“Yes,” Danny answered.
As he rushed out the door, Michael shouted over his shoulder, “Call and give us directions.”
? ? ?
WHEN SINCLAIR PULLED UP TO THE DOOR, MICHAEL GOT IN AND TOLD HIM WHAT HE HAD
heard the last caller say. “We have to get to Backer’s Road,” he ordered.
Sinclair must have been in quite a few car chases because he drove like a pro. Still, Michael wanted to shove him out of the way and take over.
Within seconds Danny called and gave exact directions to Backer’s Road. He added, “We have the license plate. The car belongs to Freya Harcus.”
Neither Michael nor Sinclair was surprised. But how had Freya gotten hold of Isabel? Michael knew she wouldn’t have willingly gone with Freya. Michael realized he was gripping his cell phone and once again called Isabel. She answered this time.
“Isabel, are you all right?”
“I did it again, Michael. I did it again.”
She sounded as though she was in shock. “What did you do?” he asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
“I killed another one.”
“You what?” He was having difficulty understanding what she was telling him. “Do you mean Freya?”
“Oh no, did I kill her, too?”
He didn’t answer. “Where are you?”
“I’m on top of a mountain. I had to drive up this awful winding road—”
“The inspector and I are coming to get you. We’re almost there. Sit tight and don’t drive. Did you hear what I just said? Don’t drive anywhere.”
Michael didn’t know how Isabel had made it up the road. Once Sinclair drove past all the trees with branches hanging down, there was a sheer drop on one side of the road and a steep hill on the other. It was a miracle she hadn’t driven off or crashed into a tree.
“This road is so steep in places I feel like the car is going to flip over,” Sinclair said.
“There she is,” Michael shouted as they reached the top.
Isabel was standing next to Freya’s car. Her hands were down at her sides, and Michael spotted the gun she held. Where had she gotten it? Sinclair hadn’t even stopped the car before Michael was out and running to her. He wrapped her in his arms and hugged her, then gently took the gun from her hand.
He could feel her shaking, but then he was shaking, too. It took a minute for her to calm down. It was going to take him much longer.
“When I couldn’t find you, when you disappeared and I . . . damn it, Isabel, you scared the hell out of me.”
“I was scared for you, too,” she whispered. “Freya told me she would shoot you if I didn’t go with her.”
Regaining control, Michael was finally able to let go of her and step back. Then he looked up and spotted the windshield.
“There are bullet holes in the windshield.”
Inspector Sinclair joined them, and Michael handed the gun to him. Sinclair also spotted the bullet holes. “Isabel, who shot at you?”
“Graeme Gibson.”
Isabel leaned into Michael’s side. She needed to be close to him to feel safe right now. The adrenaline was gone, and the horror was catching up.
“Inspector, you are not going to believe what happened to me.” She raced through her account and ended with her confession that she had deliberately hit Gibson with Freya’s car. “I don’t know if I sent him flying off a cliff. I’m not even sure how hard I hit him. I just know he disappeared over there,” she said, pointing to a drop-off.
“We’ll find his body,” he said.
Michael caught the sudden movement on his left before the other two noticed. He saw a rifle swinging up next.
Isabel didn’t know what hit her. One second she was talking to Sinclair, and the next she was flat on the ground. Michael had pushed her down behind Freya’s car and at the same time grabbed Sinclair’s arm and jerked him out of the way.
The first bullet whizzed past Sinclair’s cheek. Had Michael not acted so fast, it would have killed him. The inspector’s shoulder struck the car bumper hard when Michael shoved him down next to Isabel.
Gibson must have thought they were all defenseless because he kept shooting as he ran toward them.
“What the hell is he thinking?” Sinclair shouted.
Michael answered, “That he has nothing to lose.”
Sinclair tossed the gun to him. “Kill the bastard.”
As much as the idea appealed to him, Michael didn’t kill Gibson. Rising up from behind the car, he took aim and shot the rifle out of his hands. Gibson dropped to the ground, howling in pain.