One Wrong Move, page 35
“Hey, kid.”
She glanced at the clock. 11:03. “You’re calling a bit later than usual. Everything okay?” In his line of work, she never knew.
“Everything’s fine. Just wanted to check in.”
Since Fuentes’s arrest and the confiscation of millions in cocaine, her brother’s protective side had come out in force.
“How’s Mom?”
“Good. I know she gets lonely at times, but the kiddos are keeping her busy.”
Kenzie’s son and daughter had brought so much joy to their lives, especially with Owen’s birth just three months after Gabby’s, Noah’s, and Kenzie’s dad—affectionately known as Poppy to Kenzie’s daughter, Fiona—passed unexpectedly.
She slowed, making sure she was clear for a right turn, and the silver car behind her honked.
“Was that a horn?” Noah asked.
“Yep. Just on my way home from the awards banquet,” she said, making a right. The silver sedan sped around her, disappearing into the night.
“How’d it go?” Noah asked.
“Fine. What’s new with you?” She stopped at a signal, the red light refracting off her windshield, making an upside-down L across her dash.
“Just finishing up some paperwork. The games start tomorrow.”
Every year the Coast Guard Investigative Service team went head-to-head with the NCIS unit from Camp Lejeune in a battle of strength, endurance, and all-out fun. “What kicks it off?” she asked, a strange uneasiness seeping through her. Why was the light not changing?
She glanced around as Noah said something that didn’t even register. Sunday night in the business district left dark buildings surrounding her. Her sense of isolation heightened, despite being on a call with her brother.
Tapping her two-inch heel against the floorboard, she ticked off the seconds with no cars passing by, and yet the light remained red.
“Gab? Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Just waiting for the light to change.” And for the uneasiness sloshing inside to dissipate—an uneasiness she hadn’t experienced since that day in South Sudan.
The guttural roar of a motorcycle reverberated behind her. Headlights glared across her rearview mirror as a Triumph slowed to a stop beside her. Relief at not being alone filled her until she glanced over at the black bike.
The man shifted toward her, raising his arm. Is that a . . . ?
Lunging over, she’d barely collided with the passenger seat when a thwack shattered her window.
“Gabby!” Noah said.
Clutching her hands over her head, she stayed low as glass rained over her.
Praying for protection, she scrambled out the passenger door, her hands and knees colliding with the pavement.
She crawled toward the alley only to be yanked back. Her heart racing, she turned to find her hem was caught on the car door. A quick tug tore the sequined fabric loose.
“Gabby!” Noah called.
She couldn’t afford to give up her position, so she remained silent, sweat slathering her back.
Heavy footfalls hit the pavement.
He was coming for her.
Sucking in a gulp of air, she kicked off her heels, said a quick prayer, and darted for the alley.
Shots retorted, one pinging off the dumpster to her left.
Her pulse pounding, she dove behind it. The pavement scraped flesh from her flattened palms. Ignoring the stinging, she crouched low and prayed.
Please keep me safe, Jesus.
Footfalls grew closer.
Tears stung her eyes. With a deep breath, she darted for the next dumpster. A bullet whizzed past her, ricocheting off the container with a shrill ping. She flattened her back against the cool metal. The stench of rotting trash violated the air. An acrid taste skittered across her tongue.
Swallowing her upchuck reflex, she scanned the alley for a way out. A dim light shone at the end. The Renaissance Hotel. If she could make it there, surely she’d be safe.
His footfalls nearly upon her, she broke into a flat-out run. Muscles heating, she stumbled into the road, headlights glaring into her eyes. Her heart sank.
What if the man had backup?
The car screeched to a halt.
“What are you—crazy?” the man yelled through the open driver’s window.
She broke into a run as the car sped away. Refusing to look back, she flailed forward as fast as her trembling legs would carry her. Another bullet whizzed past her right ear, shattering the glass front of the hotel. She barreled into the revolving door, nearly tumbling into the lobby.
The front desk attendant lifted his radio. “Security!” He rushed to her side. “Are you okay, miss?” His attention darted to the door. Her gaze tracked with his, praying her would-be killer wouldn’t be bold enough to enter. Thankfully he wasn’t.
She collapsed into the employee’s arms, winded and covered with damp, cold sweat.
THREE
WRIGHTSVILLE BEACH, NORTH CAROLINA
FINN WALKER WOKE from the night terror—or at least that’s what the shrink the Coast Guard had made him see called them. It’d been six years since he’d last performed a rescue swim—the first and only time he’d lost a life on duty.
Rolling over in bed, he switched on his nightstand lamp.
Lightning jagged in the sky, followed by a thunderous clap.
A swift gust swept through the window screen, rattling the shade.
He stood and arched his aching shoulder. Just like he did every time it rained.
He inhaled, grateful he could still swim and surf, but his shoulder would never regain the range of motion he needed to be a rescue swimmer. Even if it did, he couldn’t go back. Not after failing a man and destroying his family. He pinched the bridge of his nose. All because of a stupid torn rotator cuff?
