Page 2 of Marked

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Sophia bolted from her chair and dashed to the frantic man near the back of the pub screaming his head off. Luckily, she wasn’t seated far. “What happened?”

“H-He’s dead! Someone killed my friend. A man... he just ran through the kitchen.” The guy turned and pointed.

Well, hell. “Call the police,” she instructed, her tone calm yet hard.

He nodded wildly and pulled out his cellphone.

Sophia drew her gun from its spot at the small of her back and ran down the hall, weapon pointed at the ground. She’d just gotten off her shift and didn’t have her radio, otherwise she’d call dispatch and have backup sent from the Seattle Police Department.

So much for enjoying a drink with Cassie, who, of course, was running late. Again.

A woman came out of the ladies’ room. Her eyes widened on the gun in Sophia’s hand, and she shrieked.

“Quick, get out.” Sophia waved her past, and the woman’s heels clomped on the tile floor.

Sophia shouldered open the swinging kitchen door and panned the room. A man in a baseball cap was shoving his way through the staff.

Adrenaline lit her veins. “Everyone down!” she cried, as she charged through the overheated space. Grease stung her skin as she rushed past the deep fryer, her eyes locked on the man’s frame.

“Police! Freeze!”

The man dipped his head and sprinted out the back door.

Shit.

If the blubbering guy was right and someone was dead in the washroom, it didn’t matter if she was on the clock or not. She had to move. She couldn’t exactly let a killer run free. Not when she could catch him. Sweat dampened her neck, and she ached to reach for the radio that would’ve been at her shoulder had she been on duty.

Running for the exit, she kept her weapon positioned in front of her. She paused at the door and wet her lips. If he was smart, he’d be long gone. Tension radiated through her muscles. She sent a glance over her shoulder at the few awe-filled eyes from the kitchen staff. “Everyone, stay inside.” She booted open the door and stepped into the warm night air.

She swept the gun to her right and—

Slam!

A hard body crushed her against the outside wall of the building. One of the man’s hands pinned her wrist to the wall, caging her gun. His other hand sat forcefully at the base of her throat.

“Stay the fuck out of this,” he hissed.

Panic glued her tongue to the roof of her mouth. Her training urged her to fight back, but her muscles were frozen in his hold. His large, scorching-hot palm firmly on her neck. One hard, long squeeze and she’d be done.

Stay calm, dammit.

Blinking slowly, hoping it would assure him she wouldn’t make a move, she lifted her gaze to his partially shadowed face. His hat hid most of his features, but the light overhead was like a spotlight on the visible ones.

Stubble darkened a jawline so chiseled and straight that a shrill warning bell went off in her head.

Was this their guy?

No. It can’t be.

But if he’d really just killed a man in the restroom, there was a damn good chance she was staring at the one man who’d slipped through the fingers of the police department, the FBI, and all the other organizations that surely had this sonofabitch on their wanted lists.

“I know who you are,” she gasped. The words left her mouth before she could stop them.

His throat bobbed on a swallow.

Her fingers ached to yank off his hat, but she didn’t need to. She’d committed that jawline to memory based on the one photo the department had of him—a grainy cell-phone shot taken in the woods when he helped rescue Brooks Ivanov from his torturous captors...

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