Page 1 of The Survivor
CHAPTER 1
Blake Corwin was about to raise a woman from the dead.
He didn’t like it, and God knew if he had any viable choices left he would have left Samantha Dawson in peace and found another way to go about this. But there was no other way, no other hope except this woman who had suffered more in six months than most people suffered in a lifetime.
“She won’t talk to us, you know,” his partner murmured.
Blake furrowed his brows, trying to stop the frustration he felt from seeping into his expression. He adjusted the shoulder holster under his sports coat and directed a questioning look at the other man before continuing up the snowy path to the farmhouse up ahead.
“What makes you say that?” he asked, stepping over a fallen log.
“Look around you, man.” Rick Scott gestured to the isolated area. “There’s a reason why she requested a safe house out of the city. No chance of any human contact.”
He tried not to let their surroundings affect his sense of purpose, but he had the sneaking suspicion that Rick’s assessment was accurate. Aside from the rambling white-and-green house, the land stood barren. Very few trees, grass covered by a thin layer of silver frost, and not another structure in sight. The nearest house was a mile away, and when they’d pulled into the long winding driveway earlier, Blake’s chest had tightened with what he could only describe as a sense of doom.
He hated this place, hated everything it represented. Fear. Despair. Torment. The woman living here was isolated from the world, and it tore him up knowing he was partly responsible for it. A madman had put Samantha Dawson in this desolate farmhouse, but Blake’s inability to catch a killer was keeping her there.
“I feel like I’m walking in a freezer.” Rick shivered and pulled the zipper of his light jacket all the way to the collar. “Are you sure we’re in Illinois? Seems like Antarctica.”
Born and raised in Chicago, which boasted some of the coldest winters in the country, Blake merely chuckled. “Poor kid. Why don’t you go back to L.A. and crawl under a palm tree?”
Rick frowned. “Don’t make me pull out my gun, Agent Corwin.”
“Do it. I’d love to see you explain to Knight why you shot his—and I quote—best agent.”
“You’re never going to let that go, are you?”
Blake offered a grin, knowing just how much it pissed Rick off. Funny, how when Blake caught a serial killer he rarely received a word of praise from Michael Knight. But when he found his supervisor’s lost dog? Well, that was almost worthy of promotion.
“Who brings his dog to work anyway?” Rick grumbled. He kicked a pile of slush as he walked.
“Hey, don’t look all upset. It’s not my fault that Jasper was hiding in the storage room when I walked in.”
Rick frowned again. “You didn’t see Knight licking my boots when I brought in Butcher Betty.”
“As I recall, I was there too, slapping the handcuffs on her,” Blake pointed out.
Their good-natured banter died as they reached the rickety wraparound porch. A lone wicker chair sat in the corner, and hanging above the front door was a set of wind chimes thatjingled cheerfully each time the cold late autumn breeze swept by. Yet there was nothing cheerful about this house, with its disheveled exterior and the layer of lime-green paint peeling and cracking on the front door.
Blake glanced around and saw that there wasn’t a doorbell. Reaching out, he rapped his knuckles against the solid wood, then turned to Rick as they waited for an answer. “Think she’s home?”
“She’s home.” Rick crooked his finger to the left. “Her car’s here.”
Blake couldn’t believe he’d missed the pale-beige vehicle parked in the detached garage a few feet from the house. Maybe it was just the frigid November air freezing his senses. Or hell, maybe this goddamn case had finally gotten to him.
The sound of footsteps pulled his attention back to the door in front of him. His senses kicked back into place, ears perking up at what sounded like a padlock being scraped open. The clicks that followed told Blake that Samantha Dawson had not one, not two, but a total of five locks on her door, as well as a security system that beeped incessantly as the person inside deactivated it.
A fortress in a farmhouse.
Not that he blamed her for taking such precautions.
“She used to be a swimsuit model, you know,” Rick remarked in a low voice.
“Well aware of that.”
They stood patiently until the door opened. When it did, Blake found himself staring down the barrel of a steel-black shotgun. By instinct, he almost reached for his own gun, but when he met the eyes of the woman in front of them, he reconsidered.
She appeared more frightened than menacing. Her big gray eyes, surrounded by thick sooty eyelashes, looked so hauntedthat Blake’s throat tightened with an emotion he couldn’t quite place. He’d read her file, knew what haunted her, but somehow he hadn’t expected to see the overwhelming fear lining each delicate feature of her face. And what a face it was. High cheekbones, lush pink lips, a straight aristocratic nose. In the old days men would’ve started wars for a woman like this.
