His arm banged against something hard and unyielding. The current shoved him against a solid object—the truck, tangled up in a downed tree at the edge of the river.
The powerful current tugged at him, trying to pull him back out. His wet hands flailed against the slippery metal. He kicked hard and slammed into the bumper. Latching on, he stubbornly refused to let go. Hand over hand, using the bumper like a towline, he carefully inched his way down the end of the truck.
His kicking feet struck bottom. He pushed, his calf muscles burning from exertion as he fought his way to the driver’s door. Waves pummeled his back. He coughed up a lungful of water and kept pushing, one step at a time.
The rain wouldn’t let up, and as more and more of Dillon’s body rose up out of the water, he began to shiver. His teeth chattered so hard he wondered they didn’t chip or break.
When he finally reached the door, he saw what he’d already suspected. The cab was empty. Had Ashley made it out alive? What about the man who’d abducted her?
That thought drove him harder, through the shallows toward land.
He wanted to curse and rail at the storm mercilessly pounding against him, and the sucking current trying to pull him away from shore. Every inch, every step, was a hard-fought victory. But he didn’t say the foul words he wanted to say. He made as little noise as he could, because he didn’t know if the man who’d taken Ashley was within earshot, perhaps waiting in the trees up ahead.
Hoping the dark, nearly moonless night would help conceal him, he struggled on. Past the truck now, clinging to the branches of the tree that had snared the vehicle. He pulled himself out of the water and collapsed on the muddy bank. If the kidnapper found him now, Dillon didn’t think he could do anything to defend himself. He was limp and spent.
Shivering in the mud, he lay there, gasping in precious air, trying to gather his strength. It was the icy rain, painfully stabbing the skin on his exposed arms, that finally made him move. He crawled forward, forcing one knee in front of the other until he reached the cover of trees. Using the low-hanging branch of a pine tree for leverage, he pulled himself to his feet.
Where was he? He couldn’t seem to get his bearings. A flash of lightning lit the sky, making everything as bright as daylight for a split second, just long enough for him to see his Jeep parked at the drop-off where the bridge used to be.
On the other side of the river.
He was on Cooper’s Bluff, with no weapons, no phone and no way off the island—presumably with an armed man holding a woman hostage.
Some days it didn’t pay to even put his boots on in the morning.
He shoved off the tree and trudged deeper into the forest, his weary legs shaking beneath him. It was damned embarrassing how much the freezing water had taken out of him. Thankfully, none of his men were there to see his sorry state.
A muted yell sounded from somewhere deep in the woods.
Dillon stiffened and tried to pinpoint the direction the sound had come from. A scream jolted him into action. His misery and exhaustion forgotten, he plunged into the trees at a full-out run.
* * *
ASHLEYHELDHERhand to her aching jaw and warily eyed the man who’d knocked her to the ground. Biting his arm wasn’t the smartest decision she’d ever made.
He towered over her, but it wasn’t his height or his brawny build that held her attention. It was the gun in his hand, the business end pointing straight at her head. She’d wondered why he hadn’t immediately chased her when the truck snagged in the tree and she dove out the window. Now she knew. He’d fished out the gun from the floorboard where it had fallen when the truck first went into the water.
Would it fire now that it was wet? The way her luck had gone today, she was betting it would.
He squatted down in front of her, the gun never wavering. Cold rain dripped through the thick foliage overhead, splashing onto his forearms. But he didn’t seem to notice. If he had yelled at her, it would have been far less frightening than the emotionless, dead look in his eyes. She mentally dubbed him Iceman, because he was so cold, as if he had no soul.
“Miss Parrish, bite me again and the next time I hit you you’ll be missing half your teeth.” He motioned toward her feet. “Take off your shoes.”
She frowned down at her sneakers. The idea of walking through the cold, soggy, rock-strewn forest without protection on her feet didn’t appeal to her in the least. “My shoes?”
“I’m not in the habit of repeating myself.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you want—”
He backhanded her, sending her sprawling onto the ground.
A yelp of pain escaped between her clenched teeth. He grabbed one of her feet and yanked off her shoe. Before she could get away from him, he yanked off her other shoe. When he let her go, she scrambled back like a crab on all fours. She cast a furtive glance around, looking for some kind of weapon. All she saw were small, round river rocks. Pelting him with those would be like poking an angry bull with a toy spear.
Iceman jerked at the laces on her confiscated shoes, yanking them out of the eyelets.
A feeling of dread swept through Ashley. There was only one reason she could think of that he’d want those laces. To tie her up.
She scrambled to her feet to run into the trees behind her.
“I need you alive,” his voice echoed, freezing her in place. “But you don’t need kneecaps to live. Sit your butt back down.”
She sucked in a sharp breath and plopped on the ground. “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”
“Hold out your hands.” He squatted down in front of her again with one of the shoelaces.
It was so tempting to take advantage of his vulnerable position and turn him into a soprano, but without shoes she wasn’t sure she could kick him hard enough to risk another swing of his fist. She was also rather fond of her kneecaps.
She grudgingly held out her hands.
The wet lace bit into her left wrist as he yanked it tight. He was just as rough with her right wrist, painfully tightening the shoelace against her skin, jerking it to ensure it wouldn’t slip off. He knotted the two laces together, forcing her to lock her fingers in a two-handed fist to relieve the pressure.
“Police,” a voice yelled behind him. “Put your hands above your head and lie facedown on the ground.”
She sucked in a breath and stared past her captor. The silhouette of another man was visible about ten feet away. Lightning briefly lit the clearing, revealing his identity—Detective Dillon Gray.
His wet hair was plastered to his scalp and his Kevlar vest formed a dark shadow beneath his equally wet shirt. Her mouth dropped open. Did he actually swim across the swollen, raging river to rescue her? Shock and gratitude warred with disbelief. But any relief she felt turned to worry when she realized one thing—he didn’t have a weapon.
Iceman wrapped his fingers around the gun shoved in his belt. Did he know the police officer behind him was bluffing?
Ashley stared into his dark eyes. They were no longer cold and dead. Instead, they shined with an unholy gleam and his mouth tilted in anticipation.
He knew. He knew Dillon didn’t have a gun. He must have seen it fall into the river when Dillon was trying to pull Ashley out the truck window.
“Move away from her and lie on the ground. Now,” the detective repeated, his deep voice authoritative and confident.
The cord of muscles in Iceman’s thick neck pulsed, reminding her of a snake coiling to strike.
She whipped a glance at the detective, trying to warn him with her eyes. But it was so dark. He probably couldn’t see her eyes any better than