Protective Duty

HIGH-RISK REUNION

Minutes into FBI profiler Bryn Eastman’s first case since a near-fatal shooting, a brazen serial killer sets his sights on her next. Now her life—and career—is in the hands of her new partner, Detective Eric Hale, the man she once loved and lost. Racked with nightmares of the shooting and regrets for the tragedy that tore her and Eric apart, Bryn doesn’t want Eric to discover the secrets she carries—but she needs him. Seeing Bryn brings back memories Eric can’t control. Memories of a once-in-a-lifetime love. But the tough detective knows their only path to a second chance goes straight through a relentless killer...one who won’t quit until he counts Bryn as his fifth victim.

“Do you have any enemies?”

Bryn closed her eyes. “No.”

“The killer’s treating you differently than the other victims. He never threatened them.” Or had they not confided in anyone? No, they were too smart to hide that. But Bryn hadn’t called the police.

He looked at her then as she neared the road, silhouetted by the headlights that came into view. It was the first car he’d seen since their walk in her neighborhood. In the darkness its headlights blinded him. Eric raised his arm over his brows. “What in the world…?”

But it was too late.

The engine roared and the truck barreled straight for Bryn, who stood frozen in the street.

“Bryn!” He sprinted toward her, threw his arms around her and hurled them into a ditch just as the truck disappeared around the corner.

He felt her breath against his cheek but he didn’t move. “You okay?”

She nodded. “You?”

Then it hit him and fear rumbled through him. “He knows where you live…and he’ll be back.”

JESSICA R. PATCH lives in the mid-South, where she pens inspirational contemporary romance and romantic suspense novels. When she’s not hunched over her laptop or going on adventurous trips with willing friends in the name of research, you can find her watching way too much Netflix with her family and collecting recipes to amazing dishes she’ll probably never cook. To learn more about Jessica, please visit her at jessicarpatch.com.

Protective Duty

Jessica R. Patch

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I know what I’m doing. I have it all planned out—

plans to take care of you, not abandon you,

plans to give you the future you hope for.

—Jeremiah 29:11

For Bailey. I marvel at your strength, courage and determination to accomplish anything you set your heart on.

Thanks go out to

My agent, Rachel Kent, for always being in my corner and believing in my writing.

My editor, Shana Asaro. Thank you for your keen eye and amazing editorial skills.

Incredible critique partners: April Gardner, Jill Kemerer, Michelle Massaro and Susan Tuttle.

Huge thanks to “Mr. Anonymous” for taking time to help me with the law enforcement information. If something’s not right, it’s on me!

And to Jesus. For Your glory always. I adore You.

Contents

COVER

BACK COVER TEXT

INTRODUCTION

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TITLE PAGE

BIBLE VERSE

DEDICATION

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EPILOGUE

Dear Reader

EXTRACT

COPYRIGHT

ONE

Bryn Eastman refused to think about the bullet that had pierced her abdomen. She would not fixate on how her attacker’s gloved hands had wrapped around her throat or how she’d let down her guard and almost died a year ago.

Her nerves pulsed anyway as she slid into her FBI windbreaker. Her first case since the shooting.

Slivers of October moonlight snaked between the autumn leaves. Yellow crime scene tape beckoned her toward the grove of towering trees. Blue lights slashed the dark as flashlight beams swiveled across the ground. Camera crew vans lined the parking lot, morbidly eager for a story.

Special Agent in Charge Towerman had brought Bryn up to speed CliffsNotes-style. She hadn’t been back in Memphis long enough for the detailed version. Tonight’s victim made number four. She’d been left in Overton Park for families, children—the world—to view. An ache thumped in Bryn’s gut and spread into her chest.

She stared at the frenzy.

Would the lead homicide detective welcome FBI assistance? Welcome a female’s assistance? Experience told her he wouldn’t, but she hoped so anyway. This was a man’s world she maneuvered through. And while there were many who accepted her as an equal, there were just as many more who didn’t think a woman had any business in law enforcement.

She’d spent almost a decade validating that she was able, strong and brave.

