"The light ith too bright."Ĭhrist! The woman was so spaced-out she could hardly stand. "I can't put my hanth up," she whined, swaying back and forth like one of those dashboard bobble toys. Her bent left arm went up, as well, but quickly dropped again. "Put both hands up where I can see them, please." She didn't look tough or belligerent, though. He could have her on the ground in a heartbeat if necessary. He kept an eye on the D&D as he exited his vehicle. Now, less than two miles from his cabin and the sleep he craved, Brett had to run into a probable Drunk and Disorderly. To make matters worse, an Arctic blast had swept in early this afternoon, icing the roads and causing countless pileups.
Another twenty-two hours pulling a double shift so his pal Dave could spend Christmas weekend with his family. Six days and nights on a statewide manhunt for the murdering bastard Brett had helped put behind bars five years ago. "Great!" he muttered in disgust as he grabbed his flat-brimmed Smokey the Bear hat from the passenger seat and settled it with the chin strap at the back of his head. Not a wise move, given that his lids felt as though they'd been scraped with industrial-grade sandpaper. The erratic movements and slurred speech made Brett roll his eyes. Weaving from side to side, she shielded her eyes with her bent elbow and stumbled toward the squad car.
Her shout carried clearly on the frigid air. And the fact that there wasn't a house or a barn worth robbing within a thirty-mile radius. Perfect get-up for a cat burglar, except for the expensive vest. The knee-high boots were black, he noted with a cop's precision, as were her thigh-hugging leggings and the turtleneck sweater she wore under a silvery fox-fur vest. Height, five-seven or -eight, although some of those inches were due to her spike-heeled boots. She threw up an arm to block the vicious beam, but not before Brett registered the essentials to call in a report if necessary.įemale, Caucasian or possibly Hispanic. Rolling his shoulders to unkink them, he aimed the cruiser's powerful side spot at the woman now lurching toward the patrol car. His muscles had gone wire tight under the bulletproof vest he hadn't had time to shed since coming off shift. Cursing, he pumped the brakes and brought the Crown Vic to a lurching halt.
Brett had to employ every skill learned during his eleven years with the Oklahoma Highway Patrol to keep the squad car from skidding into one of the bur oaks crowding the narrow country road. The black-and-white fishtailed wildly on the frost-rimmed dirt road. She froze, caught like a deer in the swath of light, and Brett yanked the cruiser's wheel. That was all Sergeant Brett Cooper had time for when the headlights of his cruiser speared into the figure who seemed to have dropped out of the December night sky.
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