Not a cold December night, but a warm, peaceful summer morning.

Jesus. He exhaled a shaky breath. The mall incident had happened six months ago. When would the nightmares end?

He scrubbed an unsteady hand over his bristly jaw. More importantly, why did his subconscious keep replaying it wrong?

He always dreamed everything exactly as it had happened, in sharply focused detail. The mall’s bank had been robbed, his brother trapped inside for hours. The wheelmen outside started a firefight and escaped. But nobody had died. Not his brother or Bailey, not the hostages, not even the bank robbers.

And especially not Zoe Zagretti. Since that fateful December night, Zoe and Aidan had continually crossed paths, and crossed swords.

Like a bad case of heartburn he couldn’t relieve, the rabid reporter always appeared at his crime scenes, poking her pert nose where it wasn’t wanted. Yammering questions he refused to answer. He’d swear she was tailing him.

Worse, she turned up at least once a week in his bed—in dreams. He climbed out from between navy-blue sheets and twitched the matching comforter into place.

Make that nightmares.

Naked, he strode into the bathroom where he cranked on the shower. As the water warmed up and steam curled around him, the faint scent of plumeria mingled with the mist. Zoe’s inquisitive, heart-shaped face shimmered into his mind, and his dick instantly woke up. Shit.

He snatched a purple candle off the counter, tempted to two-point it. But Letty Jacobson, his family’s irascible octogenarian neighbor and honorary grandma, had given it to him for Christmas. While it seemed an odd choice for a staunch bachelor’s neutral-toned bathroom, he’d been touched by the gaily-wrapped gift, presented with generous delight, and he’d put it on display.

He set the candle down, unable to bring himself to trash it. The sultry tropical fragrance also reminded him of a trip to Hawaii—their last family vacation before Pop was killed. The islands’ bright flower leis were made from plumeria. Letty had mentioned fond memories when she’d bestowed the gift.

He scowled. The scent used to appeal to him, before it became associated with a sassy, pain-in-the-ass brunette. How could one small woman both exasperate him beyond reason and entice him as dangerously as a diabetic to a dessert bar?

He stepped inside the shower enclosure. The shiny green/brown/gold glass tiles were the same shades as Zoe’s eyes. He groaned and banged his forehead on the wet tile.

Losing it, boyo.

Exotic and sensual, with her bewitching, ever-changing eyes and lush red mouth, Zoe wasn’t even in the same hemisphere as his usual type. He preferred his women with curves. Yeah, so what, he liked generous breasts. Zoe was fashionably starvation-skinny, probably because TV cameras added ten pounds.

Along with curvy, he went for cool, elegant, reserved blondes.

Passionate, stubborn, rash women—  He shuddered and reached for the shampoo. Hell no. Strong emotions were baffling. Crippling.

Caused nothing but misery.

He’d never met a woman he was willing to risk everything for. Or a woman who’d risk it all for him. His relationships—such as they were—were amiable, short, and maintained at a comfortable emotional distance. No mountain peaks, but also no hurtling over unexpected cliffs.

As a career SWAT cop who continually charged into combat, he’d never get married. Several years ago when his Irish grandmother’s antique Claddagh wedding ring was bequeathed to him as the oldest grandchild, per O’Rourke tradition, he’d refused it.

His younger brothers hoped he’d change his mind and declined to commandeer his bequest. So the ring would remain safely with his mom until Con, Liam, or Grady had a child.

No way would he put a woman through the hell his mother had suffered. No way would he subject a family to the anguish that’d scarred him and his brothers. Though he was relentless about birth control, he’d decided to eradicate any chance, and had scheduled a vasectomy consultation with his doctor for next month.

He stuck his sudsy hair under the hot spray. Why in holy hell couldn’t he wash Zoe Zagretti out of his head? Out of his life?

He glanced down at his persistent hard-on, and ground his teeth. What was wrong with him? He wasn’t a pimply, perpetually horny teen.

Except where she was concerned.

Was Zagretti some kind of gypsy sorceress? After he’d repeatedly refused to pander to her chronic nosiness, had she cast a spell on him?

He snorted. Yeah, that idea was as batty as Letty’s romantic notions about soul-mates. He wrenched the hot water lever off, the cold all the way on, and reached for the soap. No freaking way. He didn’t believe in woo-woo.

Shivering under the icy spray, he vigorously scrubbed his chest. He knew what, or rather, who, was driving him around the bend, and his nemesis had a definite earthly origin. The situation could not continue this way. So, what was he gonna do about it?

About her?

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Dressed in her short yellow-and-orange paisley robe, Zoe opened the front door of her tiny studio apartment. A huge brown-striped tabby sporting a ragged left ear streaked inside. Morning Evander. How’s tricks?

The cat trotted toward what the landlord optimistically called the kitchenette, loudly grumbling the feline equivalent of Where the hell is breakfast?