Until Ohio had shaken her to the core.

This string of murders had Memphis, and the mayor, in a panic. Victimology was Bryn’s expertise. So here she was, even though SAC Towerman had been reluctant to send her in.

She needed this chance to confirm that she was still capable. Still brave. Still strong. Bryn yearned to bring justice for the victims whose lives had been tragically taken, and she needed to be in the field to accomplish that.

The question was, could she rise above the jitters and insecurity and give the grieving families her very best? She owed it to them. And she needed to prove herself to SAC Towerman. Then she could stay in the field, not chained to the desk where he’d planted her the minute she stepped foot in the Memphis field office.

She locked her car, squared her shoulders and strode across the parking lot toward the crime scene. Pausing as she neared the tape blocking civilians and the news crew, she swallowed a hard lump in her throat and stifled the eerie sensation of being watched.

This wasn’t Cleveland.

Showing her creds to the uniformed officer, she slipped under the crime scene tape, ignoring the caterwauls of the news crew begging for information. FBI on the scene had their mouths salivating and their heads spinning.

Did they even know this latest victim was the morning talk show host for Wake-Up Memphis? She strode toward the tree line. The crime unit was in place. A man dressed in jeans and a fitted black leather jacket accenting his broad shoulders—his hair as dark as the jacket—stood near a woman examining the body. She hadn’t admired a man in a long time. Shouldn’t be admiring one now, but he was hard not to notice.

A stocky older man with gray hair stepped from the shadows. Pug nose and potbelly. He held up his badge. Deputy chief of investigative services. “Agent Eastman?”

“That’s me.” She smiled and corralled her flimsy windbreaker. “We appreciate you calling us in. Whatever we can do to help, we will.”

He extended his hand, and she shook it. “We’re glad to have you. Your reputation precedes you. I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect you to be so young.”

She was only twenty-eight, but some days Bryn felt ancient. “I’m up to the task.” She had to be. Lives depended on her. No room for failure.

“I believe you, and we’re ready to work in tandem. Let us know what you need.” No indication he was blowing smoke. But it wasn’t the chief she had to work with directly. It was the lead detective who she now suspected might be the man in the leather jacket—the man whose hair and physique caught her eye and quickened her pulse.

The deputy chief motioned for her to follow him. Yep. Guy in the leather.

“Special Agent Eastman, meet Detective Eric Hale. He’s the lead on the case.”

A needle ripped across one of the many records in her memory. She’d packed that name away. Okay, maybe not packed it away, but she’d definitely not played it on the turntable of her mind in a while. Not since they’d been a serious couple nearly a decade ago. The song was too haunting.

He turned around and she could finally see his face. Time had been good to him. His boyish appearance was masked by a couple of days’ worth of dark scruff gracing his chin and cheeks. It suited him. Appealed more than she’d ever admit. Bryn’s heart skittered.

Guess he hadn’t played her record in a while, either. His eyes were wide and swirling with questions. Bryn had prayed they wouldn’t ever meet again; the pain would be unbearable. Even now she felt the punch, knocking the breath from her. Those prayers, like so many before, had fallen on deaf ears. She’d given up on prayer. Given up on faith. On God. He’d taken too much from her.

She thrust her clammy hand out, hoping for an air of confidence and that Eric wouldn’t refuse it and humiliate her in front of her peers. It wasn’t his style, but he’d have every right to.

Her older brother had murdered his sister, Abby, seven years ago.

Eric glanced at her hand and slowly clasped it. Firm but not crushing. Still warm and encompassing. Her throat dried out. She’d missed his touch.

“Fancy meeting you here.” His eyebrows quirked. Humorous as always, but underneath the light tone he’d tried to pull off, Bryn registered confusion. A truckload of shock. When she’d left Memphis—and him—she’d been on the women’s swim team at Rhodes College thanks to a scholarship. No intentions of ever becoming a cop—like Eric.

But then Abby died, and the world changed. Bryn changed.

She cleared her parched throat and assessed the scene, struggling to find her voice. “Not sure fancy is the right word. But here I am.”

