Emergency Response

  DESIGNATED TARGET

  On her way to visit a little girl she recently helped save, paramedic Darcie Stephens is attacked by a stranger dead-set on killing her. She escapes unscathed when detective Noah Lockhart comes to her rescue, but an officer finds a hit list dropped by the assailant—and Darcie’s name is next. Now with an assassin constantly on their heels, Darcie and Noah must uncover why somebody wants her dead. Noah fights hard to protect Darcie, but she’s determined to keep the cop at arm’s length. After all she’s lost, she’s afraid to love again, especially a handsome lawman with a guarded heart. And a murderer doesn’t plan to let Darcie live long enough for any second chances.

  First Responders: Brave men and women alert and ready for danger and love

  “You’re safe, Darcie,” Noah said.

  Was she? Would this creep think she could identify him and come looking for her? Come after her with his gun, or even worse, try to strangle her again?

  A full-on shudder claimed Darcie’s body, and despite her efforts to fight back her tears, they started flowing. She tried to stop them, willed them away, but to no avail.

  “Aw, no. Don’t cry.” Noah’s arms went around her, and he drew her close.

  She needed him. Just now. Not later. Never again. Just now.

  He cradled her head and held her. She allowed herself a few more moments to take in the warmth and ease the chill from her heart, but when her tears fully subsided, she couldn’t find an excuse to stay in his arms, so she eased free and looked up at him.

  “Better?” he asked, his gaze tender as he pressed a wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

  She didn’t know how to reply, and silence hung heavy in the air. She didn’t want to admit that outside his arms she felt afraid.

  If she did, he would feel a need to protect her, and that wouldn’t be good for either of them.

  Susan Sleeman is a bestselling author of inspirational and clean-read romantic suspense books and mysteries. She received an RT Reviewers’ Choice Best Book Award for Thread of Suspicion; No Way Out and The Christmas Witness were finalists for the Daphne du Maurier Award for Excellence. She’s had the pleasure of living in nine states and currently lives in Oregon. To learn more about Susan, visit her website at susansleeman.com.

  Books by Susan Sleeman

  Love Inspired Suspense

  First Responders

  Silent Night Standoff

  Explosive Alliance

  High-Caliber Holiday

  Emergency Response

  The Justice Agency

  Double Exposure

  Dead Wrong

  No Way Out

  Thread of Suspicion

  Dark Tide

  High-Stakes Inheritance

  Behind the Badge

  The Christmas Witness

  Holiday Defenders

  “Special Ops Christmas”

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

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  EMERGENCY

  RESPONSE

  Susan Sleeman

  May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace

  as you trust in Him, so that you may overflow with hope

  by the power of the Holy Spirit.

  —Romans 15:13

  For my wonderful daughters, Erin and Emma.

  As I wrote this book about parental loss, I was constantly reminded of what amazing daughters you are and that

  I am so blessed that God has put you both in my life.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  DEAR READER

  EXCERPT FROM SEASIDE SECRETS BY DANA MENTINK

  ONE

  Can’t breathe. Must breathe.

  “No.” Darcie Stevens clawed at the beefy arm circling her neck like a hangman’s noose, her fingernails raking over her attacker’s fleshy arm.

  Scratching. Ripping. Drawing blood.

  It didn’t deter him. He tightened his grip, cutting off the last of her breath. “Give it up. You won’t win.”

  She worked harder to release the pressure on her windpipe. Struggled for oxygen. Any. Even the tiniest sip of cold February air. Found none.

  Her vision blurred and she blinked hard.

  No! Please, no!

  Was this the end? Desperation set in. She had to try harder.

  She elbowed his gut. One hard, firm jab to the midsection, her elbow sinking into his stomach.

  He didn’t move except to constrict his arm and draw her back more tightly against his flabby body. She felt a gun tucked into his belt pressing against her back.

  No. No. No.

  Did he plan to shoot her if he failed to choke her? She had to get away before he drew the weapon. But how?

  Her shoes. Yes, her boots had spiky heels. They could do some serious damage. She stomped on his foot, grinding, pressing, digging for concrete.

  “Uhhh,” he grunted. His arm relaxed a fraction.

  Yes!

  She pressed her hands together like a diver and shot them up under his arm, pushing with all of her strength. Widening the gap.

  One final push. She gave it her all and broke free. She gulped air and didn’t waste time waiting to see what he might do, but took off down the sidewalk. Her steps, halting at first as she dragged in enough oxygen to pick up speed.

  He followed her, the sound of his heavy footfalls reverberating in her ears. Her lungs were heaving with exertion. Her body begged to stop. To rest.

  No. I can’t let him catch me. If he does...

  She wouldn’t let that happen.

  Please help me to go on.

  Rain started to fall, pelting her face, soaking through her jacket. The moss-covered sidewalk threatened to take her feet out from under her. She focused on her shoes.

