“Has Lucas called county?” Samuel asked in a calmer voice.

“Yes. They’re sending their SWAT team and hostage negotiator. Did you see what he broke the window with?” Truman asked.

“The butt of his rifle. Not the smartest move. Maybe the gun is damaged now.”

“I think we figured out he wasn’t the brightest character a few days ago with all the vandalism.”

Is this the same guy who nearly killed Bree?

Angry shouts came from the window, male and female. Truman recognized Sandy’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. All he knew was that she was pissed and letting her attacker know it.

I’d rather hear that than terrified screams.

Is it her ex-husband?

“Are we just going to sit here?” Samuel couldn’t hold still. He continuously ran his hands over his utility belt, taking a subconscious inventory, his energy distracting Truman.

“Tell county to set a perimeter around this block. We don’t need pedestrians strolling into the area.”

Samuel grabbed the radio mic at his shoulder and relayed Truman’s message.

Truman’s mind was spinning. If this attack was from Sandy’s ex-husband, did that mean he’d tortured Bree too?

Is Sandy’s ex involved with the Gamble-Helmet Heist?

Ben calmly watched Truman, waiting for orders.

“Is it okay if I go in and get my phone? I’ll just be a minute,” came a female voice.

Truman and Samuel both spun to their right to see who had spoken. A woman stood near the rear of Truman’s SUV—her back to the B&B—looking curiously at them.

“Ma’am! Get out of the street!” Truman sputtered as Samuel darted to the back of the SUV, grabbed her arm, and pulled her to crouch next to Truman.

She was about fifty and wore faded denim along with white laceless Keds tennis shoes like the ones Truman’s sister had worn in elementary school. She yanked her arm out of Samuel’s grip and shot him a death glare. “You don’t have to be rude!” She tried to stand, and Samuel pulled her back down.

“Please stay behind cover, ma’am.”

“This is ridiculous. The couple is locked in a room upstairs. My phone is on the first floor. No one will notice if I sneak back in. He hasn’t even fired his gun.” She met Truman’s gaze, waiting expectantly.

Truman couldn’t speak.

Samuel could. “Hey, Ben!” He waved the older officer over. “Please take Ms. . . .”

“Leggett.”

“Please take Ms. Leggett to a safe area and help her understand she’s not to enter the bed-and-breakfast.”

“Now, wait a minute—”

The roar of a shotgun filled the air, and they all dropped closer to the ground.

“Get her out of here, Ben. Now!” Truman snapped. Ms. Leggett glared at him again but kept her mouth shut.

“Jesus Christ,” Samuel said under his breath as Ben guided her past his vehicle, both of them keeping their heads low. “What is wrong with people?”

“. . . Demand a refund . . .” Truman heard her say as the two of them moved farther away.

Sandy let loose with more furious shouts, and Truman and Samuel exhaled. She didn’t sound injured; she sounded angry about her broken window. The male attacker yelled back at her. Sirens sounded close by, and Truman watched county vehicles block the street on both ends.

Truman refused to picture Sandy with injuries similar to Bree’s.

“Is this a domestic or an active shooter?” Samuel muttered.

“Both. He’s shooting, so we’re going in.” Truman held Samuel’s gaze, asking a silent question.

“About damned time.”

Truman had known that’d be his answer.

Ben darted back, crouching as low as his seventysomething back would let him.

“Samuel and I are going in. All activity has been at that window.”

“Got ya, boss. Go get our girl.” Ben propped his arms on the hood, his weapon trained on the broken window from where shouts still persisted.

Truman opened his SUV’s door, grabbed the rifle on his dash, and slung it over his shoulder. “Let’s go.”

Their pistols in hand, he and Samuel dashed across the street and up the wooden stairs of the porch. Voices in altercation still sounded from above.

Is he acting alone?

No assumptions. No one had reported a second attacker, but one could be waiting inside. They paused, Truman on one side of the closed front door and Samuel on the other. Truman nodded. Samuel whipped open the door and Truman entered, weapon leading, covering the blind spot to the right as Samuel moved smoothly after him to catch the left. The large lobby area was empty. Truman checked behind the huge wooden desk as Samuel moved to one side of the swinging door that led to the kitchen. His heart pounding but his focus razor sharp, Truman paused at the other side of the door, and they repeated their front-door maneuver. A rapid pass through the kitchen showed they were alone.

