My heart was in my throat as I got out of the taxi, giving the driver twenty bucks. “Keep the change,” I told him. “Thanks.”

“Hey, no problem, man. It ain't my business, buddy, but you want me to wait? You don't look like you're expecting to be received too well.”

“No, I'm good,” I answered, waving him off. “One way or another, I'm not leaving for a while.”

“Your choice,” the driver said, looking around. I could understand his concern. I looked like shit, with a half-torn shirt, my hair all messed up, and a mouse growing under my left eye. Still, I wouldn't be stopped.

Smoothing my hair back as best I could, I for the first time wished I'd kept the short hair I'd had in the military. At least that way, I wouldn't look like a total lunatic.

Approaching the door, I squared my shoulders and rang the front doorbell. There was a long chunk of silence, and I reached for the doorbell again when I heard steps coming toward the door. “Coming!”

The door rattled, locks being thrown back before opening, and I saw a woman standing in the doorway. She was about forty-five, or maybe a well put together fifty, with a certain coldness to her features that told me that she was from upper crust society. I guessed I had just met Brittany, Abby's stepmother.

I cleared my throat and spoke in my most polite voice, regardless of the hurricane of emotions roaring through me. “Mrs. Rawlings, I need to speak to your husband. It’s very important.”

Her look told me everything I needed to know. I'd seen it over two hundred times before, applying for jobs before starting at Lake Ford. It was the look that said fuck off. “I'm sorry, but Patrick is not available right now. I suggest trying him at the office on Monday.”

She closed the door in my face, but before she could lock it, I stepped back and kicked as hard as I could. I wished I had on my work boots, but the running shoes were enough to do the trick, and the door flew back, Mrs. Rawlings tumbling to the floor from the force. “Can't wait,” I said, stepping over her and walking inside. “I’m sorry.”

“Brittany?” a man called from the back, followed by the sound of rushing feet. “What the hell was that?”

Patrick Rawlings came around the corner into the main hallway, stopping dead in his tracks. “You.”

“Me,” I said, dismissing the venom in his voice. I couldn't deal with his bullshit right now. I needed his help. If he wanted to hate me after that, I wouldn't stop him. “We need to talk.”

“I'm calling the cops,” he said, stepping back and heading down the hallway. “Your ass is going back to jail.”

“Fine, call the cops, but tell them to rescue Abby first!” I yelled after him. “She's in trouble, and I need your help!”

Patrick's footsteps stopped, and I heard Brittany start to get up off the floor. I waited for Patrick to return, and in the meantime I held out my hand to Brittany, offering her assistance up off the floor. “Sorry about that. I just couldn't waste any more time.”

She didn’t respond, but took my hand and let me help her up. “I need your help,” I repeated to her instead.

“You said that already,” Patrick replied as he came back into the room. “Tell me what you mean.”

I wasn't sure where to begin, so I started from the day before. “Yesterday, Abby and I spent the day together,” I started, pausing when I saw the expression on her father's face. I'd mentally punched him in the gut, or maybe a few inches higher, right in the heart, but I couldn't afford the pity right then. “She knew you'd object, so she told you that she was invited to a party.”

“Yes, with Chris Lake,” Patrick said. “They used to date, back when she was in high school.”

“I know. To try and make up for it, Abby asked her friend, Shawnie, to go in her place, with an excuse and apology. This morning, she was supposed to tell you the truth.”

He crossed his arms over his chest, nodding. “When she found me this morning, she said that her friend hadn't replied to a text message, and she just wanted to check to see if she was okay.”

“I got a text saying that she had to do something,” I said. “We exchanged a few more messages, the last a bit after noon. Then, about an hour ago, Chris came home to the apartment. Mr. Rawlings, I know this is crazy, but Chris kidnapped both girls. He plans to drug them, and I think . . . well, I don't want to say it.”

“How do you know?” Brittany asked. “How can we trust you?”

“Does this look like a fucking joke?” I hissed, pointing to my eye. I pulled up my t-shirt, showing her my already bruising rib. “What about this? That fucking psycho has Abby and Shawnie, and you're doubting my word?”

