Christmas at Twilight (25 page)

H
utch pulled into the driveway and heard a woman scream.

Sweat broke out over his body and his pulse thundered. He jumped from the car, crossed the yard in two long-legged strides, and scaled the front steps.

The front door yawned open.

Hutch raced inside, not knowing what terrible thing he would find. In the entryway leading into the kitchen, he spied a woman's body engulfed by a widening pool of blood.

Meredith!

Except this woman had long blond hair. Not Meredith, no, but his baby sister, Ashley.

Hutch dropped to his knees, gathered her to his chest. Her head lolled back lifelessly over his arm. The warmth had already left her body. His troubled little sister had been murdered. Ashley was dead, but maybe, maybe there was a chance Meredith was still alive.

Forcefully detaching himself from his grief, he gently eased Ashley's body down to floor. That's when his knuckle brushed against cold steel.

His gun.

He picked it up. The gun was loaded. He followed the swath of blood to the open back door where the crimson trail led to the deck. Bracing for what he might find, he reached along the wall, found the switch to the outdoor flood lamps, and flipped them on.

Propped up against the rear of the deck, Sloane sat bleeding from his left knee, a belt cinched as a tourniquet against his upper thigh.

Hutch stepped from the house, gun aimed at the scumbag's head. “Where is she?” he demanded.

Sloane looked mildly surprised. “You're not dead.”

“Next time you shoot a man in the chest, make sure he's not wearing Kevlar. Now tell me where Meredith is.”

“Do it,” Sloane taunted, ignoring Hutch's request. His face was the color of ashes. “Go ahead. Shoot me.”

Tensed, alert, Hutch approached, racked the gun. “Where is she?”

“Kill me,” Sloane roared.

“Tell me where Meredith is first.”

“Fine, then I'll kill you.” Sloane's hand quivered as he reached for the Colt Defender on the deck beside him, and raised it.

It was Meredith's gun. If he had Meredith's gun that meant . . .

Hutch shook his head, unable to follow that train of thought. Deep fear clasped him in a horrific hug. “What did you do with Meredith?”

In the distance, sirens wailed. Someone had called the police.

“Now's the time to do it,” Sloane coaxed, sweet tongued as the devil. “You can kill me and say it was self-defense. Everyone will believe you. I'm the rogue cop and you're the Goody Two-shoes.”

Delta Force had taught him that the worst thing an operator could do was underestimate an opponent. He knew from Meredith's story of her marriage just how cunning and cold-blooded the man was. Sloane had a gun on him. Hutch was within his rights to blast him into the next dimension.

Sloane had lost a lot of blood and his hand was trembling so hard, the barrel bobbed. In his weakened condition, the weight of the weapon was too much for him. His hand flopped into his lap and he dropped the gun into a puddle of blood. It skidded slickly, fell over the side of the deck, and hit the water below with a splash.

“Looks like you're unarmed,” Hutch said coolly. He would not give in to the fear. If Meredith was still alive, she was counting on him to keep a cool head.

“You want to do it,” Sloane rasped. “Go ahead.”

It would be so easy to pull the trigger, and satisfy the urge for revenge pushing up through him, to dispatch the son of a bitch straight to hell. This vile monster had terrorized Meredith for years, killed Ashley, and left Kimmie motherless. He deserved to die.

He closed one eye and stared down the sight, targeting the center of Sloane's forehead. Before the ambush in Afghanistan, he wouldn't have hesitated to pull the trigger. Sloane was garbage and he needed taking out.

But Hutch had had enough of killing. He would do it to protect those he loved, but Sloane was unarmed. Defenseless. Killing him under these circumstances would be murder, no matter how much the bastard deserved it.

“You've got people snowed with all your high-and-mighty, honorable-warrior crap. But I know the truth.” Sloane still had the energy and audacity to wink. “Inside, you're just like me. You know there's no problem that can't be solved with a well-placed bullet.”

Anxiety wrapped Hutch in a cloying fist. Sloane was stalling. Trying to keep him away from Meredith. That meant she was still alive. But for how long? No telling what kind of condition she was in.

