Deadly Attraction Read online

  DEADLY ATTRACTION

  SCVC Taskforce Book 6

  Misty Evans

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  Deadly Attraction

  Copyright © 2016 Misty Evans

  ISBN: 978-0-9966470-8-3

  Cover Art by Hot Damn Designs

  Formatting by Author E.M.S.

  Editing by Patricia Essex, Angel Cleary

  By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this eBook. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The reverse engineering, uploading, and/or distributing of this eBook via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Table of Contents

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  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt from DEADLY PURSUIT

  Thank You for Reading

  Books by Misty Evans

  About the Author

  To Mark, who understands my brand of crazy.

  When we ride a horse, we borrow freedom.

  ~ Helen Thompson

  Chapter One

  Dusk in the cemetery was gray, flat. Dry winter grass stood unbending, endless gravestones stretched toward the east. The warmth of the earth bled into the cooling air, sending mist rising.

  Mitch Holden raised the bottle of single malt scotch he’d brought with him to his lips and took a swig. The liquid burned on the back of his tongue, down his throat.

  Mac loved foggy evenings.

  Red and green grave decorations sprinkled throughout the cemetery signified the time of year. Did the dead really care about a crass holiday filled with things and people that would all fade in the end? Did they regret all the petty stuff, like Christmas decorations, they’d focused on when they were alive?

  A sign at the entrance to the cemetery read, “One decoration per grave marker. All others will be removed.” It appeared, by the overdone ornamentation on some of the cold marble and granite stones, that people either didn’t give a shit about following the rules, or the rules weren’t enforced.

  Most likely both.

  One sad bouquet of fake red flowers with a gold bow had been stuffed into the vase receptacle on Mac’s headstone, a simple American flag stuck in amongst the glitter. Their mother had been by to visit her favorite son’s grave.

  Momma always follows the rules.

  Mitch sipped again and poured some of the scotch on his twin brother’s grave. The 21-year-old single malt had been in Mac’s locker on base when Mitch had cleaned it out five years ago. “Merry Christmas, you son-of-a-bitch. I can’t believe you left me here alone.”

  You’ve got Mom, he could hear his brother say. Stop being a dick and go see her.

  “Yeah, you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Mitch mumbled out loud.

  The gates closed at sundown. There was only one other visitor in the cemetery and luckily they were too far away to hear him talking to himself.

  The squeak of lousy brakes made Mitch turn his head. An old, brown pickup truck with peeling paint and gardening tools in the back pulled up at the gates. A man with white hair and overalls slid out and called to Mitch and the other visitor. “Gotta close up, folks.”

  Mitch propped the bottle of scotch next to the vase of Christmas flowers. Five years. Five goddamn years without his twin.

  Should have been me. I should have been the one to die in Yemen.

  That refrain was like a bad song stuck in his head. One he couldn’t ever get rid of. He had shrapnel embedded in his chest and his brother was six feet under. Because of me.

  Why did you have to listen to me, Mac?

  Mitch kissed his fingers and laid them on Mac’s headstone. “I miss you, big brother.” Mac had been older by a minute. He had never let Mitch forget it. “I’d give anything to hear your smartass mouth and see your stupid face. Wherever you are, heaven or hell, I hope you’re getting your money’s worth.”

  It was an old joke between them. Give ’em hell and get your money’s worth.

  Mitch’s phone buzzed as he walked toward the gates, the grass crunching under his boots. He blinked away the moisture in his eyes and glanced at the caller ID. The Beast. Falling into step behind the other visitor, also leaving, he hit the concrete walkway and tapped the talk button even though he didn’t want to. “Yo.”

  Cooper Harris, head of the SCVC Taskforce, barked in his ear. “Where are you, Holden?”

  Mitch squeezed his eyes shut for a second. “What’s up?”

  Harris didn’t miss that Mitch hadn’t answered his question. “You see your mother yet?”

  Something like that. “Sure. Merry Christmas and all that.”

  “Good. Got an assignment for you and it’s urgent.”

  “I’m on vacation.”

  “Taskforce members don’t get vacations.”

  “Director Dupé told me I had three days before I needed to report to you.”

  “He gave you three days to see your mother. You saw her, right? Vacation’s over.”

  Mitch didn’t need more time off anyway. He was definitely not visiting his mother. “Is this about the wildfires? Dupé already briefed me.”

  “That’s on your list too, but finding the prick who started ’em temporarily comes second.”

