The Dangerous Jacob Wilde

“Hey,” he shouted. “Didn’t you hear me? Turn off those lights.”

Still no response. Jake grunted, moved another few steps from the truck….

The flashlight beam settled on him and held.

The hair on the back of his neck stood up. He’d had enough of being a living target to last him a lifetime.

“Turn that thing away from me,” he said coldly. “Do it now.”

Survival instinct, honed in a place thousands of miles and many centuries away, kicked in.

This wasn’t Texas anymore.

Jake dropped to the ground and rolled, not toward the truck as the enemy might predict, but away from it, into scrub and darkness.

Everything in him focused on that beam of light.

His heart rate slowed. The sounds of the night faded; he could hear his opponent’s breaths.

The beam of light moved. Swept over the truck. Over the ground. It was searching for him.

Jake rolled again. Pressed himself to the earth ten or twelve feet from the road.

Wait, he told himself. Wait for the right instant, for the opportunity that always presented itself if you were ready….

“Show yourself,” a voice called.

Addison McDowell’s voice.

It shot him back to reality. This wasn’t some hell-begotten dirt track in Afghanistan, it was Texas. And the person with the flashlight wasn’t the enemy, it was simply a woman who’d been frightened by the headlights following her home.

He let out a long breath.

“Addison. Hey. It’s Jake Wilde. You don’t have to—”

The beam of light swept over the road, the truck, the scrub. It would find him soon. Jake started to rise.

“Addison? Listen, I understand why you’re upset—”

“All you need to understand is that I have a gun. And I damn well know how to use it.”

Jake dropped to his belly, fast. A gun? Impossible. Where would she get a …

From the Chambers house, of course. The old man had kept a dozen guns, rifles, shotguns, automatics. He’d been the worst kind of hunter, shooting anything that moved.

Hell.

This wasn’t good.

Jake cleared his throat.

“Addison. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“I’m going to start counting, Captain. By the time I get to five, you’d better be on your feet with your hands in the air.”

“Did you hear me? You don’t want to have an accident with that thing—”

“Shooting you won’t be an accident.”