Tennessee Takedown Page 2

  Dang it.

  The exit door was only thirty feet away now. If Ashley was quiet, she might make it. But what would happen to the SWAT guy? He’d risked his life to rescue her and the others. Could she abandon him and leave him here to die?

  No, she couldn’t.

  Cursing her conscience, she ducked back and grabbed one of the heavy, old-fashioned phones from a cubicle desktop. After unplugging the cord, she crept down a parallel aisle, hoping to sneak up behind the shooter. She offered up a quick prayer that he hadn’t moved or turned around as she rounded the end of the row. Yes. His back was still facing her. But the SWAT guy was now facing the shooter, and Ashley, his hands raised.

  Ashley crept forward, biting her lip, holding the phone in the air. She was pretty sure SWAT guy had seen her. He hadn’t looked directly at her, but his body tensed, and the lines around his eyes tightened.

  “Too bad your buddies left you by yourself,” the shooter said. “Looks like they’ll be carting one of their own out the door next.” He raised his gun toward the officer’s face just as Ashley swung the phone with both hands at the shooter’s head.

  But instead of hitting him, she hit empty air, spinning in a circle then falling against the wall beside her.

  It took her a moment to realize SWAT guy had lunged for the shooter right when she’d swung the phone. He’d grabbed the shooter’s gun and swept his legs out from beneath him. Now both men were rolling on the floor, wrestling for control of the gun.

  “Get out of here,” SWAT guy yelled.

  Ashley realized he was yelling at her.

  The two men rolled into the side aisle, grappling for control.

  Leaving SWAT guy’s rifle lying on the floor.

  “Go, go, go,” the officer yelled again. “Get out of here, run!”

  SWAT guy was heavily muscled and tall, but the shooter was on top of him and must have outweighed him by at least forty pounds. The pistol was slowly, inexorably moving up toward the officer’s face, the only part of his body not covered in armor.

  Ashley made her choice. She dropped the phone and grabbed for the rifle.

  The shooter twisted toward her and slammed his foot against her calf. She screamed and fell to the floor. Before she could scramble away, he grabbed her long hair and yanked her in front of him like a human shield.

  SWAT guy crouched in the aisle a few feet away, glaring at Ashley before focusing on the shooter. The wicked-looking hunting knife in the officer’s hand, along with his glare, had Ashley groaning inside. Instead of helping, she’d gotten in the way and messed everything up. She hadn’t realized the policeman had a knife, and that he’d apparently been about to use it when she’d interfered.

  “Let her go,” the officer ordered. “You’re surrounded.”

  Ashley glanced around, stunned to see he wasn’t bluffing. She hadn’t heard or seen the other SWAT officers come in, but there were two on her left, another one on the far side of the shooter and, as she watched, a fourth officer entered the aisle behind SWAT guy, who was now crouched in front of the shooter, still holding his knife.

  Surrounded was putting it mildly.

  “Let her go,” SWAT guy repeated.

  The shooter scooted back, pulling Ashley with him, keeping his gun trained on SWAT guy. Ashley struggled against his hold, but he squeezed hard, crushing her in a painful grip against his chest. He scooted back until he was pressed against the wall and couldn’t move any farther.

  “I’ll kill her.” He yanked her hair.

  Ashley sucked in a sharp breath at the fiery pain. It felt as though he was yanking half her hair out by the roots.

  “Back off or she’s dead. You can’t shoot me without hitting her. Back. Off.”

  Ashley struggled to draw air into her lungs. She could barely breathe with her head twisted back so hard and tight.

  Swat guy clutched his knife and motioned to the two SWAT officers on Ashley’s left side. “He’s right. Lower your weapons and back away. Give him room.”

  The shooter turned his head to the side, watching the officers lower their rifles.

  He suddenly jerked against Ashley, a guttural moan wheezing out of his throat.

