Craig approached the kitchen, muscles taut.
A gun in each hand, he’d run up the long hallway in seconds flat, the trained, fit policeman chasing his prey. He was the good guy, Kaitlan the bad. He had to view it that way.
He was in this now. No alternative but to see it through.
Passing the TV room he’d had the presence of mind to veer inside and stuff the gun from the man he’d just shot under the pillow of a couch. He didn’t need it; he had plenty ammunition himself. Not to mention backup if absolutely necessary.
On a table near the sofa where he’d hidden the man’s gun, Craig spotted a phone. He knocked it off the hook.
Then, calmly, he proceeded to find Kaitlan.
When she last screamed it had been from somewhere near the entryway. Then—poof. Gone. She couldn’t have made it to the stairs.
The entrance area spilled to a hall leading toward the back of the house. Through a wide door Craig glimpsed tiled floor, the edge of cabinets. Kaitlan could have gone without his seeing her.
He headed toward it.
Sudden motion to his left. He pivoted, gun pointed. A man was running up the long wing from the other side of the house. With a news camera.
Craig pulled the trigger three times. The man tumbled to the floor. His camera crashed and skidded.
A newsman. Craig’s breath bottled in his throat. What had Darell Brooke done?
Craig started for the equipment, thinking to find the film and rip it out. Four steps down the hall he turned back. He would take care of it later. First—Kaitlan.
The minute he’d hit the kitchen Craig heard Brooke calling his name from down toward the office. Yeah, yeah, old man. Wait till you see your granddaughter die.
He stepped onto the tile.