With a storm barreling in from the northwest, the heavy surf tossed the boat as if it were a toy. It took every nautical skill Madrid possessed to maneuver the treacherous waters. Using the lighthouse on the south side of the island as a beacon, he finally located the only inlet. It was nearly midnight when he docked at a dilapidated pier and tied off. By the light of a three-quarter moon he set out on foot to find Angela’s killer.
The island was small, but on foot and operating in darkness, he took an hour to find the cottage. It was a rustic clapboard structure nestled in a sparse forest of hemlock and cedar. The cottage was built on a precipitous slope. On the west side, high cliffs ran a hundred feet down to where an angry sea battered the rocky shore.
The perfect place for a safe house.
Pulling his .40-caliber rubber-grip Taurus from his shoulder holster, Madrid approached the cottage from the rear. There was no smoke coming from the chimney. If Atwood was there, she was being careful. But he could see a dim light coming from inside.
“Gotcha,” he whispered, anticipation whipping through him.
He slithered along the siding at the rear of the cottage and peered around the corner. A screened porch overlooked a tangle of wind-mangled hemlock. He could hear the roar of the surf below. Holding the pistol ready, he stepped around the corner.
“Don’t give me a reason to kill you.”
He jerked at the sound of the female voice coming from directly behind him. For an instant he considered spinning, firing and maybe getting off a lucky shot. But the sound of a bullet being chambered changed his mind.
“Drop the gun,” she said. “Now.”
Madrid couldn’t believe he’d let a woman get the drop on him. A civilian. Not only was it humiliating, but dangerous. His ego was just big enough to be more bothered by the former than the latter.
“You got me,” he said, and dropped the Taurus.
“Get your hands up.”
He did as he was told.
“Turn around. Slowly.”
More disgusted with himself than frightened, he turned. The sight of her shocked him, like electricity snapping through every nerve ending in his body. She was not what he’d expected. Though he’d seen photos of her in the course of his research, none of them did justice to the doe-eyed beauty holding that deadly looking pistol.
“Who are you and what do you want?” she demanded.
“My name is Mike Madrid,” he said easily. “I’m a federal agent, and I’m looking for you.”
She blinked as if she hadn’t been expecting him to admit the truth so readily. Madrid studied her. Even in the dim light slanting through the window, he could see that she was small, but athletically built. She wore snug jeans and an oversize sweatshirt that revealed little of her figure beneath. But Madrid had a good imagination, especially when it came to women. He figured she was curvy in all the right places. A hell of a thought for him to be having when he was pretty sure this was going to end badly.
Her hair looked somewhere between blond and brown and fell in unruly tendrils to her slender shoulders. Her eyes were the same gray-blue as the ocean pounding the beach below. Her bow-shaped mouth was full and, despite the worried frown, perfect for kissing.
Not that he was going to be kissing her, he reminded himself. He might have a weakness for beautiful, dangerous women, but he drew the line at fraternizing with a cop killer.
“Why are you looking for me?” she asked.
“Because I’m going to take you in.”
She laughed, but it was a hopeless, humorless sound. “Get inside. Now.” She jabbed the gun toward the house.
“Whatever you say.”
That was when he noticed the sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Her complexion was ghastly pale, but her cheeks were tinged pink. Her eyes had a glassiness to them he hadn’t noticed before. A glassiness that wasn’t caused by adrenaline or fear. Drugs? he wondered, and prayed she hadn’t hurt the boy.
“Where’s the kid?” he asked as he opened the door.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He stepped inside and turned to her, careful to keep his hands up. “Give him to me and I’ll let you walk away from this.”
Anger flickered in her eyes. But the gun wavered as she closed the door behind her. “Why are you so interested in the kid?”
“Because I don’t want him hurt.”
“Or maybe you want to finish what you started.” Her teeth pulled back in a snarl that was distinctly feline, and she jammed the gun at him. “Here’s a news flash for you. I will not let you hurt that child. You got that, slick?”