“How?” He scratched the back of his head. “I thought... Weren’t you... Didn’t you... I mean, when?” His brow wrinkled.

“We’ll get to all that,” she whispered, wishing things didn’t have to be so complicated and confusing. “For now, you mind filling me in?” Bryn studied the woman lying atop gnarly tree roots that rose from the sparse grass, fully clothed with hair still damp and clumped to her cheeks. She never got used to this. Hoped she would never become hardened like some agents.

Eric pointed to the victim. “Bridgette Danforth, cohost of the Wake-Up Memphis morning talk show. She appears to have been drowned like the other three women before her. All high profile. The medical examiner will know more when we release the body. A jogger found her. He’s over there if you want to question him. I already have but...”

But was she going to take over his case? Trust him or not? That was the rest of his sentence. “Not right now, no.” She did want to poke around on her own. Besides, she needed the air. Time to process that Eric Hale was about to be her new partner in a sense. Time to escape the enticing masculine smell of soap, cologne and leather that messed with her head.

“But you will want to.” His clipped statement said it all. He had no forgiveness, and the fact she was here to try to solve a case he couldn’t only furthered his irritation. Super.

“I will. And I’ll need everything you’ve got on the previous victims. You can send it over to the FO. I’ll review them in the morning.” She’d rather work at the field office. Her turf. New, but still.

His nostrils flared, and he clenched his jaw before he saluted. “Yes, ma’am.”

She ignored his sour jab, switched on her flashlight and stalked across the park. The wind bucked up, whistling through the trees. Crescent moon. Eerily quiet. Her feet sank in the soft ground. The smell of winter coming sooner rather than later enveloped her. She shone the light, hunting for anything that might have been left behind. A fairly clean park. Not much litter. A few cigarette butts. She edged toward a hedge of bushes that opened into a dense wooded area. Secluded. Interesting that he placed the victim in a more open area and not here, hidden from the parking lot and nighttime joggers. He wanted her found, and he was willing to risk being seen. Brazen...or stupid. No. Not stupid or he’d have been caught by now.

Something nestled near the tree line. A scarf? Might be the victim’s or the killer’s. She bent over and caught a whiff of cheap, heavy cologne and cigarette smoke.

Hair spiked on her neck.

From behind, an arm coiled around her neck in a python-like grip. He yanked her against him, pulling her farther into the remote wooded area.

She grabbed for her sidearm, but he was quicker and snatched it from the holster.

“Ah, ah, ah,” he growled as his wiry beard scraped against her ear.

Would he shoot her? Shudders rolled down her back as the scene from Ohio chiseled back into her bones. No. He couldn’t be crazy enough to squeeze off a round. Every officer on the scene would come running. They may not be able to see out here, but they’d hear gunfire.

He tossed her Glock several feet away.

“Who do you think you are? Miss High and Mighty-FBI.” His breath smelled of smoke, beer and mints that hadn’t done their job. “You got no business here.”

Bryn’s heart kicked into a sprint.

Fear slicked down her back in arctic streams; a wave of hysteria clouded her brain, stopped her from reacting.

Spots dotted her vision.

“You better back off before you find yourself dead like those other ones.”

No.

That’s why she was here. For the other ones. To fight for them.

Adrenaline raced, and Bryn rammed her elbow into rock-solid abs. He barely flinched but tightened his grip, and a tattoo covering his hand came into view.

Fight. She had to fight.

She brought her foot down on his. He didn’t budge. She glanced down. Boots. Probably steel-toed.

Her attacker dragged her even farther into the woods as he assaulted her ears with vile, hateful words.

“Agent Eastman! Bryn! Hey...you! I’m not sure how to address you these days.” Beams of light pulsed in their direction. “Where are you? Marco!”

Eric.

If she could manage a sound, she’d call out to him. She dropped her legs like deadweight, refusing to make this easy for the brute.

Bryn’s eyes burned. She needed more oxygen. With this grip, a whimper wouldn’t make it from her lips. She sank her teeth into the bionic man’s arm. His heavy coat would probably protect his arm from the bite. But she’d try. By granny, if she had to break every tooth out of her gums she would.