He stalked closer.

Sloane tipped back his chin, sneered up at him. “You're exactly like me. A killer through and through.”

Don't let him get to you.
The bastard wanted him to lose control. That's the only thing the son of a bitch cared about. Control.

Hutch pressed the muzzle flush against Sloane's forehead. “Where is she?”

“You know she can't swim, right?” Sloane's voice was getting fainter.

“She's in the river?”

Sloane barely moved a shoulder.

God, that was it. She was in the frigid January water and she didn't know how to swim. His gut listed like a sailboat in a hurricane. How long had she been there?

The sirens were screaming closer, almost here. Meredith was in the water, needing him.

“Final chance,” Sloane said, egging Hutch into doing the dirty work so he didn't have to spend the rest of his life in prison. He was no longer a threat. “Do what you do best. Kill.”

“Fuck you, Victor,” Hutch said, and fired his gun.

H
utch found her clinging to a piece of driftwood a few feet downriver. She was barely conscious, her face battered and swollen, trembling from shock and the cold. She was weak, but she was alive. He scooped her into his arms, treaded water to shore. He didn't even pause to catch his breath, just climbed from the water—both of them soaked to the skin—and carried her up the muddy embankment to the steps that led to his deck.

“You're alive,” she whispered.

“I am.”

“You came for me.”

“I will always come for you,” he promised.

She burrowed against him. In spite of everything they'd been through, it was a touching moment that choked him up.

He topped the stairs, walked onto the deck.

“Look away,” he told her as they passed Sloane.

But she did not. “He's dead!”

Startled by her declaration, Hutch glanced over.

Sloane had fallen onto his side, and the belt that had been around his thigh was now thrown on the other side of the deck. His eyes were glassy, sightless.

“Oh Hutch,” she said. “You killed him.”

He looked down into Meredith's face and he saw relief mixed with sorrow, admiration, and disappointment.

“I'm so sorry.” Tears rolled down her cheeks. “Because of me, you had to kill again.”

Before he could tell her what had happened, she lost consciousness, just as half a dozen sheriffs' deputies converged upon them.

M
eredith woke in her bed to find Hutch asleep in the chair beside her. Every bone in her body ached, but she couldn't stop smiling. At last she was finally free of Sloane and it was all because of Hutch.

She turned over onto her back, and immediately, Hutch was awake.

“What is it?” he asked, anxiety cracking his voice. “Are you all right?”

“You really are alive.” She reached out to touch his dear face. “I didn't dream it.”

“I'm alive,” he confirmed gruffly, scooting his chair closer, and took her hand.

“But Sloane said he shot you.”

“He did.” Hutch unbuttoned his shirt, revealing a chest mottled black and blue.

“Ouch! What happened?”

“Kevlar.”

“I'm grateful as can be, but why were you wearing a bulletproof vest?”

He told her about the death threats targeting his friend's memorial service and Gideon's insistence that they protect themselves.

“I'm going to kiss Gideon the next time I see him,” Meredith said.

“No you're not.” He laughed. “From now on, Meredith Sommers, all your kisses belong to me.”

“And Ben.”

“And Ben,” he agreed.

“Kimmie too.”

His face tightened at the mention of his niece's name and he swallowed. “We're a pair, both of us bruised from head to toe. I wanted to take you to the hospital, but you refused to go. Do you remember that?”

She shook her head.

“My doctor made a house call. Checked you out. Other than scrapes and bruises, you're all right physically.”

She moistened her lips.

“You'll have to give a statement to the police.”

“I know.”

They looked at each other, both of them knowing how fortunate they'd been to escape with their lives. It could have ended so differently. It had ended different for Ashley.

Meredith reached out to stroke Hutch's arm. “I'm so sorry about Ashley. She saved my life.” She told him about how brave his sister had been, rushing in to defend her and avenge Hutch. “If Ashley hadn't shot Sloane, he would have killed me. Your sister is dead because of me.”

