See How They Run

by Bethany Campbell

Genres: Romance; Romantic Suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

In this harrowing, pulse-pounding story of romance and danger by Bethany Campbell, two strangers race to save innocent children from a crime lord’s hit men.
 
A gifted teacher for special-needs children, Laura Stoner loves her charges, especially eight-year-old autistic twins Rickie and Trace Fletcher. An ordinary day on the school playground turns into a nightmare when shots ring out and an old man lies dead. By witnessing the drive-by shooting, the boys become innocent targets of a dangerous syndicate. Now U.S. Attorney Mike Montana is tasked with getting the boys and their beautiful, determined teacher out of harm’s way.
 
But it’s getting harder by the minute. There’s a leak inside the Witness Protection Program and no matter how fast or far they run, the bad guys spot their every move. Part of Mike wants to deny the fierce possessive attraction growing for Laura. But desire wins, and soon he’s in over his heart, aware that nothing means more to him than getting them all out of this one alive.
 
Includes a special message from the editor, as well as excerpts from these Loveswept titles: In the Arms of the Law, Ivy Secrets, and The Rose of Blacksword.

Release date: February 13, 2012

Publisher: Loveswept

Print pages: 352

Sample

ONE
 
“You can set your watch by him,” one of the teachers had said.
 
That’s exactly what the twins did every weekday afternoon on the playground. The boys were eight and very handsome. They had dark hair and blue-gray eyes fringed with black lashes. They wore identical military watches, large and unbreakable.
 
Each day when the tall old gentleman appeared, rounding the corner, the boys’ eyes glittered with interest. They would look first at their watches, then at each other. The watches should say 2:07, and if they did not, the twins adjusted them, because the old man always appeared at 2:07.
 
The old man carried himself with great dignity and walked with a silver-headed cane. His white hair was expertly barbered, his jaw always cleanly shaven. It was winter, so he wore an expensive overcoat of dark gray, a white muffler, a black fedora, and black leather gloves.
 
He came from the direction of the really expensive brownstones, and that’s where Laura imagined he lived. She recognized his shoes as Guccis, six hundred dollars a pair. This meant that each shoe had cost exactly twice as much as her winter coat. She smiled wryly whenever she thought of that.
 
The boys counted the number of steps that took the elderly gentleman down the block past the school. On the average, it was 339. On the one-hundred-first step, he reached the edge of the schoolyard with its high wrought-iron fence.
 
The twins clung to the black bars of the fence like two solemn monkeys, staring at him and counting with all their concentration.
 
Every day the old gentleman gazed straight ahead, his face unreadable, as he passed them. Yet he always acknowledged the boys. He would raise his hand and tip his black hat, ever so slightly, as he reached the place they stood, grasping the fence.
 
“Good afternoon,” the old gentleman would mutter, without making eye contact. “Good afternoon.”
 
Perhaps, Laura thought with amusement, it was his habit to repeat himself, or perhaps he meant to give a separate and equal greeting to each twin.
 
The boys did not smile, and kept their faces as dignified as his. They hated wearing hats, so had none, but touched their fingertips to their foreheads in a return salute. “Good afternoon,” they would chorus back, mimicking his tone. “Good afternoon.”
 
Then, at approximately his one-hundred-twenty-fifth step, the old gentleman would turn his face slightly, his dark eyes meeting Laura’s hazel ones. Although he was nearly seventy, he was still a handsome man, and he knew it, she could tell. He’d nod at her and touch the brim of his hat. She’d smile and nod back.
 
“He’s got the hots for you,” Herschel, one of the other teachers, had once said.
 
“Rich, old—and with the hots for me?” Laura had replied with a rueful smile. “I should be so lucky.”
 
But the elderly gentleman’s glance almost did seem to convey sexual interest, and she admired him for harboring youthful thoughts, even felt a certain affection for him, although they’d never spoken.
 
She was still young—twenty-eight—and knew she was fairly attractive, but New York was full of women who were younger and far more beautiful. She didn’t care; she wasn’t hunting for another husband. She’d had one, and he had been more than enough.
 
Her only vanity was her richly colored auburn hair, which was thick and waving; she wore it long. She used little makeup and let her freckles show. She always had freckles, even in winter.
 
This afternoon, the wind was cold and brisk, so she’d used her plaid muffler as a scarf, covering her ears and tying it under her chin. She stood a few yards from the twins, watching them, her hands deep in her pockets. Behind her came the shouts of other children playing.
 
The gray sky had started to spit needles of sleet. Laura would be grateful to see the old gentleman round the corner, for that meant recess was almost half over, and soon she would be back in the warmth of the classroom.
 
The twins, as usual, clutched the fence rails, ignoring the other children, watching for the man. Their winter jackets and gloves were alike in all but color. As usual, Trace wore blue and Rickie red. The boys were so identical that many people could tell them apart only by this color coding. They seemed even to breathe in unison, their breath rising in synchronized plumes toward the sky.
 
