Free Worth Dying For (A Slaughter Creek Novel) by Rita Herron Page A

connection between the Banning woman and my father. She wasn’t on the visitor log, and none of the inmates near Blackwood’s cell remembered hearing him talk about her. We’ll keep looking.”
    “So how did he escape?”
    “Took a homemade dose of some concoction to make him sick enough to go to the infirmary. Stabbed a guard there, then stole his uniform and weapon. All the authorities have been notified at the airports, bus stations, train stations, and ports.”
    They suspected the Commander had connections that ran deep and wide, though. He’d been involved with the CIA. Hell, the government could have helped him escape to keep him from disclosing information about the project. Not that Blackwood had talked. But since Senator Stowe’s arrest, no one was safe.
    Everyone was a suspect.

    Liz inhaled deeply as she entered her house, reminding herself that she was a professional agent. She was trained. Smart.
    And she’d learned her lesson.
    Sure, Harlan had gotten the jump on her once, but he’d caught her off guard because his accomplice had approached her, pretending to be a woman in trouble, one of Harlan’s victims fleeing the cabin where Liz had tracked him. Liz’s protective instincts toward females had kicked in, overriding her sense that something was off, that she was walking into a trap.
    She’d never let down her guard again.
    Holding her gun at the ready, she started to call for backup. But she was taking antianxiety medication, and if Rafe found that out, she’d look unstable.
    She quickly scanned the den and kitchen, an open room with a bay window overlooking the woods and river.
    She eased open the pantry. Everything seemed in place. No one inside.
    One look at the corner chair where she kept her crocheting, and something about the way the supplies were arranged struck her as odd—had she left the yellow blanket on top, or the purple one?
    God, you are crazy, Liz. An intruder certainly wouldn’t bother with your craft supplies.
    But paranoia still seized her, defying common sense. Her hands shook and her vision blurred as images of the dark place where Harlan had held her resurfaced. There was no air, she couldn’t breathe . . .
    She counted to ten to calm herself. She could not relapse now. Could not give in to those damned panic attacks.
    Inching her way down the hall, she glanced in the bathroom, then her office, finding them empty as well.
    Tension knotted her muscles as she eased her way to the master suite. But the room looked intact. Her bedding was in place, the windows closed, her vanity just as scattered with jewelry and makeup as she’d left it.
    Her vanity was in complete disarray. She kept telling herself she’d organize it, but she never seemed to find the time.
    Her therapist had actually applauded her for being able to let go in that one area of her life.
    Liz must have fooled her, if she thought Liz was in control. Just the hint of an intruder had brought it all back.
    She summoned her courage, determined to prove she was on solid ground.
    If one day on the job made her come unglued to the point of imagining Harlan again, she’d never convince Rafe she was stable enough to work with him.
    She inhaled several deep breaths, struggling to separate reality from delusions. But the lines were blurred . . . she still smelled him in her house. Garlic . . . the faint scent of garlic clung in the air. Garlic . . .
    He’d chop it up and put it in the food he gave his victims, food to make them sick. So sick they’d be weak and couldn’t fight him . . .
    Yes, chop, chop, he’d told her as he’d sharpened his knife. Chop, chop, he’d cut the vegetables and smash the garlic.
    Chop, chop, he’d slice her neck . . .
    She shuddered, nausea burgeoning. He had been here, hadn’t he?
    Or was that smell only in her head as well?

    The wind chimes tinkled as Amelia slipped outside her condo to meet her lover. Ting. Ting. Ting . They were music to her ears. Playing a beautiful