I was angry, breathing hard and trying not to scream at her. Patrick watched it all, then nodded. “Fine. I’ll believe you. What do you need?”

“Abby said the party was out by the reservoir. What did she mean?”

He nodded again. “Blalock Reservoir. She said that Chris had signed a big real estate deal out there. At least half of the shoreline is undeveloped.”

“That must be it,” I said. “I need you to get the cops out there, somehow. I couldn’t go to them—that’s why I came here. Tell them whatever you want, but you have to get them out there. They won't believe me. I'm a fucking felon with a dishonorable discharge to my name. Even you hate me. But I swear by everything I hold dear in this world, I am telling the truth.”

“Okay,” Patrick said without a second's hesitation. He turned around and went to the back, returning a moment later with his phone and the keys.

“You drive,” he said, tossing me the keys. “I'll talk to the cops and the phone company while you drive. Follow my directions. I know where the reservoir is. Brittany, you stay here in case we're on a wild goose chase. I pray that we are.”

“Be safe, Patrick,” Brittany called. “And get her back. I love you.”

He stopped in the doorway, turning to his wife. “I love you too, sweetheart. Don't worry. If this is true, we'll get her back.”

His vehicle was a heavy duty Chevy Pickup, complete with off-road tires. I felt about twenty feet tall sitting in the driver's seat, and a small part of my mind flashed back to the time I'd driven an armored Humvee on patrol in Iraq. It was about the same size.

Patrick mistook my momentary flashback for a question about his choice of vehicle. “I have another, but this should be better for our needs,” he said, sliding into the shotgun seat. “Think you can handle it?”

“Quite,” I said, starting the engine and putting it in drive. I jammed the accelerator to the floor, heading out toward the main street. Old habits die hard, and while it had been five years, I could still drive well. “Where do we go?”

“South, along 75,” Patrick said. “I think the exit is 224. It's the Hudson Bridge Road exit.”

“Gotcha,” I said, gaining speed. A terrible dread settled in my stomach as I pushed the truck past sixty, shooting through a red light and earning a few honked horns. “Hope your insurance is paid up.”

Patrick didn't reply, instead calling the cops. He talked with the dispatcher for a few minutes, explaining the situation. When he hung up, he was pissed off. “Fucking cops can't do much without knowing an address,” he said. “And Abby has only been missing a few hours. Shit!”

“Calm down,” I replied, my fingers tight on the wheel. “Abby told me you've had heart problems in the past. I don't need you having a fucking coronary on me while trying to help Abby.”

Patrick glanced at me, then shook his head. “What is it with you, Bell? You kill your friend, but now you're trying to save my daughter?”

“I killed my friend because he was trying to rape a teenage Iraqi girl, and he was going to stab me with a bayonet,” I answered, not taking my eyes off the road as I shot up the on-ramp to the Interstate, already going seventy-five. “As for Abs, she’s a special girl, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yeah, I do,” Patrick replied. “Hold on, let me try something. I gave Abby a Camaro as a graduation gift from high school.”

“Yeah, I rode in it yesterday. Nice car. You got it tuned up, too.”

Patrick grunted in acknowledgment, then continued. “I had it equipped with OnStar. Her phone is under my contract, and that damn gadget has every gizmo on the planet on it.”

I saw where he was going. “You can have those tracked. The car's OnStar and her phone's GPS. One of them should still be working.”

“That's what I figure,” Patrick replied. He dialed his phone again, talking to an OnStar rep. As the official owner of the car, he was able to get the car's location and have it sent to his truck, where it popped up on an in-dash navigation system. “Finally, a use for that hunk of junk. Abby insisted I get it though. Never have used it for more than a fancy clock and CD player until now.”

“More importantly, now you can tell the cops,” I added, watching as the route to the point was laid out over the navigation.

He shook his head. “OnStar is doing that for me right now. They can feed the cops the exact GPS coordinates. I'm going to try and get an aerial shot of the area though, just in case.”

