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Tennessee Takedown
Lena Diaz
A SWAT officer in small-town Tennessee will do anything to protect the innocent beauty whose life has been put on the line in Lena Diaz’s Tennesse Takedown It can’t be a coincidence that in the past twenty-four hours, three different thugs have tried to kill or abduct Ashley Parrish. Sexy SWAT team leader Dillon Gray saved her, but now he wonders why someone would want to murder the beautiful accountantand why he finds her so infuriatingly attractive. Then the FBI comes after Ashley for embezzlement, and Dillon knows he must protect her from a killer and prove she’s being framed. Taking her on a hair-raising run through dangerous terrain barely fazes him. But wanting her for more than just one night scares the hell out of him.
“You’re cold.” He shoved his gun in the holster and started to unstrap his Kevlar vest as if to wrap it around her.
She placed her hand on his, stopping him. “No. That’s all you have to keep yourself warm. You already gave up your shirt for me. I’ll not have you freeze to death by giving me your vest.”
He nodded. “At least this cave is dry. I’d start a fire but it would be a beacon to the gunmen. Come on. Sit and we’ll huddle together to get warm.”
The images that conjured in her mind had her feeling warm all over.
“I promise I’ll behave,” he added, as if he thought she might be worried about his intentions.
Ashley snorted. “Don’t expect me to make the same promise.”
He chuckled and pulled her closer. “Are you always this shy, or am I special for some reason?”
Oh, he was definitely special, but no way was she saying that.
Tennessee Takedown
Lena Diaz
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LENA DIAZ was born in Kentucky and has also lived in California, Louisiana and Florida, where she now resides with her husband and two children. Before becoming a romantic suspense author, she was a computer programmer. A former Romance Writers of America Golden Heart
finalist, she has won a prestigious Daphne du Maurier award for excellence in mystery and suspense. She loves to watch action movies, garden and hike in the beautiful Tennessee Smoky Mountains. To get the latest news about Lena, please visit her website, www.lenadiaz.com.
Thank you, Allison Lyons and Nalini Akolekar.
This one is for Sean and Jennifer, and the fun memories of horseback riding and white-water rafting in Tennessee. Exploring the Smoky Mountains with you was a true joy. Looking forward to many more years of happy memories to look back on.
Am so very proud of both of you. Love you.
Contents
Chapter One (#u5fe27394-e4c2-50b1-ac8f-6d7675ac5d4b)
Chapter Two (#u326e127a-d90a-561b-902b-15f88a224411)
Chapter Three (#ubae5e1fc-29d6-5425-b46f-a74b7f88a106)
Chapter Four (#ua46e580e-c9f5-5e21-a83b-90131aed699b)
Chapter Five (#u1607ce71-830a-527c-9778-3def82050b24)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One
Ashley edged farther under the desktop in the cubicle, her fingers clutching the phone to her ear, her knees scraping against the coarse commercial carpet. Breathe...in, out, in, out. Focus, listen. Where is he?
Her breaths wheezed between her teeth, making a sharp whistling sound.
Calm down. He’ll hear you if you don’t calm down.
“Why don’t I hear any sirens yet?” she whispered to the nine-one-one operator.
“They’re on the way, ma’am. Is the shooter still in the building?”
“I’m not sure. I think so.”
“Stay where you are. Stay on the line. The police will be there soon.”
Her fingers tightened around the phone. That’s the same thing the operator had told her ten minutes ago—after the shooter killed Stanley Gibson.
They’d both been standing by the copier, chatting about nothing in particular while the machine spit out reports for their next meeting. A soft pfft sound whooshed through the air. A bright red circle bloomed on Stanley’s forehead. His eyes rolled up and he crumpled to the floor.
Ashley had stood frozen, too horrified to acknowledge what her subconscious already knew—someone had just shot one of her coworkers.
That’s when the screams began.
She’d whirled around. The shooter stood in the main aisle, his silver hair forming spikes across his head like porcupine quills. His dark gaze locked on her.
And then he smiled.
Ashley’s fight-or-flight instincts had kicked in. She ran. Around the corner, past the glass-enclosed offices the managers used. Empty. Thank God. At least half the company was out to lunch. But the rest were here, like her, trapped between the shooter and the only exit.
She kept running, to the other side of the building, to another maze of cubicles. She dove into the nearest one and grabbed the phone from the top of the desk. That was when she’d called nine-one-one.
A terrified scream echoed through the room.
Ashley’s pulse sputtered. “He’s still here,” she whispered.
“Help is on the way.”
The operator’s calm, matter-of-fact tone had Ashley clenching her teeth so hard her jaw ached. Didn’t the operator realize people were dying? Had the woman even called the police?
Leaning as far out of the cubicle as she dared, she risked a glance down the main aisle. The shooter’s progress through the offices of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services was marked by screams and shouts coming from the other side of the building.
The mournful wail of police sirens erupted outside the windows.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
“I hear sirens,” she whispered. “They’re close.”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you still in the same location?”