Stomping and shouts had continued above during the twenty seconds it took to methodically clear the first level. They carefully moved up the stairs, weapons leading, covering all blind spots. On the second level was a hallway with five doors. A small crash and the sound of breaking glass came from behind the door labeled CASCADE SUITE. More angry shouts from Sandy.

Truman and Samuel moved cautiously down the hall, checking each doorknob as they passed. All the suites were locked. They stopped on each side of the Cascade door, breathing heavily. Sweat ran down one side of Samuel’s face as he gently tried the knob.

Locked.

Samuel’s gaze met his, concern in his eyes.

This is where everything could go wrong.

Truman took a deep breath. “Eagle’s Nest police!”

Sandy had felt someone watching her. Even before the graffiti had started, she had felt someone’s gaze on the center of her back.

After leaving Bree’s home with a change of clothes that morning, she’d stopped in at her B&B to see how the morning buffet had gone. In the kitchen she’d been putting away food when a rash of angry shouts came from her lobby. She grabbed a rolling pin and marched out, determined to put a stop to the ruckus. As she went through the door into her lobby, she froze.

Lionel stood there.

He was older and grayer and fatter. But it was he. And he pointed a rifle at her head.

Two of her guests hovered in the far corner of the room, the man standing protectively in front of his wife, unable to get a clear path to the front door without passing Lionel.

“There’s the bitch.” He grinned through his beard, his teeth more yellow than she remembered.

Every ounce of her old fear of him clogged her nerves. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t walk.

All she could do was stare.

He’s going to kill me this time.

Dear Lord. Did he torture Bree?

Her legs quivered. She might have led her ex to Bree’s doorstep.

He took four quick steps and grabbed her hair with one meaty hand, nearly pulling her to the ground. She dropped her rolling pin and wrapped her hands around his wrist. The male guest in the corner moved forward, a need to help her on his terrified face.

Lionel will shoot him.

She’d seen him fire his rifle one-handed while drinking a beer with the other. A talent he was proud of.

“What do you want, Lionel?” She forced the words between clenched teeth, feeling her scalp rip. He’d always grabbed her hair as he abused her.

He yanked backward, forcing her face upward to look at him. He leaned close, the rifle still held in his one-handed grip, ready to fire. But now it pointed at the couple in the corner. The male guest had stopped, his hands raised.

“Maybe I just wanted to see my wife.”

Vomit rushed up her throat, and sweat broke out under her arms.

His words were worse than the pain on her scalp.

He moved his mouth to her neck, his breath smelling strongly of alcohol. His lips were wet, and she nearly spewed the vomit pooling in the back of her mouth. “Where’s your bedroom, sweetheart?”

Her nerves and muscles shrieked at his words, and her thighs instinctively clamped together. The male guest took another step in her direction, not caring that Lionel had a rifle aimed at him.

Get Lionel out of the lobby.

“Upstairs.”

Delight crossed his face. “Let’s go, darlin’. Just like old times.”

Old times . . .

Memories of his brutal sexual attacks flooded her. Tears. Bruises. Blood. She’d learned the hard way to never say no. And to never fight back.

That was the old me.

Ripping her scalp, he dragged her toward the stairs.

I’m not the victim I once was.

She tripped on the first step and fell hard on a shin, drawing a cry from her lungs. His answer was another yank on her hair and to slap the butt of his rifle across her face. Tasting blood, she stumbled up the steps after him, and out of the corner of her eye she saw the couple dash out the front door.

Stall him until the police get here.

She focused on Lionel, searching for a weakness. He huffed as he moved up the stairs, his thighs and stomach jiggling with excess fat. He wasn’t as fit as he used to be, and she was lean and powerful. Anxiety had driven her to develop and maintain physical strength in case she ever had to fight back again.

Today was that day.

I’ve spent ten years preparing for this moment.

She breathed hard, her heart slamming against her chest. I can do this. She would put an end to his control over her. She was done looking over her shoulder.

No matter the cost.

They reached the top of the stairs. “Which room?”

She pointed at the Cascade Suite, which she knew was empty. He tried the handle and then shoved her face into the wall next to the door. Blood streamed from her nose. “It’s locked!”

“Pocket.” She spit blood and cringed as his huge hands dug into her pocket, coming up with her ring of master keys. He pressed them into her hands.

She fumbled with the jingling ring, her brain screaming for her to place the keys between her fingers and drive them into his eyes. Instead she plunged one key into the lock and pushed the door open. Not yet.