  California was no stranger to wildfires. Less than twenty miles west of where he was, a nasty one had been eating up acres of forest, homes, and businesses. Origination appeared to be in the state park that spanned thousands of acres, and initial reports suggested a lightning strike on the west side of the mountain as the trigger.

  In the past twenty-four hours, a new theory had come to light. A homegrown terrorist named Sean Gordon had been caught on security footage entering the forest. The guy had a rap sheet filled with fire-related crimes.

  Clearing the gate, Mitch gave the old man a nod and walked to his black Ford truck. “I can be back in San Diego in a couple hours.”

  “The assignment’s in northern San Diego County, near the state park. That’s why I’m calling you.”

  Mitch slid behind the wheel. As the sun gave up its fight with the approaching night, shadows stole over the graveyard, the perimeter lights flicking on one by one. “What’s i
nvolved?”

  “Not what, who. A woman named Emma Collins. Dr. Collins. She’s in danger.”

  The elite SCVC team handled violent crimes stemming from drug running, gangs, terrorists, and the like. Mitch started the truck. “From whom?”

  “Chris Goodsman.”

  It took a second for Mitch’s brain to recognize the name. “That actor kid who murdered his fiancée a couple of years ago?”

  “That’s the one. He escaped from a transport van that was evacuating prisoners from Aleta Hills today because of the fires. The van was run off the road by a pair of hijackers in a truck and the driver of the van was killed. A second security guard was severely injured and Goodsman escaped with the two in the truck.”

  The Hills—a federal prison for the rich and famous who couldn’t be put into a regular prison population without the risk of being killed. “What’s Goodsman got to do with this Dr. Collins?”

  “Collins was the forensic psychologist who testified against him during his well-publicized trial. While several experts said the kid had a psychotic break and agreed with the insanity defense, Collins claimed Goodsman was a…” There was a pause and Mitch figured Coop was reading from his notes. “Yeah, here it is, Goodsman is a ‘narcissistic sociopath.’ Collins said he was trying to fool the world into believing he had a temporary schizo break so he wouldn’t be sent to federal prison. She believed he should remain incarcerated for life.”

  “But he ended up at the Hills, cushy pillows and all.”

  “Over the past two years, his doctors say he was making progress. Showing no signs of delusional episodes or breaks with reality. No violent outbursts or anything else they could label as dangerous, so he was up for parole in three days. Collins strongly advised against his release. She even petitioned the governor.”

  Mitch drove out of the cemetery, making a left. Goodsman had been America’s favorite child actor who grew up playing the lead on a cable show spinoff of a popular sci-fi movie franchise. It had earned him a shelf full of awards, but when the series ended, the guy was 21 and had never done another thing. He’d spent several years as a party boy, being fired from one role after another.

  With the money he’d made during the ten years the show had run, he probably never needed to work again. Unless, of course, he’d blown all of that money on drugs and other stupidass shit.

  “Collins owns a ranch along the valley border of the park. Since you’re heading that way, I need you to check on her. Sending you the coordinates. We believe Goodsman is dangerous and he may be looking for revenge.”

  Goodsman’s murder trial had been headline news for months. Each year on the anniversary of the guilty verdict, fans all over the world held vigils and crap. “Guy’s been in for a couple of years, right? Seems like the first thing he’d want to do is grab a bacon cheeseburger, a pack of smokes, and get laid on his way to the border.”

  “I’m standing in his cell at the Hills,” Cooper said. “Sending you a picture of what I found under his bed.”

  Mitch stopped at a light, waited for the picture to come through his messages. Pulling it up, hair rose on the back of his neck. “Did you call the sheriff? They can get to Collins faster than I can.”

  “Cops are busy manning the holiday parade and helping folks north of where she lives with the wildfires. Dupé asked for you to personally haul ass over to Collins’ ranch and get her to a safe house.”

  Dupé. The director of the West Coast FBI and the man who’d created the taskforce. A man Holden respected almost as much as he did Cooper Harris.

  Mitch slapped his blue light onto the hood of his truck and jetted through the red light. “What’s Dupé’s interest in this?”

  “Personal. I’ll fill you in later. Dupé himself is on his way, but it’ll take him two to three hours from L.A.”

  He’d be at the address in under thirty minutes. “I’m on it.”

  They disconnected and Mitch glanced down at the picture still on his phone.

  In a cheery holiday red paint, Chris Goodsman had made his Christmas intentions for the doctor quite clear.

  Her fate is death. Her destiny is death.

  The Resistance knows.

  Collins dies bloody.

  Birth was a miracle.

  Even when it was a horse.

