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Authors: Christina Dodd
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an embarrassment to—his gaze dropped to the signature— Taylor Summers.
Taylor Summers. He would never forget that name.
Miles babbled on, picking up the story where he had left off. “Those men, the ones who wanted to kill me—when they saw the papers fluttering by, they stopped and stared. Then she ran out from behind the rock, toward the forest.”
Son of a bitch. They had a witness. If she had survived …
“She was running like crazy, dodging and jumping. She yelled, ‘Run, kid!’ The big guy said”—Miles shot Kennedy a sideways glance—“you know, he dropped the f-bomb. Then he took off after her. I thought he was going to shoot her right away, but he didn’t.”
“He couldn’t shoot and run,” Kennedy told him.
“The skinny guy ran after them, too, and I figured she was right. This was my chance. So I ran the other way.” As Miles relived his ordeal, he talked more and more swiftly. “I heard gunshots and just … I sprinted. I couldn’t stop. I was so afraid. I got away. I ran up the mountain. I was hiding in the brush when I heard you calling, and I was afraid then, too, that you’d go away before I could get to you.” Miles’s brown eyes grew big and brimmed with tears.
Kennedy hugged him again, and handed him a handkerchief.
“Do you think she’s dead?” Miles’s voice trembled. “The lady who helped me?”
Kennedy’s gaze swept the meadow, observed the grim set on Rogers’s face, the purposeful way his men moved out.
Kennedy never lied to the boy. He didn’t lie now. “Odds are against her. But there’s a chance she’ll survive.”
“What about … what about the gorilla? The big guy who ran after her? He was mean, Uncle Kennedy. He was really mean. I want him to be dead.” Miles couldn’t have sounded more fervent.
“We’ll work on that,” Kennedy assured him.
But the damned thing was—although the trackers had spent the night scouring the mountains, they’d lost both the gorilla and the woman. Then while Kennedy’s guys were strategizing their next move, Taylor Summers’s rental car exploded, starting a small forest fire.
So whoever this Jimmy was, he was vindictive, nimble, and smarter than Kennedy had first given him credit for.
Kennedy had moved swiftly to take control of the still-burning crime scene, analyzing the data himself. In her shattered cell phone and the footprints leading away from the vehicle, they found proof the woman had been there, had survived the blast, and run like hell afterward.
But they fixed their report to the police to say she had been killed. They fixed everything, and when the police deduced she must be one of the kidnappers, Kennedy did not contradict them. He didn’t dare; to reveal what Miles had told him about Taylor would also reveal that Miles had not lost his memory of the events. Kennedy did not want the kidnapper to think he was in imminent danger of being revealed; Miles must be protected at all costs.
Besides, Kennedy was sure his trackers would find Taylor Summers.
They had failed. They believed she must be dead.
So he pulled those trackers off the job—no use funding those who found it a hopeless cause—and hired a small, exclusive private investigative firm. They would watch the airports and car rental agencies, observe her mother and her former fiancés, monitor the Internet, the shelters, any place and anything a woman on the run might utilize to continue her flight.
Kennedy needed to know what Taylor Summers had seen, what she had heard … who had taken his nephew. He refused to believe Taylor was dead.
He wanted Taylor Summers.
Yet despite all his resources, she was nowhere to be found.
Where was the woman?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next day, in the early morning hours, Taylor left the Renners’ house the same way she had come in—through the broken window, and wearing three layers of Cissie’s warmest clothes.
By the time the Renners returned, they would have received the
Taylor Summers. He would never forget that name.
Miles babbled on, picking up the story where he had left off. “Those men, the ones who wanted to kill me—when they saw the papers fluttering by, they stopped and stared. Then she ran out from behind the rock, toward the forest.”
Son of a bitch. They had a witness. If she had survived …
“She was running like crazy, dodging and jumping. She yelled, ‘Run, kid!’ The big guy said”—Miles shot Kennedy a sideways glance—“you know, he dropped the f-bomb. Then he took off after her. I thought he was going to shoot her right away, but he didn’t.”
“He couldn’t shoot and run,” Kennedy told him.
“The skinny guy ran after them, too, and I figured she was right. This was my chance. So I ran the other way.” As Miles relived his ordeal, he talked more and more swiftly. “I heard gunshots and just … I sprinted. I couldn’t stop. I was so afraid. I got away. I ran up the mountain. I was hiding in the brush when I heard you calling, and I was afraid then, too, that you’d go away before I could get to you.” Miles’s brown eyes grew big and brimmed with tears.
Kennedy hugged him again, and handed him a handkerchief.
“Do you think she’s dead?” Miles’s voice trembled. “The lady who helped me?”
Kennedy’s gaze swept the meadow, observed the grim set on Rogers’s face, the purposeful way his men moved out.
Kennedy never lied to the boy. He didn’t lie now. “Odds are against her. But there’s a chance she’ll survive.”
“What about … what about the gorilla? The big guy who ran after her? He was mean, Uncle Kennedy. He was really mean. I want him to be dead.” Miles couldn’t have sounded more fervent.
“We’ll work on that,” Kennedy assured him.
But the damned thing was—although the trackers had spent the night scouring the mountains, they’d lost both the gorilla and the woman. Then while Kennedy’s guys were strategizing their next move, Taylor Summers’s rental car exploded, starting a small forest fire.
So whoever this Jimmy was, he was vindictive, nimble, and smarter than Kennedy had first given him credit for.
Kennedy had moved swiftly to take control of the still-burning crime scene, analyzing the data himself. In her shattered cell phone and the footprints leading away from the vehicle, they found proof the woman had been there, had survived the blast, and run like hell afterward.
But they fixed their report to the police to say she had been killed. They fixed everything, and when the police deduced she must be one of the kidnappers, Kennedy did not contradict them. He didn’t dare; to reveal what Miles had told him about Taylor would also reveal that Miles had not lost his memory of the events. Kennedy did not want the kidnapper to think he was in imminent danger of being revealed; Miles must be protected at all costs.
Besides, Kennedy was sure his trackers would find Taylor Summers.
They had failed. They believed she must be dead.
So he pulled those trackers off the job—no use funding those who found it a hopeless cause—and hired a small, exclusive private investigative firm. They would watch the airports and car rental agencies, observe her mother and her former fiancés, monitor the Internet, the shelters, any place and anything a woman on the run might utilize to continue her flight.
Kennedy needed to know what Taylor Summers had seen, what she had heard … who had taken his nephew. He refused to believe Taylor was dead.
He wanted Taylor Summers.
Yet despite all his resources, she was nowhere to be found.
Where was the woman?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The next day, in the early morning hours, Taylor left the Renners’ house the same way she had come in—through the broken window, and wearing three layers of Cissie’s warmest clothes.
By the time the Renners returned, they would have received the
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