She poured food into his dish, smiling as he scarfed it down. The fractious feline had appeared on her doorstep one morning, battered and bloody, and she’d adopted him. Her bond with Evander was her first relationship that’d ever lasted more than a few weeks. Moving three to five times a year killed potential friendships—even if she’d dared reach out.

Loneliness and suspicion were her constant, uneasy companions as far back as she could remember.

The only person in her life, her mom, languished in a nursing home in San Francisco, partially paralyzed and cognitively impaired by a stroke. Zoe diligently squeezed every nickel—twice—to maintain Rita Zagretti’s physical therapy, while saving toward the buttload of dough needed to move her north. Add in student loans and her own recent moving expenses to accept a better job with KKEY and—ouch. But so what if she had to skimp on groceries? Thanks to Hollywood, thin was in.

She strolled into the bathroom and turned on the water in the miniscule stall shower. The apartment didn’t have a tub, something she missed terribly. But as long as she could scrape up the rent, the shabby studio in a dubious neighborhood was all hers. No odd phone call, no chance sighting on the street would send her racing to pack and flee in terror to a new city. No matter what happened, she would stand her ground.

I will never run again.

She stepped into the steamy stall. On a sunny Saturday morning, she could relax under the hot spray until the water went cold, a favorite indulgence. Someday, she’d have a family and a cozy house with a luxurious tub. Someday, she’d have a husband to cherish, a man who’d cherish her in return. And a passel of rowdy kids who’d experience the secure, carefree childhood she’d never known.

Someday, I will belong.

She wasn’t quite sure how to belong anywhere, since she’d never had the chance. She’d been a child born of secrets and lies, imprisoned by the past in loathing, fear, and isolation. Evander was her very first pet. Her very first friend.

She lathered her skin with plumeria body wash. She was a fast learner, though. You tended to learn fast when you were different. When you didn’t dare bring a classmate home. She remembered watching giggling girls at various schools. Best friends, their arms around each other, planning sleepovers and sharing confidences. She’d longed to join in the magic. But circumstances forced her to remain distant. Though gregarious and outgoing, she’d always stifled her true nature. She’d never dared to get close to anyone. Never dared invite anyone over.

Her secrets were too risky, too horrifying to confide.

With Evander, she could finally relax. Speak freely. No wariness about ulterior motives. No safeguarding every word. No worry about an accidental, terrifying slip of the tongue.

The fickle water supply suddenly went ice-cold. She barely had time to gasp before it surged to hot again. She and Evander were both wandering mongrels. He’d found someone to take him in.

Would she?

And if she did, would she be able to set aside twenty-six years of conditioning to share herself with another person? She knew what it was like to be truly, completely on her own. A relationship would require an element of trust she’d never been allowed to explore.

After so many years alone, she craved the opportunity.

She leaned against the misty shower wall, closed her eyes and let the drumming water soothe her. As they had too often lately, her thoughts wandered to Officer Aidan O’Rourke. With his thick, wavy black hair, eyes the color of expensive chocolates, and a generous mouth made for wickedness, Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Dominant was the poster boy for bodacious hunks. Not to mention his ruggedly handsome face, hard-muscled physique, and reflexes as fast and deadly as a timber wolf’s.

But what intrigued her most was his chivalry. Though he’d been livid with her that December night in the parking lot, her Dark Champion had unhesitatingly put his body between her and flying bullets.

And what woman with a heart could resist wanting to soothe the pain in those wounded brown eyes, the quiet suffering bracketing his sexy, stubborn mouth?

Reading back issues of the local paper online—she always learned the history in a new town—had revealed the cause. Several dates with Marvin, the geeky clerk in the Riverside PD records room, filled in the gaps. And her heart had broken for Aidan.

Too soon, the water cooled. She stepped onto the turquoise-flowered bathmat and wrapped herself in a matching towel. Nine years ago, over five million dollars had gone missing after an armored-car heist. Aidan’s father was lead officer at the scene, and blame had fallen on him. The allegations were never proven, but his reputation had been trashed. He was taken off the streets and assigned permanent desk duty.

Before Brian O’Rourke could clear his name, he’d been murdered in a home-invasion robbery. They’d never found his body, but the massive amount of blood at the crime scene—his own family room—was enough for a judge to rule him dead by homicide.

A few of Brian’s fellow police officers speculated he’d faked the murder and was living it up in paradise. She fluffed her short, feathery curls as empathy for Aidan ached in her chest. Her intuition screamed that Brian was innocent. Responsible cops and devoted family men didn’t just turn rotten.

She would uncover the truth. This was more than just another intriguing story. Brian O’Rourke deserved to rest in peace. And his wife and sons shouldn’t have to live in torment. She didn’t expect to have a family or security any time in the near future, but restoring a measure of security to the O’Rourke family might help fill the aching void inside her. And if cracking a cold case boosted her journalism credentials ... extra frosting on the cupcake.

When she emerged from the bathroom, Evander wove between her ankles. You smell a rat too, don’t ya, buddy? She bent to pet the cat, and his uneven purr rumbled. The rat in question was a vicious crook named Tony DiMarco. Tony owned a security company that trained and supplied armed guards, who’d then given him inside information for robberies.