He grabbed the half-full water bottle off the dresser and took a long swig of the room-temperature liquid.
Leaning against the pinewood bureau, he finished off the bottle. Every single storm, pain shot through his shoulder, and every single storm, the night terrors returned. Forever reminding him how he’d failed the man, and how God had failed him.
Acknowledgments
To Jesus—Without you there’d be no stories. Thank you for the gift of them and for holding me up all the way through, not just the writing process but throughout life. You are my Shepherd, Shelter, and Savior.
To Mike—Thirty-one years and counting. It’s been a minute, right? The best minute ever. I love you.
To Kayla—For Starbucks on deadline, for daily Instagram laughter, for daily coffee chats, and for all you do and are. I love you.
To Ty—For all the beach vacations, last-minute math help, daily pictures that bring me laughter and joy, and, of course, our Starbucks runs. I love you.
To Dave—For sticking with me on this crazy adventure we call publishing, for believing in me and championing me all these years. I’m truly grateful.
To Janet—What would I do without you? Thank you for your wit, savviness, kind heart, and all your support. I’m truly blessed God brought us together.
To Jill—Thank you for your wonderful friendship all these years.
To Becky—For helping me through the weeds on this one. Thank you so much, friend!
To the Darlings—I love our group, our friendships, and cheering each other on over Zoom even if it’s at 5 a.m. during deadline week and I look like I’ve been hit by a truck. You’re always there to support me and I’m grateful.
To Renee, Caitlyn, and Joy—Thank you for reading various drafts of One Wrong Move, even when it was still called by the fancy name of Book One. LOL! Your insight helped shape Christian and Andi’s story, and I’m grateful!
Dani Pettrey is the bestselling author of the COASTAL GUARDIANS series, CHESAPEAKE VALOR series, and the ALASKAN COURAGE series. A two-time Christy Award finalist, Dani has won the National Readers’ Choice Award, Daphne du Maurier Award, HOLT Medallion, and Christian Retailing’s Best Award for Suspense. She plots murder and mayhem from her home in the Washington, DC, metro area. She can be found online at danipettrey.com.
BETHANY
CONNECT
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Table of Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Books by Dani Pettrey
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
An excerpt from The Killing Tide
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
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Dani Pettrey, One Wrong Move
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She glanced at the clock. 11:03. “You’re calling a bit later than usual. Everything okay?” In his line of work, she never knew.
“Everything’s fine. Just wanted to check in.”
Since Fuentes’s arrest and the confiscation of millions in cocaine, her brother’s protective side had come out in force.
“How’s Mom?”
“Good. I know she gets lonely at times, but the kiddos are keeping her busy.”
Kenzie’s son and daughter had brought so much joy to their lives, especially with Owen’s birth just three months after Gabby’s, Noah’s, and Kenzie’s dad—affectionately known as Poppy to Kenzie’s daughter, Fiona—passed unexpectedly.
She slowed, making sure she was clear for a right turn, and the silver car behind her honked.
“Was that a horn?” Noah asked.
“Yep. Just on my way home from the awards banquet,” she said, making a right. The silver sedan sped around her, disappearing into the night.
“How’d it go?” Noah asked.
“Fine. What’s new with you?” She stopped at a signal, the red light refracting off her windshield, making an upside-down L across her dash.
“Just finishing up some paperwork. The games start tomorrow.”
Every year the Coast Guard Investigative Service team went head-to-head with the NCIS unit from Camp Lejeune in a battle of strength, endurance, and all-out fun. “What kicks it off?” she asked, a strange uneasiness seeping through her. Why was the light not changing?
She glanced around as Noah said something that didn’t even register. Sunday night in the business district left dark buildings surrounding her. Her sense of isolation heightened, despite being on a call with her brother.
Tapping her two-inch heel against the floorboard, she ticked off the seconds with no cars passing by, and yet the light remained red.
“Gab? Everything okay?”
“Yeah. Sorry. Just waiting for the light to change.” And for the uneasiness sloshing inside to dissipate—an uneasiness she hadn’t experienced since that day in South Sudan.
The guttural roar of a motorcycle reverberated behind her. Headlights glared across her rearview mirror as a Triumph slowed to a stop beside her. Relief at not being alone filled her until she glanced over at the black bike.
The man shifted toward her, raising his arm. Is that a . . . ?
Lunging over, she’d barely collided with the passenger seat when a thwack shattered her window.
“Gabby!” Noah said.
Clutching her hands over her head, she stayed low as glass rained over her.
Praying for protection, she scrambled out the passenger door, her hands and knees colliding with the pavement.
She crawled toward the alley only to be yanked back. Her heart racing, she turned to find her hem was caught on the car door. A quick tug tore the sequined fabric loose.
“Gabby!” Noah called.