He tapped at his phone, cursing occasionally as he fiddled with the unfamiliar technology. “After this, remind me to learn how to use this goddamn thing,” he finally said. “I just let Abby do most of this for me.”

“I will,” I replied, pushing the truck faster. Above ninety, it started to shimmy some. The high tires and boxy exterior were meant for rugged low speeds and not aerodynamics, so I kept the speed down at eighty-five. “Four miles until the exit.”

“Do you love her?” Patrick asked randomly, his head still buried in his phone. “You're not just trying to seduce her?”

“I'll die for her if I need to,” I answered grimly. “I came to your door—hell, I kicked it down, knowing there was a decent chance I'd end up catching a shotgun to the chest. Does that answer your question?”

“I think it does,” Patrick replied. “I knew you two were still talking, by the way.”

“How?” I asked.

He pointed to his phone. “I get a detailed bill on the phones by email every second of the month. That includes every number that she's called or texted in the past thirty days.”

“She was angry with me when she found out who I was. I wasn't trying to mislead her, but that first night, I didn't really know who she was either.”

I got off the Interstate and kept following the navigation. I knew at some point soon I'd have to keep my eyes open. The way Abby had described the house, the road likely wasn't going to be well-marked or even paved.

Patrick looked out the window, seemingly lost in thought before he spoke up. “After her mother and sister were killed, I only had Abby,” he said softly, looking out on the rapidly dimming evening sky. “If I was overprotective, it was because I couldn't stand to lose her too.”

“You won't,” I promised, turning right. “I think this is the right road. I see a house up ahead—see the lights?”

“No,” Patrick admitted. “You must have better eyes than me.”

The road quickly became rough and bumpy, and I wondered if we were on the right track. Still, the house grew closer and closer, and we were getting closer to Abby's car, too. I gunned the engine, not caring if we tore up the shocks on the truck. Patrick said nothing, putting his hand on the dash and hanging on grimly while we bounced our way down the washboard road.

The house was on the edge of the lake, a two-story job that looked like it wasn't quite good enough to be a permanent house, but had when it was originally built been a pretty good vacation getaway. On our left, I could see blue lights approaching, and I knew the cops were approaching on another road, probably one that ran along the edge of the lake. Still, they were a good distance away and weren't rushing the way we were. I couldn't trust that they'd get there in time, and I pushed the engine harder.

I skidded to a halt in front of the house, still a quarter-mile from the readout for Abby's car. Still, the house was the best chance for her location, and I was desperate, spraying gravel from the tires and leaping out. I immediately heard a sound that made my blood run ice cold, as Abby screamed as loud as she could. Running, I headed for the back of the house where I heard the sound coming from. It sounded like the garage, but there was no visible front door, with the garage door itself firmly padlocked shut. I went around and up the short stairs to the back porch, finding the rear entrance. This time, instead of kicking, I lowered my shoulder, hitting the door like I did back when I was on the high school football team. The old frame nearly exploded as I bulled through, looking for someone or something to fight. There was an open door leading down to the garage, and then a sound that again sent chills down my spine, as Abby's scream was cut off like a switch with a harsh, slapping sound. “Shut up, bitch.”

Ironically, what should have driven me to even greater levels of rage, instead pushed me all the way past my emotions, drawing me into the cold, calculated place that I had last touched nearly five and a half years ago in Iraq. The killer inside me, the one that had actually shot at people with intent—and been rewarded, not sent to jail—was loose, and glad to be out of his mental cell. Almost unconsciously, I reached out and scooped up a kitchen chair, brandishing the wooden legs in front of me like a lion tamer as I jumped the short three steps down to the floor.

The first thing I saw was Abby, trussed up and bound like a side of beef, her arms cinched above her head and her eyes half-shut, bruised and battered but still conscious, if only barely. She was alive at least, and I had to secure the area, so I turned my eyes away, scanning the rest of the room.