“I haven’t moved.”
“I’ve notified the police where you are. They’ll be there soon.”
Ashley was really starting to hate the word soon. And she also sorely regretted taking the auditing contract in Destiny, Tennessee. If she were in her home office in Nashville right now, she wouldn’t be cowering in a cubicle with a crazed shooter on the loose.
One of the young temps stuck her head out of another cubicle several aisles away. What was her name? Karen? Kristen? Ashley had only met her once and couldn’t remember. The girl’s face was ghostly pale, her eyes wide with terror as she silently begged Ashley for help.
Ashley’s stomach jumped as if she’d plunged down a steep drop on a roller coaster. The girl couldn’t be more than nineteen. Ashley had to help her. But how? Which cubicle was safer? Should she run to the girl, or have the girl run to her?
She sucked in a breath. Oh, no. Spiky gray hair showed above a row of cubicles down a side aisle. The shooter. And he was heading straight toward the temp.
Ashley frantically motioned for the girl to hide.
The girl’s brow furrowed and she raised her hands in the air, not understanding what Ashley was trying to tell her.
In a few more steps, the gunman would be able to see them both.
“Go back,” Ashley mouthed, desperately pointing at the approaching shooter.
He rounded the corner. Ashley ducked back behind the partitioned wall.
A high-pitched scream echoed through the room, then abruptly stopped.
She clamped her hand over her mouth. No, no, no.
A shoe scraped across the carpet. Ashley froze. A swishing sound whispered through the air, as if someone had brushed up against one of the fabric-covered cubicle walls. Close.
Too close.
“Ma’am, the police are evaluating the situation,” the operator said through the phone in her monotone voice.
Ashley quickly covered the receiver. Her pulse slammed in her ears as she waited, listened. Was the shooter the one who’d made that swishing noise? Had he heard the operator? Her hand shook as she gingerly hung up the phone. She couldn’t wait for the police anymore. If she didn’t do something, right now, she’d be as dead as Stanley Gibson.
* * *
DILLON GRAYCROUCHEDbeneaththe window, cradling his assault rifle. He and the rest of his six-man SWAT team waited for the green light to begin the rescue operation in the one-story office building of Gibson and Gibson Financial Services.
Beside him, his friend since childhood, Chris Downing, watched the screen on his wristband, showing surveillance from the tiny scope he’d raised up to the window. “Casualties at three and five o’clock,” he whispered into the tiny mic attached to his helmet. “One more at eleven o’clock. No sign of a shooter.”
Dillon’s earpiece crackled and his boss’s voice came on the line. “Witnesses indicate there could be two shooters. Descriptions inconsistent. Shooters are dressed in black body armor. Kill shot will be a headshot. They’re using handguns. No long guns or explosives reported.”
“Do we have the go ahead to move in?” Dillon asked, inching closer to the door.
“Negative. Still gathering intel. Hold your position.”
His team looked to him for direction, their faces taut with frustration. They wanted to go in as badly as he did.
“Do we have a count yet on how many civilians are inside?” Dillon asked his boss.
“Negative,” Thornton replied. “Workers are still pulling into the parking lot after lunch. Impossible to know how many escaped and how many remain.”
Meaning there could be dozens or more inside. Defenseless. Hiding under desks, in conference rooms, in closets, waiting, praying someone would help them. What chance did an unarmed office worker have against men with guns, picking them off like targets at a gun range?
The stock of his rifle dug into Dillon’s clenched fist. The Destiny, Tennessee, police department was small and more accustomed to patrolling acres of farmland and gravel roads than suiting up in flak jackets and storming buildings. His SWAT team consisted of beat cops, desk jockeys and other detectives like him, but they’d all been hunting and shooting since they could walk. And they trained regularly, and hard, for this type of situation. What was the point of that training if they cowered and did nothing? How many civilians had died in the few minutes his team had been crouching beneath the windows? How many of those civilians were their own friends and neighbors?
“The team is ready and willing to go. Strongly requesting permission to enter, sir.”
“Negative,” Thornton replied. “Stand down, Detective Gray. Await further instructions.”
Dillon cursed.
Chris tapped his shoulder. “Movement on the east corner,” he whispered. “Appears to be a civilian. Belly crawling toward the exit.” His tortured gaze shot to Dillon. “Heavy blood trail.”
Dillon closed his fist around the mic so his boss wouldn’t hear him as he addressed his team.
“Chief Thornton ordered us to sit tight and wait. You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of if you follow orders. Some of you have families to support. I don’t. If he fires me, so be it. But I’m not waiting one more minute while people die inside. I’m going in.”
Every one of his teammates raised their thumbs, letting him know they were all in.
He glanced at the only woman on the team, Donna Waters.
“Don’t even say it,” she warned. “You’ve never been sexist before. Don’t start now. I’m not waiting outside while the guys get all the fun.”
Dillon ruefully shook his head and held his fingers in the air. “We go in five, four—”