She couldn’t afford to give up her position, so she remained silent, sweat slathering her back.
Heavy footfalls hit the pavement.
He was coming for her.
Sucking in a gulp of air, she kicked off her heels, said a quick prayer, and darted for the alley.
Shots retorted, one pinging off the dumpster to her left.
Her pulse pounding, she dove behind it. The pavement scraped flesh from her flattened palms. Ignoring the stinging, she crouched low and prayed.
Please keep me safe, Jesus.
Footfalls grew closer.
Tears stung her eyes. With a deep breath, she darted for the next dumpster. A bullet whizzed past her, ricocheting off the container with a shrill ping. She flattened her back against the cool metal. The stench of rotting trash violated the air. An acrid taste skittered across her tongue.
Swallowing her upchuck reflex, she scanned the alley for a way out. A dim light shone at the end. The Renaissance Hotel. If she could make it there, surely she’d be safe.
His footfalls nearly upon her, she broke into a flat-out run. Muscles heating, she stumbled into the road, headlights glaring into her eyes. Her heart sank.
What if the man had backup?
The car screeched to a halt.
“What are you—crazy?” the man yelled through the open driver’s window.
She broke into a run as the car sped away. Refusing to look back, she flailed forward as fast as her trembling legs would carry her. Another bullet whizzed past her right ear, shattering the glass front of the hotel. She barreled into the revolving door, nearly tumbling into the lobby.
The front desk attendant lifted his radio. “Security!” He rushed to her side. “Are you okay, miss?” His attention darted to the door. Her gaze tracked with his, praying her would-be killer wouldn’t be bold enough to enter. Thankfully he wasn’t.
She collapsed into the employee’s arms, winded and covered with damp, cold sweat.
THREE
WRIGHTSVILLE BEACH, NORTH CAROLINA
FINN WALKER WOKE from the night terror—or at least that’s what the shrink the Coast Guard had made him see called them. It’d been six years since he’d last performed a rescue swim—the first and only time he’d lost a life on duty.
Rolling over in bed, he switched on his nightstand lamp.
Lightning jagged in the sky, followed by a thunderous clap.
A swift gust swept through the window screen, rattling the shade.
He stood and arched his aching shoulder. Just like he did every time it rained.
He inhaled, grateful he could still swim and surf, but his shoulder would never regain the range of motion he needed to be a rescue swimmer. Even if it did, he couldn’t go back. Not after failing a man and destroying his family. He pinched the bridge of his nose. All because of a stupid torn rotator cuff?
He grabbed the half-full water bottle off the dresser and took a long swig of the room-temperature liquid.
Leaning against the pinewood bureau, he finished off the bottle. Every single storm, pain shot through his shoulder, and every single storm, the night terrors returned. Forever reminding him how he’d failed the man, and how God had failed him.
Acknowledgments
To Jesus—Without you there’d be no stories. Thank you for the gift of them and for holding me up all the way through, not just the writing process but throughout life. You are my Shepherd, Shelter, and Savior.
To Mike—Thirty-one years and counting. It’s been a minute, right? The best minute ever. I love you.
To Kayla—For Starbucks on deadline, for daily Instagram laughter, for daily coffee chats, and for all you do and are. I love you.
To Ty—For all the beach vacations, last-minute math help, daily pictures that bring me laughter and joy, and, of course, our Starbucks runs. I love you.
To Dave—For sticking with me on this crazy adventure we call publishing, for believing in me and championing me all these years. I’m truly grateful.
To Janet—What would I do without you? Thank you for your wit, savviness, kind heart, and all your support. I’m truly blessed God brought us together.
To Jill—Thank you for your wonderful friendship all these years.
To Becky—For helping me through the weeds on this one. Thank you so much, friend!
To the Darlings—I love our group, our friendships, and cheering each other on over Zoom even if it’s at 5 a.m. during deadline week and I look like I’ve been hit by a truck. You’re always there to support me and I’m grateful.
To Renee, Caitlyn, and Joy—Thank you for reading various drafts of One Wrong Move, even when it was still called by the fancy name of Book One. LOL! Your insight helped shape Christian and Andi’s story, and I’m grateful!
Dani Pettrey is the bestselling author of the COASTAL GUARDIANS series, CHESAPEAKE VALOR series, and the ALASKAN COURAGE series. A two-time Christy Award finalist, Dani has won the National Readers’ Choice Award, Daphne du Maurier Award, HOLT Medallion, and Christian Retailing’s Best Award for Suspense. She plots murder and mayhem from her home in the Washington, DC, metro area. She can be found online at danipettrey.com.
BETHANY
CONNECT
0 Resources
instagram Instagram
email Newsletter
facebook Facebook
Table of Contents
Cover
Endorsements
Half Title Page
Books by Dani Pettrey
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
An excerpt from The Killing Tide
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Ads
Back Cover
List of Pages
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Dani Pettrey, One Wrong Move