  SWAT guy lunged forward, grabbing the shooter’s gun and tossing it away. He chopped his hand down on the shooter’s arm, breaking his hold on Ashley before yanking her away from him.

  She twisted in the officer’s arms, looking back toward the shooter. The gunman lay on the floor, convulsing, the haft of a knife sticking out of his neck. Blood bubbled out of the wound.

  She clutched the officer’s arm where it circled her waist.

  “You—you threw your knife, while he was holding me?” she squeaked.

  He gently grasped her chin, forcing her to turn away from the shooter.

  “Look at me,” he ordered, his voice gruff but laced with concern.

  She dragged her gaze up his armor-covered chest to stare into a pair of stormy blue-gray eyes.

  “Are you injured? Did he hurt you?” he demanded.

  She swallowed and shook her head. “No. No, he didn’t... I don’t think...” She shuddered. “I’m fine. He didn’t hurt me.”

  “How many are there? Did you see any other gunmen?”

  “He’s the only one I saw.”

  He lifted her away from him. “Get her out of here.”

  A pair of strong arms grasped her waist and pulled her away.

  Another officer hauled SWAT guy to his feet.

  “Sit rep on the shooter?” he asked one of the others.

  “Deceased.”

  SWAT guy, obviously the leader, motioned to the man holding Ashley’s arm and another officer standing by the window. “Stay alert. Assume a second shooter is still in here. Get her out while we clear the rest of the building.”

  * * *

  YELLOW CRIME-SCENE tape fluttered in the early-summer breeze, bringing with it the smell of impending rain. Ashley sat on one of the folding chairs the police had set up in the parking lot. Most of her coworkers had already been interviewed and had been allowed to leave. Ashley had been interviewed, too, but the detective who’d spoken to her had asked her to wait. She wasn’t sure why.

  The dead—eight in all—were still inside the building as crime scene technicians took pictures of the carnage and documented what had happened. The wounded—only three had been shot and survived—had been taken to the hospital.

  The company’s owner, Ron Gibson, stood talking with a couple of detectives about twenty feet away. The grief on his face reminded Ashley that he’d lost his only son today—Stanley. But Gibson was apparently a hero. He’d dragged one of the wounded out the exit before the police arrived, and he was going to be okay. The temp, whose name Ashley still couldn’t remember, was also going to recover. The bullet had only grazed her head.

  Another gust of wind blew through, swirling Ashley’s hair. She pushed it out of her face and wished she had a ponytail holder with her. A shadow fell over her and she glanced up to see the SWAT officer who’d rescued her by throwing his knife at the shooter.

  He’d shed the heavy body armor and vest with the big white letters on it marking him as SWAT. In dark blue dress pants and a white dress shirt, he could have been one of her coworkers, except that none of her coworkers were quite as muscular and fit-looking as this man. Then again, if he made his living wearing all that heavy equipment, she supposed the muscles were honestly earned.

  He smiled and shook his head. “You didn’t hear anything I said, did you, Miss Parrish?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I was...thinking. What did you say?”

  He pulled another folding chair over and sat across from her. He held out his hand and she automatically took it.

  “I’m Detective Dillon Gray. I know you’ve already been interviewed, b
ut I wanted to ask you a few more questions. Are you up to it?”

  She shook his hand, but when he mentioned asking questions, all she could think about was the knife sticking out of the shooter’s throat. She clutched his hand instead of letting go.

  He didn’t seem to mind. He held her hand and simply scooted his chair closer, resting his forearm across his knees.

  “How long have you worked at Gibson and Gibson?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t work here. I mean, not for the company. I’m an independent consultant, an auditor. I work short-term contracts. I came here three weeks ago—no, four. Tomorrow...tomorrow would have been my last day.” She shivered.

  A look of interest lit his blue-gray eyes. “Were you brought in because of a problem? Did you find anything that concerned you when you performed the audit?”