“That’s your cue to holler back ‘Polo.’ Bryn? You out here? I’ll even take an ‘over here.’”

The savage grabbed her hair, which hung in a low ponytail. “This ain’t over.”

She rammed his rib cage again, but he thrust her in the air and into the cluster of bushes he’d been dragging her away from. Her head popped against the ground with a thud, and white-hot pain seared up her back. Boots pounding and rustling bushes sounded in the distance. He was getting away. Whoever he was. Had he been out here all along, hidden away watching from a distance? Was he the killer? She clawed breath into her lungs. Sweet, wonderful breath. Her throat ached, and pain continued to streak down her spine into her tailbone.

“Over...over here,” she croaked.

* * *

Eric had needed a minute. He still needed a minute. How was Bryn Eastman back in Memphis? And not just back but an FBI agent? He had five billion questions and no time to ask even one.

Fancy meeting you here.

Seriously? That’s what came from his mouth the second he laid eyes on her? He’d rehearsed time and again what he’d say if they ever met again. That line had never made it into the script. He flashed his light, hunting for her through the foliage.

“Eastman!” His voice echoed through the silent park. A secluded place to dump a body or attack someone—like Bryn.

Bryn Eastman. FBI. Eric gave his head a good shake. Chief had said the female agent being sent to assist specialized in victimology and profiling, and had an impressive track record for such a young agent. She’d worked on the Dayton Date Rapist case, the Cleveland Creeper case, a few others in Iowa, plus one in New York.

All successes.

But his Bryn Eastman?

Whoa. Where had that come from? She wasn’t even close to being his. Hadn’t been his since their relationship tanked when she was still in college and he was working as a patrol officer. When her brother had turned out to be a serial killer who had set his sights on Eric’s sister, Abby.

Which was why they could never be together again.

But that fact hadn’t stopped his heart from slamming into his rib cage when she cast those blue eyes on him. Long golden hair secured at her neck. Creamy skin and high cheekbones. She was the epitome of the All American Dream Girl. A California dime—if she were from Cali and not Memphis. Either way she was still a ten.

Where was she? Was she ignoring his calls on purpose?

“Bryn?” Cold pinpricks traveled up his spine. Why wouldn’t she call out? About twenty feet ahead, a flock of blackbirds burst from half-naked maples. He cast his light in the direction.

Was that a figure?

His gut tightened. His pulse galloped. God, please let her be okay.

“Over...over here.”

Eric sprinted toward the sound of her garbled voice and found her slumped against a tree, her hand on her temple. “Bryn!” He knelt. “What happened?” Her bottom lip quivered, and her eyes appeared glassy. “Bryn, talk to me.”

“That...way. He went that way.” She pointed.

He hesitated.

“Go. Don’t worry about me.”

How could he not with her face paler than snow and trembling hands? A mix of fear and utter rage pulsed through Eric’s veins. Someone had laid a hand on her. Hurt her. God had protected her, though. Two things Eric had never ceased doing: thinking about Bryn and praying for her. Looked like God had been listening.

“Go...you’ll lose him.”

Eric touched her cheek, then bolted in the direction of the shadow, radioing backup to help canvass the area and letting them know an officer needed medical attention. Weaving between trees, he followed the sound of footsteps that led up a hill and onto the highway.

No one. Where had he disappeared to? He searched the area for a few more minutes. Pulse pounding in his ears, heart hammering, he raced back to Bryn and dropped to his knees at her side. “What happened? Other than you refused medical treatment.” First responders were leaving the area.

“I didn’t refuse. I politely declined to go to the hospital.” She removed her hand from her forehead; a streak of blood trailed down her temple and cheek. “It’s a minor abrasion.”

It didn’t look minor, but there was no point arguing. “The attacker? What happened?” Eric huffed.

“One minute I was picking up a scarf and then out of nowhere...” With shaking hands, she stared at the blood on her fingertips. “I’m... I’m okay, though. I fought.” Bryn squeezed her eyes shut, and everything in Eric screamed to gather her close to him, assure her that she was safe. But he couldn’t. Instead, he laid a hand on her cheek.

