Page 62 of The Killer She Knew

Leigh registered the wall of muscle at Ford’s back. “I mean, you thought of everything except him.”

Ford grabbed for her service weapon and spun. Not fast enough. Dean slammed the palm of his hand into the son of a bitch’s wrist. The gun tore from Ford’s grip and was lost to the inky black waters climbing up Leigh’s body. Dean’s fist rocked into the marshal’s face. Once. Twice. Ford lost his footing, and the two men dove into the depths together.

She was out of options. Leigh bit back a scream as she pressed her knuckles into the chair’s arm. Plastic cut into skin and tendon, but it had to break sooner or later. It had to. Both men struggled for the upper hand mere feet away in a brutal desperation for dominance and survival.

But a strong kick hit her chair.

Leigh was falling backwards. Water consumed her in an instant. It drove into her mouth, up her nose. Black watersfought her attempts to break free and crushed her from every side. Her lungs were emptied in a matter of seconds. Only the dim light of the lantern gave her any direction of which way was up.

Frantic churning told her Dean and Ford were still locked in their battle. Neither of them had noticed she’d gone under. She was on her own. Trapped. Alone. The zip ties seemed so much tighter than they had a moment ago, the wood of the chair soaking up as much water as possible. Leaving her with less slack.

Her screams went unheard. Her thrashing ignored.

She was going to die in the flooded basement of the university that’d helped shape her into a survivor. As a student who learned what heartbreak really entailed. As an agent who’d stood against police corruption and senseless murder. As a woman who’d taken the leap to rebuild her family and trust again. None of it had done a damn bit of good in the end.

Strong hands latched on to her arms and hauled her upright. Water choked from her nose and mouth as she grasped for a single molecule of oxygen.

“You’re not getting away from me that easy, little rabbit.” Dean. He’d saved her. Calluses scraped against her jawline. “Breathe, damn it.”

Her lungs took the order to heart. Air rushed to replace water in her chest. Before she had a chance to blink the water from her eyes, his touch was gone. The hard thud of fists broke through the pounding of her heart between her ears. Hair clung to her face in long streaks, cutting off some of her vision.

Dean slammed his knee into Ford’s jaw then rushed to lock the imposter marshal in a headlock. Ford’s elbow connected with his assailant’s torso. Neither gained the advantage over the other. Light and dark. Push and pull. Perfectly matched in every way.

But Leigh could tip the scales.

The flood had increased by another couple of inches, crawling across her lap. This entire section of the basement would be underwater in under thirty minutes at this rate. Blood leaked from her wrists as she twisted against the swollen chair arm. Her toes barely touched the floor, but she had to try. She pushed her toes into the floor as much as she could and kicked off. The chair swayed backwards once again. Panic had her overcorrecting, but the precarious balance had gotten her that much closer to the workbench. There had to be something—anything—she could use to get herself out of this damn chair.

Leigh tried again. And again.

The chair hit the edge of the makeshift workbench. The lantern wobbled on impact, revealing nothing but two more sets of syringes on the surface of the table.

Her fingertips barely brushed a few inches over the ledge. If she could get to the syringes, she might be able to use one for leverage between the chair arm and the zip ties. Hope fled as she stretched her hand as far to one side as possible. Rocking forward, she tried to balance on her toes, but ripples of water knocked her off course. It was no use.

A frustrated growl vibrated through her. “Come on!”

She could do this. She had to do this. She hadn’t survived the loss and grief and betrayal of those she’d once trusted to give in now. She was a mother now. Not as good as her own, but a mother all the same. That was worth fighting for. Marshal Ford—or whoever the hell he really was—was just the latest in a long line of jackasses who thought they could control her. She deserved a future. With Ava and all the complications of substitute motherhood that came with it. With the BAU and maybe even a nice guy who wouldn’t try to kill her one day. A girl could dream. Or she could make that dream a reality.

The brutal fistfight at her back grew louder. Closer. Neither Dean nor Ford were willing to give in. And she wouldn’t either. Pressing onto her toes, Leigh forced her weight forward. Her chest hit the edge of the worktable. One of the syringes rolled toward her, and she used her chin to position it into her mouth. Careful not to bite down and expose herself to whatever drug Ford had loaded inside, she let the chair’s legs hit the floor. They were stronger than they looked, but the next few minutes would prove it.

She transferred the syringe to one hand, gripping it with everything she had. One chance. That was all she had to make this work.

Water slapped her across the face as Ford dropped onto all fours at her feet. Dark eyes connected with hers. Right before he drew his service weapon from the back of his waistband.

Turning, Ford took aim. And pulled the trigger.

Dean halted mid attack. Then stumbled back. Chin dropping to his chest. His black T-shirt revealed nothing but a red hole where there should’ve been skin over his right pec.

The breath rushed out of her as he dropped to his knees. Eyes focused solely on her as though in apology for taking a bullet. “Dean.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Durham, New Hampshire

Thursday, October 10

9:02 p.m.

“Now that’s more like it.” Ford pressed a once-polished shoe into Dean’s shoulder, turning her ex onto his back. “Who knew you still had so much fight in you?”

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