  Careful now, one foot in front of the other.

  She was making progress, but so was he. She could hear him coming closer. Closer. Step by step. Each footfall sounding like thunder in her ears.

  The wind rushed past, carrying the echo of his heavy footsteps and masking his location. Could he have closed the distance? Was he readying himself to attack again? But why was he targeting her? What did he want? She didn’t live in this part of town. He likely didn’t even know her.

  Was this attack random, like the woman who was mugged just down the street last week? A gang member had beaten her badly and she was still fighting for life. Was that this man’s plan, too? Was he simply trying to subdue her then rob her?

  Darcie couldn’t let that happen. She churned her legs faster, harder. Her lungs screamed for relief. She couldn’t think about that. She forced her concentration onto the rhythm of her feet.

  Step. Step. Step.

  Faster. Faste
r, she moved.

  She risked a glance back. She had a small lead.

  Thank You, God.

  She took another quick look at her attacker, searching for details she could tell the police.

  He was tall. Thick. Beefy. His skin was dark—Latino, she guessed. She returned her focus to her stride. She was running out of breath and slowing. He was panting hard, but he could still catch her.

  Help me, God. Please. Help me.

  The thudding footfalls suddenly stopped. Had he given up? Had she succeeded in tiring him out? Had God intervened?

  Relief surged through her body, but she kept going. She had to. She wasn’t safe yet.

  A gunshot suddenly broke the quiet. A bullet slammed into the tree in the median. Wood fragments splintered and peppered her face. She closed her eyes for protection. Caught a toe in the cracked sidewalk. Plummeted to the concrete.

  Oomph. She landed hard.

  The rough surface ripped the skin from her palms and split the knees of her pants. She stayed on the ground, dazed for a moment, her brain a jumbled mess.

  Another bullet bit into the concrete near her head. A jagged shard sliced into her neck. She cried out and protected her head with her hands. Her heart stuttered, feeling like it might stop, but she wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. Couldn’t just lay there knowing the next bullet would hit the mark.

  But what could she do? She couldn’t outrun a bullet.

  Hide. She had to find a place to hide.

  She pushed to her feet, started running again and searched the street. Run-down houses with peeling paint and weed-infested yards greeted her. No telling who lived in these houses, but she’d be safer inside. Or maybe someone would come out and help her if she pounded on a door.

  Yeah, right. Not in this gang-infested neighborhood.

  A bullet whizzed past her shoulder.

  She glanced down the street. She could see her destination up ahead. Pilar’s house. She was almost there. Could she make it before this creep shot her in the back?

  Another bullet zipped past her shoulder.

  She had to try. She kept going and hunched her shoulders to make herself a smaller target. Just a little ways to go and she’d reach Pilar’s walkway where she could race inside to safety.

  Shots kept flying.

  Ping. Ping. Ping.

  He was shooting like a madman, not even pausing to aim. She had to take cover. Now!

  She dove behind a large utility box and curled into a ball. Sucking in air. Blowing it out. Thoughts zinging through her mind as fast as the bullets flying overhead.

  What could she do?

  Think, Darcie, think.

  Help. She needed help. Her teammates on the First Response Squad would know what to do. They were all trained law enforcement professionals, but not her. She was the team’s paramedic and the only one without law enforcement credentials. Unfortunately, they couldn’t get across town in time.

  Noah. She could call Noah. He was already on his way to meet her at Pilar’s house to talk to her about sweet little Isabel. As a homicide detective, he’d know what to do. He had to.

  Darcie clawed through her purse until she grasped her phone. Her hands shook, blurring the screen, but she managed to press Noah’s number.

  “Lockhart,” he answered.

  “A man tried to strangle me,” she managed to get out. “He’s chasing after me now. He has a gun.”

  “Where are you?” Noah’s voice was reassuringly cool and controlled.

  “Behind a utility box close to Isabel’s house.”

  The sound of her assailant’s boots beating down the sidewalk drew her attention. She came to her knees. Peeked over the box. He was running toward her, his gun in his hand.

  He spotted her. Paused. Lifted the gun. He fired. She ducked. The bullet flew overhead.

  “Noah, he’s shooting at me.” She drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them.

  “I’m about a mile out,” Noah said. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, but you’ll have to hold him off until I get there.” The sound of Noah’s siren coming to life filtered over the phone.

  She wished she could hear it wailing down the street instead. “I—I—”

  “You have a gun, Darcie. Use it.”

  “Shoot him?” Her? Fire a gun at someone? She was a paramedic—she treated gunshot wounds, she didn’t cause them. Sure, she carried. She had to. Her FRS teammates insisted on it, and they’d taught her how to fire a gun, but they were always around so she never thought she’d actually have to use it. “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Get it out, Darcie.”