  “No, on both counts. Mr. Gibson—” she nodded toward the owner, who was being escorted to his car by one of the policemen “—he applied for a substantial loan to expand the business. The bank hired me to perform a routine audit before granting the loan. Everything checked out. I was going to recommend the loan move forward. I was supposed to finish the formal report today.”

  A coroner’s van pulled up to the front of the building. Bile rose in Ashley’s throat.

  “Ignore them. Focus on me.” Gray’s deep voice was low and soothing, but it had the bite of authority.

  She looked away from the van and met his gaze.

  “I’m almost done,” he said, his voice gentle. “Then you can go.”

  She nodded. When she heard the squeaky wheels of the coroner’s gurney rolling toward the front door, she clutched his hand harder, using him as her anchor.

  Another gust of wind, stronger than the rest, slapped the detective’s pants against his legs. He looked up at the sky, which was casting a dark pall over the parking lot. “Looks like the weatherman was right. We’re in for a heck of a storm.”

  He smiled at her again, and somehow the tension squeezing her chest eased, if only a little.

  “I’ll make this quick,” he said. “You said your time here was temporary. Where’s home?”

  “Nashville. I’ve got an apartment there.”

  “Made any enemies in Nashville that might have come here looking for you?”

  She blinked in surprise. “Me? You think the shooter was after me, specifically?”

  “Routine questions. Just exploring all the possibilities.”

  The panic that had started inside her faded beneath his matter-of-fact tone. “The answer is no. I don’t have any enemies. Not that I know of.”

  “You didn’t recognize the shooter, correct?” he asked.

  “I’ve never seen him before.”

  “Did he speak to you, call you by name?”

  “No. He just...smiled, this really creepy, spooky smile.”

  His brows lowered. “What do you mean?”

  “I was at the copier, with Stanley Gibson. The shooter shot Stanley, and when I turned around, he looked directly at me and...smiled. That’s when I ran. I hid and kept going from aisle to aisle as he went through the room. I tried to stay a step ahead, but he caught up to me. He was on my aisle, but he was crouching down. I climbed over the wall to the next aisle before he reached my cubicle.” She shivered and tugged her hand out of his grasp. The wind was colder now, making her shiver. She wrapped her arms around her middle.

  Detective Gray motioned to one of the uniformed policemen nearby. “Get Miss Parrish a jacket, please.”

  “That’s not necessary,” she said. “If someone could please...get my purse...out of my cubicle inside, so I can get my car keys, I’ll just go home. If you’re finished with your questions?”

  “By the time the officer retrieves your purse, I will be.”

  Ashley told the policeman where her purse was. He headed back toward the building.

  “Does the name Todd Dunlop mean anything to you?” he asked.

  “No. Was that the shooter’s name?”

  “I can’t officially confirm that at this time.”

  “I understand. No, I’ve never heard that name before.”

  He asked her several more questions about her routine and whether she’d seen anything out of the ordinary when she got to work this morning. He asked her about any recent firings, but she wasn’t aware of any.

  “I’m sorry, Detective. But other than the officers of the company, I haven’t even spoken to most of the people who work here. I’ve been stuck in a conference room most of the time, poring over years of financial reports. I wish I had better answers for you.”

  “You’re doing fine, Miss Parrish.” His white teeth flashed in a reassuring smile.

  The policeman returned with her purse. She thanked him and he hurried away.

  “May I go home now?” she asked the detective.

  “Of course. I’ve got your address and your phone number. If I think of more questions, I’ll stop by or give you a call. When are you leaving town?”

  “The end of the week.”

  He walked her to her car.

  She tried to unlock the car three times, but her hands were shaking so hard she couldn’t get the key in the lock.

  He gently took the keys from her and unlocked the door. “The clicker’s broken, I assume?” He held up the electronic key fob attached to her key chain before handing back her keys.

  “I think it’s the battery. I keep forgetting to replace it.” She slid into the driver’s seat.