Anguish darkened his eyes, matching the torment in her own heart. “It wasn't your fault, Meredith. Sloane is the one to blame for all this.”

“I can't help feeling responsible. I brought him into your lives, because of me—”

He laid a finger over her lips. “Shh. Let it go.”

She pressed her lips together, allowed sorrow and regret to wash over her and then roll away. “Sloane was the one who lured Ashley to Mexico, wasn't he?”

Hutch nodded and told her what he and law enforcement had been able to piece together. After Sloane had shot Hutch and left him in the motel room for dead, he'd zip-tied a groggy Ashley's hands together and stuffed her into the backseat of the Hutch's truck. A long time ago, Hutch had taught Ashley how to get out of zip ties and he imagined she'd broken out of the makeshift cuffs, found the handgun she knew he kept locked in his glove compartment, and dashed into his house to save Meredith and Ben.

A lump came to Meredith's throat and silent tears shook her body.

He reached out and took her hand, waited for the tears to pass.

“Wait a minute,” she said after a while, wiping her face with the tissue he handed her from the box on the bedside table. “Where's Kimmie? Is she all right?”

“She's fine and with Ben at Flynn and Jesse's. An attendant found Kimmie hiding in the juniper bushes in the motel parking lot and called the police. In fact, the whole neighborhood called the police after they heard the gunfire. Twenty-seven calls in all.”

“We still have to tell Kimmie about her mother.”

“It won't be easy,” he said, “but we'll get through it. Our love will get us through it.”

“I do love you,” she said. “I didn't tell you that when you called because I was afraid of saying the words out loud, but I love you, Brian Hutchinson.”

“I know.”

“I wished that you hadn't been forced to kill Sloane.”

He tilted her chin up, looked into her eyes. “I didn't kill him.”

“You didn't?”

“I was going to kill. God knows, I wanted to kill him, but I'm not a cold-blooded murderer. He was weak, defenseless. If I killed him in the condition he was, I would have been no better than he was.”

She frowned. “But I heard a shot.”

“I'd cocked the gun, and I had so much adrenaline and emotion charging through me, I had to discharge it somehow, so I shot into a tree. In the end, Sloane killed himself by taking the tourniquet off his leg. The coroner said he wouldn't have bled out if he hadn't taken the tourniquet off.”

“The coward.” She shivered. “But I'm proud of you for not killing him. I don't know if I could have been that kind.”

“Neither did I,” he said.

She started crying again, thinking of all they'd both lost. “It's so sad.”

Hutch climbed into the bed with her, gathering her close. Trembling, she rested her head against his broad, strong chest, and slipped her arms around his waist. He tightened his grip on her, pressing her closer until there was no more space between them.

“I was so scared,” she whispered.

“He's gone, sweetheart. He'll never threaten us again.”

“It's going to take a while for it to fully sink in. To adjust.”

“That's okay. We'll do it together. We'll go to therapy, you, me, Kimmie, Ben.” He paused. “I want us to be a real family, and not just for the kids.”

“Are you asking me to marry you?”

He took her by the shoulders, moved back so he could peer into her eyes. He looked worried, scared. “Would you say yes if I did?”

Her heart fluttered. “I've been through a lot, Hutch.”

“I know. So have I.”

“Marriage to me . . .” She shook her head.

“It wasn't marriage at fault. Sloane was a sociopath.”

“I know.”

“Are you afraid that I'll—”

“God, no,” she rushed to assure him. “I have no doubts about you.”

“Then what is it?”

“I'm worried that I'm too damaged to be—”

“Shh, everyone is damaged in some way or another. The trick is not to let it ruin your life. If you allow what Sloane did to you to stop you from taking a chance on us, on love, then he wins.”

He was right. She knew he was right.

“Marry me, Meredith. It doesn't have to be right away. We can take all the time we need. But tell me that you'll marry me. Let's put together a family. Let's build a life. We'll sell this house. It's full of too many bad memories. Buy a place together.”

“Here in Twilight?”

“Anywhere you want.”

“I want it to be Twilight. I love it here, Hutch.”

“And I love you.”