He was responsible for the bank robbery that’d brought her and Aidan together. He’d been badly burned and shot in the head during the final confrontation, and had spent the past six months supposedly helpless, but under armed guard in Mercy Hospital’s attached rehab facility.

The armed guard detail was another red alert. Obviously Riverside PD knew something Zoe didn’t.

Her investigative talents had painstakingly unraveled an intricate web of dummy corporations owned by DiMarco’s security company. Those corporations were suddenly being hastily liquidated, but DiMarco had suffered brain damage and was incapacitated.

So where was the money going? And why?

Secrets and lies brought trouble. Caused pain. She’d become a reporter to gain a forum to educate and help people. Her outgoing personality, verbal acuity, and unerring instincts were perfect for the job, as was a survival skill honed over the years ... the ability to read people. She knew when someone wasn’t quite what he or she seemed. Knew when someone was lying. DiMarco was the key to the puzzle she was trying to unlock. She felt it clear to her marrow. Proving it ... not quite there yet.

After donning a purple bra and bikini undies, she chose low-rider jeans and a short-sleeved lavender peasant top from the lidded cardboard box parked at the foot of her mattress. Brian O’Rourke and Tony DiMarco had known each other years ago, and DiMarco still carried a grudge against O’Rourke. No coincidence, that. Nailing down DiMarco’s guilt could quite possibly clear Aidan’s father’s name.

Smiling, she slipped bare feet into orange crocs. Aidan O’Rourke thought he was a closed book, but he was easier to read than the Riverside Daily. He didn’t detest her nearly as much as he pretended.

There was innate sensuality in the graceful way he moved. Compelling intensity hidden in the dark secrets of his eyes. Appealing assurance in his commanding presence. He made her pulse riot, her knees go wonky, and her stomach jitterbug. Just being near him was more electrifying than riding the gigantic roller coaster at Six Flags Magic Mountain.

Every time they met, they sparred. And sparks flew.

Unlike him, she didn’t try to disguise her interest. Not that it mattered. He didn’t seem inclined to act on the attraction. Why? He wasn’t seeing anyone on a regular basis. Attending the Seattle Star Trek convention with Marvin had left her fully informed about the O’Rourkes in more ways than one—even if she did have to dress up like a Klingon. The three-hour drive each way had been a treasure trove of conversation.

She fastened on faux amethyst hoop earrings. On second thought, maybe Aidan’s standoffish attitude was a good thing.

If her cop knew what she was up to, he’d blow a gasket.

She wasn’t sure how or when she’d started thinking of him as her cop. But each time they met, the more he warned her away, the more proprietary she felt. Beneath his bluster, she saw hurt. Isolation. She knew all about trying to plow through life alone. She couldn’t squelch the urge to hold him. Comfort him. She rolled her eyes. Yeah, rad, bad and dangerous SWAT would love the poor baby treatment.

A light hand with blush, mascara, and shiny cherry lip gloss gave her the ingénue look she wanted for today. She tucked four boxes of Cracker Jack into the ancient, vinyl-lined canvas bag she called her survival kit. Not a traditional breakfast, but filling, energizing, and uber cheap at the Dollar Store.

She glanced down at Evander, ambling at her side. Caramel-covered popcorn and peanuts are as nutritious as sugar-coated cereal, right? He chirped in agreement. She filled a water bottle at the tap, then tucked it into her bag.

A light summer breeze drifted through the screened apartment windows, locked open several safe inches. She breathed in fresh morning air. Thank goodness she’d be out during the heat of the day, when the tiny room went into broil mode. Evander jumped onto a windowsill to snooze in the sun. She patted him. Nap all day and prowl all night. Rough life, pal.

Shouldering her bag, she headed out to her ancient, but reliable red Corolla. Determination swung in her stride.

She had a murderous bank robber to interview.

Chapter 2

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11:00 a.m.

"I am his niece. I’ve been out of the country serving in the Peace Corps and only just discovered poor Uncle Tony had been hurt." Zoe innocently widened her eyes at the young, sandy-haired cop barring her from Tony DiMarco’s room. This time, as opposed to her usual accuracy, her best guess was way off. When she’d seen Officer Richard Ryan’s twinkling blue eyes and baby face, she’d figured he’d cave in five minutes. But she’d been trying to BS her way past him for fifteen.

Sorry, miss. Officer Ryan shook his head, planting himself more firmly in front of the door.

He’s probably terribly lonely. I’m sure he wants to see me. What harm could it do?

The cop indicated the cell phone he’d used to contact the station when she’d first arrived to request clearance for Angela DiMarco to see her Uncle Tony. No one had returned his call yet, and he repeated his soft-spoken but implacable litany. No civilians allowed inside without permission from headquarters.

Crap. Gonna have to do this the hard way, and face the fallout later. I have permission. From Aidan O’Rourke.

Is that right? Officer Ryan’s lips quirked, and her hopes spun.