  “You should get that fixed as soon as possible, as a security precaution,” he said.

  She nodded, in full agreement. After today, she was suddenly hyperaware of how dangerous the world could be. Fumbling for her keys when a simple click of a button could unlock her door didn’t strike her as smart.

  “Detective Gray?”

  He crouched down beside her door, giving her that same kind smile he’d given her earlier. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry that I interfered, back inside. I thought I was helping, but I realize now that I could have gotten you hurt—” she swallowed hard “—or killed.”

  “You were very brave. You have nothing to apologize for. Everything worked out.”

  She offered him a shaky smile. “You saved my life. I don’t know how to pay someone back for something like that.”

  “Fix that clicker. That’s payback enough. Then I won’t have to worry about you fumbling with your keys.” He fished a business card out of his pocket and handed it to her. “If you think of anything else you want to tell me about what happened, anything that can help us sort through this mess and figure out why this guy picked Gibson and Gibson, give me a call.”

  * * *

  DILLON WATCHED THE surprisingly brave, pretty little auditor drive away in her aging dark blue Chevy Lumina. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen one of those cars on the road. Obviously Ashley Parrish wasn’t making a fortune in her chosen occupation, which made any obvious financial motive for the shooter to target her seem unlikely.

  “Did she tell you anything useful about the shooter?”

  Dillon turned at the sound of Chris Downing’s voice behind him.

  “No. But she’s pretty shaken. She might think of something later.” He glanced past his friend. His boss was standing with the rest of the SWAT team, his face animated—not in a good way—as he spoke to them. “Let me guess. Thornton sent you to get me.”

  “Yep. He’s riled up like a preacher on Easter Sunday, all fire and brimstone raining down on our heads for going in against orders.”

  Dillon let out a deep sigh and started toward his boss, with Chris at his side. He wasn’t in the mood to take a tongue-lashing right now, but he’d have to endure it to try to keep his job, and to keep his men from being blamed for what had
essentially been a mutiny.

  Regardless of the consequences, he had no regrets. The three wounded survivors they’d pulled out had lost a lot of blood and wouldn’t have lasted much longer if they’d waited. And he didn’t know what would have happened to Ashley Parrish. She wasn’t the only survivor they’d rescued, but she was the only one the shooter had essentially stalked through the building.

  Maybe he’d stop by her house on the way home tonight, to make sure she was okay and see if she’d thought of anything else that might help with the investigation. Their initial inquiries hadn’t yielded any connections between the shooter and Gibson and Gibson. If the shooter had never worked there, and had never conducted any business with the company, why would he choose this particular office complex?

  It was isolated, a few miles out of town, which might have made the shooter think he could shoot the place up and escape before the cops got there. But if he’d wanted to kill a lot of random people, there was a mall five minutes away that would have yielded plenty more potential victims. So why had he chosen Gibson and Gibson?

  Dillon would lay odds it was something personal, and he’d bet his ten years as a detective that the personal part was somehow related to the woman who’d just driven off in a beat-up old Chevy with a key fob that didn’t work.

  * * *

  ASHLEY CLUTCHED HER cell phone to her ear and peered out the front window. Lightning flashed, illuminating the acres of green grass and long gravel driveway that formed the front yard of her rental house. In the distance, the Smoky Mountains loomed dark and menacing.

  She’d never wanted to live this far from the conveniences in town, but her options were limited, since most people insisted on a long lease. Still, she hadn’t minded living here temporarily. But with this morning’s shooting fresh in her memory, the isolation was making her feel uneasy, and vulnerable.

  Thunder boomed overhead.

  “What was that?” Lauren asked over the phone.

  “Thunder. The weathermen have been predicting a big storm all week. Looks like it’s finally here. It’s pitch-black outside even though it’s only six o’clock. And the rain’s been coming down like a monsoon for the past couple of hours. After all the rain we had last week, we sure don’t need this. The river’s already near flood stage.”