  Second Chance whinnied, shifting her weight as yet another contraction faded away. Emma stroked her left rear flank, mentally willing the foal inside her to help its mother out.

  Sweat ran down the back of Emma’s neck. The barn was stuffy, the natural light long faded. An overhead light and extra lanterns illuminated her job.

  “Where is that vet?” Will Longram said. “She should have been here by now.

  Emma’s farmhand had done three tours in Iraq, more in other places he didn’t speak about. PTSD seemed to make him especially sensitive to Second Chance’s current situation. The pregnant mare had been neglected and eventually abandoned by her former owners, coming to Emma through the local horse rescue group. In the past two weeks, she and Will had managed to bond with the horse while getting her back into shape. Her coat now glistened, her eyes were clear. The open sores on her neck were nearly healed.

  But now, her foal was breach.

  As a fresh contraction gripped Second Chance, Emma grabbed the two skinny legs of the foal and pulled. The resistance strained her muscles, made her lower back ache. Digging in her heels, she leaned back and tried to stifle the yell that pushed against her vocal chords. Second Chance was skittish of loud noises and new people. Emma didn’t want to scare the poor girl by cutting loose with her own inner primal animal.

  Suddenly, the foal shifted. The buttocks popped out.

  “Progress!” Emma said, breathing hard and wiping her forehead with her sleeve. She was covered in dust, blood, and sweat, her muscles screaming for relief.

  But the adrenaline rush was incredible. The foal’s life was in her hands. Second Chance’s too. Her exhaustion was nothing compared to the mare’s, and she would not let the new mother down. “Will, help me.”

  The man looked left and right, his own skittishness apparent. “I shouldn’t touch her.”

  Second Chance wasn’t the only rescue at the ranch. Will believed he was bad luck.

  He’d long ago convinced himself it was his fault his unit had been wiped out during a village raid, while he had lived. His imaginary bad luck extended to everything he did; if something went wrong at the ranch, he blamed himself, even though it had nothing to do with him. He’d tried to end his life more than once.

  Emma hadn’t yet convinced him of the opposite; that he had lived because he had a larger purpose in this world. A purpose for good. He simply needed to channel his past experiences into something that would help others the way he was helping her.

  “Get in here and help me pull, Will. Second Chance needs you. I need you.”

  At his feet sat Emma’s first rescue—a dog named Lady. The part Lab, part pit bull terrier, was nearly ten years old and didn’t get excited about too many things. She had taken a liking to Will from the start and now followed him everywhere. Emma suspected the dog even slept in his bed.

  Will’s forty-something face screwed into a ball of lines and crow’s feet, but he did as he was asked, climbing over the fence into the stall. He moved slowly, carefully, as Second Chance eyed him and took a step away. Lady watched, completely unruffled.

  “It’s okay, girl,” Will said to the horse, stopping and giving her a moment to adjust to his presence. Once she glanced away, bobbing her head as if giving him permission, he took a step toward Emma.

  She gave him the foal’s scrawny legs and grabbed hold of it just above the buttocks, using the hips for leverage. “Next contraction, we’re getting her out.”

  God, she was tired, but this birth was exactly what she needed. Seeing new life come into the world at this time of year would take her mind off the young life that had ended two years ago. A foal would keep her busy over the next few days, give her some
thing to concentrate on so the Christmas depression didn’t swallow her and leave her like a fish out of water, desperately clinging to life until the worst of it passed.

  The next contraction hit and she and Will pulled with all their combined weights. A slippery, sucking noise sounded and the foal popped free, taking both of them down with it as it tumbled to the stall floor.

  Warm, sticky fluid covered Emma, the weight of the body on top of her making her laugh. “We did it!”

  Second Chance turned around and huffed breath through her nose, nudging Emma and the foal. Emma slid the newborn off her and came up onto her hands and knees.

  “It’s not breathing,” Will said, backing up. The fear in his eyes was real. “I killed it.”

  Emma backed up, too, giving Second Chance space to get to her baby. “Go to work, mamacita. It’s up to you now.”

  Instinct took over and Second Chance began cleaning the foal, licking off the birth sac and stimulating the foal’s body. A second later, Emma saw a hoof twitch, saw the foal’s lungs expand.

  “You didn’t kill her,” Emma said, leaning back on the stall fence. She shook from head to toe. Using her shirt sleeve, she brushed hair from her eyes. “You saved her.”

  Running footsteps sounded outside the barn. “I’m here!”

  Jane Sheppard ran in, her black vet bag in hand. She pulled up at the sight of the foal, wobbling its way to a standing position. “Well, will you look at that.”