  “I—”

  “Do as I say, Darcie,” Noah commanded. “No excuses. Put your hand in your purse and grab that gun. Now!”

  His sharp voice broke her reluctance. She sat up, slid her trembling hand into the bag, finding the cool metal and curling her fingers around the grip.

  “Got it.” She lifted it out. Her heart kicked hard against the wall of her chest. The gun in her hand trembled.

  Oh, God, please no.

  “Noah, I can’t shoot him,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  “Yes, you can. You have to. I—” His voice was cut off. She looked at her phone.

  The call had disconnected. Most likely the signal had dropped—a common problem in this hilly neighborhood.

  She was on her own again.

  Her assailant’s boots slapped the sidewalk.

  Close now. Insistent. Threatening.

  Thump...thump...thump.

  He reached the box.

  She dropped the phone. Lifted the gun. Held it out. The cold metal was foreign to her hands.

  She raised it higher. Stretched out arms that felt limp, like a rubber hose.

  “Oh, God, please,” she begged, her heart in her throat. “Please don’t make me shoot him.”

  * * *

  Noah glanced at his phone. Call dropped. He’d lost Darcie. No surprise. He’d had problems with bad signals in this neighborhood before.

  He slammed a fist into the wheel, his mind racing to find a way to help her. But maybe it was better this way. He could respond without having to split his concentration.

  Right, better! How was it better not knowing if Darcie had managed to defend herself before some shooter took her out?

  It wasn’t. But he couldn’t risk calling her back. Her ringing phone might give away her hiding spot, or distract her at the wrong moment.

  He had to get to her, and fast.

  He punched the gas. His sirens screamed and the light bar strobed in rhythm with his windshield wipers. Adrenaline coursed through his veins. His pulse beat triple time as anxiety climbed up his back and threatened to swamp him.

  Eight years as a police officer and he’d never felt such fear. But then, a woman he cared about had never been under fire. He couldn’t live with himself if anything happened to Darcie.

  Father, please! Keep her safe. Let me arrive on time.

  At the corner, he hung a hard right, the car hugging the curb and squealing. Onlookers watched from the sidewalk, but the road was clear of vehicles as a siren wailed from the south. Good, a patrol officer had responded to his radio call for backup and had arrived.

  Noah rolled up on the scene moments later, taking in everything at once. The tired neighborhood. The shooter racing down the street, his weapon dangling from his hand. The lack of movement behind the utility box. The patrol officer bolting from his car in hot pursuit of the shooter.

  Noah slid his vehicle in place next to the cruiser and forced himself to pause behind the door for safety as he thoroughly assessed the area. The air was heavy with tension as thick as the pounding rain. Dark and ominous skies hung overhead. A dog frantically barke
d in the background, the noise mixing with the wail of the sirens. The lone uniformed officer continued down the street, trailing the intruder, who was dressed in an oversize blue shirt and sagging jeans that looked like they might drop at any second. Noah made him as Latino, five-ten, two hundred and twenty-five pounds.

  “Police. Stop,” the officer shouted, then his voice came over Noah’s radio as he reported to dispatch that he was on foot and needed backup.

  Noah swung his gaze to additional patrol cars arriving from the other direction. The officers sprang from their cars and joined in the pursuit. The radio squawked with the first officer’s voice, telling the others to set up a perimeter, and their lieutenant instructed them to switch radio channels to prevent other traffic from interfering with communications.

  With several officers in pursuit of the suspect, Noah was free to check on Darcie, but he wanted to keep up on the action so he quickly adjusted his radio. Holding his weapon in defensive mode, his senses on high alert, he headed for the utility box.

  By the time he crossed the road, his jacket was soaked and water dripped from his hair. He swiped the moisture from his face and cautiously approached. The last thing he wanted was for Darcie to mistake him for her assailant and fire at him. Or even let a nervous finger jerk the trigger.

  “Darcie,” he called out when he was still ten feet away. “It’s me. Noah. The shooter is gone. You can lower your gun now.”

  She didn’t respond.

  Was he too late? Had she been shot?

  Closing the distance, his heart slammed against his chest. “Darcie, are you okay? Did you lower your gun?”

  “Yes.” The barely audible word drifted over the box.

  He nearly sagged with relief and stepped around the box. He found her slumped against the metal, her legs splayed out, her gun lying on her knees. Her chestnut hair hung wet and limp to her shoulders, and her usual smile was nowhere in sight. She stared ahead, her eyes vacant.

  Her unfettered anguish stopped Noah cold. He’d had an awareness of Darcie for years, but neither of them was in a place for a relationship so he’d kept his interest to himself. But now, seeing her like this—emotionally ripped apart—it was all he could do not to wrap his arms around her and comfort her. The only thing stopping him was the certainty that she’d push him away.