The next thing I saw was Chris, a knife in his hand, brandishing it toward me. Next to him, sagging in her bonds and moaning, was Shawnie, who'd been cut numerous times, the blood dark on her skin in the overhead fluorescent light.

“One more step, and I cut her fucking throat,” Chris said, quickly stepping behind Shawnie and pulling her hair, exposing her neck. “Don't think I won't do it, hero boy.”

“Drop the knife, Chris,” I said, lowering the chair. It wasn't an effective weapon anyway. I had used it just to shield myself as I came through the door. My killer side knew that right now, the best thing to do was to get him to talk. Killing could come later. “The cops are right behind me, and you don't want a murder rap on top of it all. Trust me, I know.”

Chris chuckled and pulled Shawnie's hair harder. She was obviously drugged, her eyes rolling in her head. Somewhere, deep down, I think she knew what was going on. “Don't think I can get any worse than this, Dane, my boy. Two kidnappings, assault, and of course, the testimonies you and Abby there will give against me? No way, that’s not looking too good at all.”

“You let them go, I let you go,” I said simply. “On my honor.”

Chris's knife faltered, and he looked at me in slight distrust. “Why would I trust you?”

I shrugged and sat down on the chair, even though it took everything in my power to do it. “You trusted me, gave me a place to stay. You could have turned me out, let me fucking hang. You didn't. I owe you my life. I think this makes us even.”

Chris's knife faltered, drawing away from Shawnie's throat, which is what I wanted. What I didn't plan on, however, was Shawnie. Seemingly trapped in a drug-induced state, she threw her head back, her skull smashing into Chris's nose and mouth, sending him stumbling backward into the wall.

I was out of the chair and on him in a flash. Driving low, I hit him hard with my shoulder in his stomach, lifting him and bouncing him again off the side of the garage. The knife fell from his hand to clatter on the ground, out of his grasp and temporarily out of my concern.

Not giving him a chance to recover, I threw him to the side, bouncing his body off the floor before nailing him under the chin, snapping his head up and back with a kick that would have put a football through the uprights at a good distance. I stood over him, trembling while the killer inside me warred against the better half of my nature, until finally a compromise was reached.

“Never trust a convicted killer.” I spat at the unconscious body. I kicked him as hard as I could in the ribs, feeling something give way under my foot with a satisfying crunch. “Sick fuck.”

I heard a whimper behind me and I turned, seeing Shawnie's desperate and half-lidded, drugged out eyes. “Sorry, Shawnie. I'll try and be gentle.”

I stood up and looked at the bonds Shawnie was being held with, trying to figure out what to do, when I heard a choked gasp behind me. “Abby?”

Patrick's body hit the floor before I could even get to him, his hands clutching at the left side of his chest. His face was paper white, except for two bright red blotches on his cheeks. He looked like a porcelain doll in a perverse way. “Heart . . .”

“Don't you fucking die on me,” I growled, pulling him up and out of the garage and back into the kitchen. I lifted his feet up and grabbed the other kitchen chair, elevating his legs and hopefully helping his heart. You're supposed to do it for shock, but I had to do something. “Hold on, the cops will be here in a second.”

I could hear the car approaching, far too slow for my taste. “Move it, you fucking Deputy Dawgs!” I screamed before loosening Patrick's clothing. “I can't do all this shit by myself!”

“Abby?” Patrick whispered, reaching up and taking my hand. I squeezed his fingers, staying next to him. “Where's Abby?”

“She's fine,” I said, lying through my teeth. I had no fucking clue how Abby was, except that she was alive. “I don't think Chris touched her.”

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, his eyes fluttering shut. His head sagged back, and I leaned down, checking him. No heartbeat.

“Shit!” I grunted, tearing open his shirt to double check. “Don't you fucking die on me, old man!”

I heard Abby stirring in the garage, just as the cop car stopped outside. The doors to the car closed, and I heard the scrape of boots on the dirt. “Move your asses, boys!” I yelled even as I interlaced my hands and looked for the compression point. It’d been years, but the basics of giving CPR were still there in my mind. “I've got a man in cardiac arrest in here!”