Free Twin Targets by Marta Perry Page A

eight or nine. The tale of sisterly love and simple faith would be a good antidote to the horrors of the past few days.
    By the time she reached the end of the first scene, the plate had slid from her lap. Frowning, she put it on the floor beside the couch. She must be more tired than she’d thought. She could hardly keep her eyes open, and she never napped during the day.
    She pulled the crocheted afghan from the back of the couch, tucking it over her legs. She wanted the story to relax her, not make her comatose. Propping her eyes open, she tried to concentrate on what the sisters would buy Marmee for Christmas.
    The book, sliding from her hands, landed on the floor with a soft thud, jerking her awake. She didn’t treat books that way. She fumbled, reaching for it, trying to get her eyes open.
    But her lids were heavy, so heavy, far too heavy to lift. She’d just drift off to sleep for a bit.…
    An alarm sounded faintly in her mind, piercing the fog that had invaded her thoughts. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. She couldn’t move, couldn’t think—
    She forced herself to roll to her side. Her body was even heavier than her eyelids, unresponsive to her commands. She got her legs off the couch, tangling them in the afghan, tried to sit up, and fell forward to the floor, hitting hard.
    The jolt roused her enough to send panic surging through her. She had to call for help. The phone was only a few feet away.
    She forced her head to lift, trying to focus on the end table. It might as well have been a mile away. She clawed at the carpet, trying to crawl to it. The cord dangled toward the floor, slightly out of reach of her groping fingers. She lunged forward, her fingers grazing the cord. Fumble. Grasp. Pull. The receiver thudded to the floor next to her.
    Reach it, she had to reach it, dial 911—she tried to force her hand to move, but whatever fogged her mind had paralyzed her body. She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t…
    Micah listened to the buzzing that said Jade’s line was engaged. Not so surprising, was it? People did talk that long, after all. But he’d been trying to reach her for a good twenty minutes.
    The reasoning, rational though it was, didn’t dispel the tension the gripped him. Maybe nothing was wrong. But maybe something was very wrong.
    He stepped on the accelerator. No other cars on this stretch of road, no one to see or be endangered by the speed at which he moved. His pulse sped along with the vehicle. He was nearly there. If Jade was in danger, if he was too late…
    Please, Father, protect her. Be with her. Let me get to her in time.
    He turned down the narrow lane to her house, plowing through a few minor drifts the wind had tossed across its surface. He spun up to the house and braked, out almost before the vehicle had come to a stop. Her car was there. She was fine, surely, but the force that was driving him wouldn’t let up. Not until he saw for himself.
    He took the steps and the porch in a couple of strides and thudded on the door. Nothing. No sound from within. But she had to be there. The phone was engaged, she’d said she’d be there—
    He hurried to the window, cupped his hand to shut out the glare and peered inside. Jade—lying on the floor, still as death.
    Drawing back his arm, he smashed his elbow against the glass. The heavy storm window shuddered, but didn’t break. It would take something heavier, sharper. He pulled out his gun.
    Never draw your sidearm unless you intend to use it. The words from a long-ago instructor echoed in his mind. He’d use it, all right. He smashed the weapon against the window, shattering it.
    Shoving broken shards out of his way with his thick gloves, he climbed through.
    Gas, so thick it made his head swim in an instant. He had to get her out, quickly, before it felled him, too. He reached Jade, bent to grab her arms, felt himself reel.
    No time to check for life, just grab her, drag her across the floor, push her through the