She stood up and winced. “Must have been the killer.”

The thought of what could have gone down, and only a few feet away from his protection, was more than he could stomach. Better to make light than fall apart right here and now. “Or someone who really doesn’t like you,” he teased in a shaky voice.

“Har. Har.” She crossed to the left, bent, then retrieved her gun and holstered it.

“He got your gun?” A thump formed behind his right eye. A guy this crazy could have shot her. Killed her!

She nodded. The expression on her face told him to tread lightly, and behind her narrowed eyes pumped raw fear.

“Promise you at least let them check you out before sending them away?” He focused the beam on her injury. “You might have a concussion.”

“Eric, I’m okay.” She paused, and friendliness coupled with sadness accompanied her half smile. “Thank you, though, for repeatedly asking.” She wobbled a bit, and he grabbed her upper arm to help balance her, the nearness overwhelming him. The scent of oranges was dizzying in an oh-so-good way.

“So you think it was the killer? Out here watching?”

“Who else would it be?”

Now that Eric wasn’t scared out of his mind, that was a good question. The fact Bryn was back in Memphis where so many tragic things had transpired might mean she was running from something—or someone—in Ohio. “You tell me.”

She paused again and peered up at him. Confusion clouded her eyes. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” He swallowed. “Why are you back? Why here of all places?”

Squinting, she studied him until he wanted to shift his feet. “I know I’m the last person you want to see—”

“I didn’t say that.” He had mixed emotions about seeing her.

“You didn’t have to.” She rubbed her temple. “I don’t know who it was. I can only assume the killer. I don’t have any answers right now. I haven’t even had time to look at the case files.”

Fine. “He say anything? You get a solid look at him?”

Bryn shook her head. “Got me from behind and put me in an iron headlock. I tried every defense I knew—”

“Even the whistle?” He couldn’t help but chuckle. In college, Bryn had carried a shiny silver one on her key ring. Once she’d blown it in his ear. He might have deserved it. She’d always been a hothead. He’d always liked that about her.

She grimaced. “No, not the whistle. Not like I would’ve had the breath to let out more than a faint tweet.”

“I thought you could go like twenty minutes without breathing.” Bryn had been a stellar swimmer back in the day.

“Eight, and that’s after being pumped with oxygen for thirty minutes and hydrating well. Besides, you can’t blow a whistle without air.” She tossed him the “duh” look. “Maybe they need to check your head.”

He hid his grin. Bryn hadn’t lost her feisty tongue. She might not have a concussion after all. “Back to the guy.”

“He was tall,” she said. “Over six feet. Beard—scraped against my cheek. A fairly full one. Steel-toed boots, so he might be a blue-collar worker. And he had a tribal tattoo on his hand. I think I can draw it.”

“Way to observe, Sherlock.”

“Thought I was Marco.” Her lips twitched. “How about plain old Bryn?”

There was nothing plain about Bryn. Never had been. She stormed up ahead of him, but he spied the tremor in her hand before she shoved it inside her coat pocket.

Eric caught up with her at the crime scene. He put a few techs on the area surrounding Bryn’s encounter. Maybe he left a shoe impression. A cigarette butt. An address and phone number tacked to a tree with an arrow.

Bryn picked leaves from her hair and put on a brave front. He’d known her long enough to know when she was hurt. Known her since he and her cousin Holt McKnight were in the Academy together. She was in high school. Too young for him. Until she turned nineteen, and he made his move. Two years together after that, heading straight for the altar and forever. If Rand hadn’t heinously intervened.

“What do you have so far?” Bryn asked.

All business. Trying to pretend she hadn’t almost been killed with dozens of officers nearby. This guy was either a complete idiot or entirely too confident in himself. Both were dangerous attributes. But he’d run down the trail with her. She might need a few minutes to collect herself. Focusing on the dead victim—not the living one staring straight at him with eyes that had always unraveled him—would help. God, thank You again for protecting her.