Their hands tightened on the fence when they saw the man coming. The air was so cold that his ears were red and his usually controlled face looked almost pained. His white muffler was wound around his neck, and his coat collar was turned up. He seemed to exhale smoke as he walked, as if he were an elderly and benign dragon.
 
Perhaps because of the cold, he walked a bit more swiftly than usual, and Trace frowned, trying to keep count of the man’s steps. When the old man passed the boys, he lifted his hat, just barely.
 
“Good afternoon,” he said, not looking at them, striding on. “Good afternoon.”
 
They saluted stiffly, their eyes following him. “Good afternoon,” they echoed. “Good afternoon.”
 
He kept moving briskly. One of the other children, Janine, ran up to Laura, asking for help in retying her shoe. “Of course,” Laura said, putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder. But she waited, first, to exchange her usual silent greeting with the old gentleman.
 
His dark eyes met hers. He raised his gloved hand to his hat. He nodded.
 
Then a long staccato burst of noise split the winter air, and the side of the old gentleman’s face exploded into blood. His remaining eye rolled upward, his shattered jaw fell, as if to cry out, but no sound emerged.
 
Blood blossomed on his chest like red carnations sprouting in full bloom, and blood spurted from his legs, which danced, sinking beneath him. He lurched like a broken puppet toward the street and fell in a ruined heap. His wounds steamed like little mouths exhaling into the cold.
 
The children screamed, the teachers on the playground screamed, pedestrians screamed, and one woman with a Lord & Taylor shopping bag sat on the sidewalk, screaming as blood poured down her face.
 
Laura moved on sheer instinct. She wrestled Janine to the ground before the old gentleman hit the sidewalk, and she held her there, her body thrown over the girl’s. Shooting, Laura thought in horror, ducking her head, somebody’s shooting at us.
 
A bullet ricocheted shrilly off the pavement of the playground, and one of the children—William, perhaps?—screamed even more loudly.
 
Her face hidden, she heard Herschel’s agonized cry. “He’s hit! He’s hit!”
 
Then the shooting stopped and she heard the squeal of tires. Without the shots, the air seemed to ring with silence—except for the screams, of course, but they hardly registered on Laura’s consciousness any longer.
 
“He’s hit! He’s hit!” Herschel’s voice was broken. She looked over her shoulder, biting her lip. Herschel knelt above William, who flailed and writhed, holding his arm.
 
The other children were crying as teachers tried to drag them back inside the safety of the school.
 
Numbly Laura clutched the sobbing Janine closer to her chest. She forced herself to look at the old gentleman again. He lay motionless on the sidewalk in the welter of his blood.
 
His beautiful overcoat is ruined, she thought illogically. And just as illogically, a line from Macbeth ran through her head: “Who’d have thought the old man to have so much blood in him?”
 
So much blood.
 
Then, with a shock, she realized that Trace and Rickie still hung onto the fence as if hypnotized, staring at the corpse. They alone of all the children were not crying or shrieking.
 
They regarded the dead man, the dark pool of blood, the screaming wounded woman, with wooden faces. Their hands still gripped the fence bars, and a slow, thin stream of scarlet ran down Trace’s cheek, dropping to stain the bright blue of his coat.
 
Oh, God, he’s shot, Laura thought in panic. She rose and stumbled to the boys although Janine screamed out for her to stay.
 
Quickly she examined Trace’s cheek. It bled profusely, but he didn’t seem to notice. He acted irritated that she had pulled him away from the fence.
 
Janine got to her feet and lurched toward Laura, hysterical. She grasped her around the waist and wouldn’t let go. “Shh, shh,” Laura told the girl, her voice shaking. “We’ll go inside. We’ll be fine inside.”
 
Rickie, too, was annoyed to be pulled away from the fence rails and clung to them more tightly. “Shots,” he said. “Shots. The man got shooted on the hundred-and-twenty-ninth step.”
 
“Yes, yes,” she said impatiently, wrenching him from the fence. She was terrified that whoever had opened fire would return and shoot again.
 
She wrapped one arm around the bleeding Trace, the other around Rickie. Janine still hung onto her waist, wailing hysterically.
 
In the distance, sirens shrilled. “The police are coming,” she told the children, struggling to herd them inside. “The police will be here, and we’ll be safe.”
 
“The car come by,” Rickie said, frowning studiously. “The car shot. Hit the man.”
 
Trace touched his own cheek, then regarded his bloodied glove impassively. He nodded. “The car shot. Hit the man.”
 
A drive-by shooting. Here—in front of our own school, in front of these poor children, Laura thought. The world’s gone crazy. The world’s mad.
 
Somehow, Laura maneuvered her little brood inside the school. Shelley Simmons, the speech therapist, had collapsed onto the hall floor and leaned against a wall, holding one of the younger children, his face hidden against her chest. Both wept uncontrollably.