A cry for help, p.1
A CRY FOR HELP, page 1
Contents
What’s coming next from Willow Rose?
Prologue
Chapter 1
Part I
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
Part II
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Part III
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Part IV
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Part V
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Afterword
About the Author
Books by the Author
Copyright
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Prologue
Central Florida
Tuesday Afternoon
Chapter 1
Diane Mercer's fingers hovered over her keyboard, a half-empty cup of coffee cooling at her elbow. Four hours into her shift, and the familiar weight of other people's emergencies pressed against her temples. She adjusted her headset, the cushioned ear pads worn thin from years of use, and took the next call with the practiced calm that had become as much a part of her as her prematurely gray hair.
"911, what's your emergency?" The voice that answered was high-pitched, fragile—a child's voice stretched thin over terror. Her heart beat faster. It was always harder when children called in. And this one was worse than any of the others. Four simple words that would haunt Diane for the rest of her life.
"My mom shot me."
The words landed like ice in Diane's stomach. Her fingers froze above the keyboard for precisely one second before muscle memory took over. She clicked the priority alert button, watched it flash red on her screen, and kept her voice steady.
"I'm here to help you.”
She typed furiously as she spoke, already triangulating the call's origin point.
"Sweetie. You're doing great. Can you tell me your address?" Her voice remained level, betraying nothing of the dread coiling through her chest. On her second monitor, blue dots represented available patrol units. Two were less than three minutes from the caller's approximate location.
"I don't—" The child’s voice cracked. "It’s in the forest. We’re in a cabin somewhere."
“Ocala Forest?”
“Y-yes, that’s it. Please hurry.”
Diane's training clicked into place like tumblers in a lock. She knew that area very well and knew exactly where the cabins were. She and her husband often hiked there, and their children loved swimming in the springs. Her supervisor, alerted by the priority signal, appeared behind her chair, a silent presence watching the information populate the screen.
"Are you somewhere safe right now? Away from the shooter, away from… your mother?" She signaled to her supervisor, pointing at the dispatch status. The woman nodded and stepped away to coordinate the emergency response.
"I'm in the bathroom." His breathing sounded wrong—shallow and liquid. "The door doesn't lock good."
Diane felt the frantic flutter of her heart against her ribs, a caged bird beating against her professional detachment. Her eyes locked on the screen where dispatch had confirmed two units en route, ETA two minutes. She noted how her own hand remained steady as she typed additional notes: JUVENILE GUNSHOT VICTIM, SHOOTER IN HOME, BATHROOM DOOR COMPROMISED.
"You're very brave, honey. Help is coming right now. Can you tell me where you're hurt?" Her voice took on the gentle cadence she reserved for the youngest callers—warm but clear, each word precisely enunciated.
A sound escaped him—half sob, half something worse. "My stomach. It's all wet."
Diane swallowed, her throat suddenly dry as sand. The call center around her continued its constant hum of activity, but it seemed to recede, as if she and this young child existed in a bubble of shared crisis.
"Listen to me. I need you to find something—a towel or shirt—and press it against where you're hurt. Can you do that for me?"
Rustling sounds came through the line. Something clattered to the floor.
"It hurts," he whispered.
"I know it does." Diane's free hand clenched into a fist, nails digging half-moons into her palm. "But you're doing so well. The police and an ambulance are almost there." On her screen, the blue dots moved with agonizing slowness through the digital streets. "Can you hear any sounds? Where is your mother now?"
The silence stretched for three eternal seconds. When the boy spoke again, his voice had dropped to a whisper. "She's coming. I can hear her."
Diane's heart rate spiked, sending a cold rush through her veins. "Try to stay very quiet. Help is almost there." She checked the dispatch timer: one minute, twenty seconds until arrival. Too long. "Is there anywhere you can hide in the bathroom?"
The boy's breathing had grown more labored, each inhale a struggle. "She's outside the door."
The words hit Diane like a physical blow.
"Stay with me. The police are almost—"
A new sound came through the line—a woman's voice, distant but clear enough. "Baby, open the door. Open the door, sweetie."
Diane's skin prickled with goosebumps. "Don’t open the door. The police will be there in less than a minute." Her voice remained steady, but sweat beaded along her hairline, a cold trickle running down her spine.
Scraping sounds—the bathroom door being forced open. The boy’s breath came faster.
"She's coming in," he whispered.
"You need to hide. Now." Diane abandoned protocol, the urgency breaking through her professional veneer.
She heard movement, a whimper of pain. The sound of the door slamming against the wall.
"Oh, baby." The woman's voice was closer now, saturated with an emotion Diane couldn't name—something between grief and rage. "Why did you call them? Why would you do that?"
Diane pressed her headset tighter against her ear, as if she could physically reach through the connection to shield the boy. "Units arriving now," her screen informed her, but too late, too late.
The gunshot came without warning—a deafening crack that sent Diane's headset tumbling from her hands. It dangled from its cord, swinging like a hanged man as she stared at it in shock. The line went dead, leaving nothing but the hiss of an empty connection.
For one suspended moment, Diane remained perfectly still, her body frozen while her mind processed the unthinkable. Then reality crashed back—the fluorescent lights suddenly too harsh, the murmur of the call center too loud. Her hands trembled violently as she reached for her headset, fumbling it back into place with clumsy fingers.
"Hello?" Her voice cracked. "Are you there?"
Nothing.
Cold sweat broke across her forehead. The screen before her blurred as her eyes widened, focusing on everything and nothing. Her stomach heaved once, threatening rebellion. Someone was speaking—her supervisor, hand on her shoulder, asking questions Diane couldn't process.
"I lost him," she said, her voice unnaturally flat. "The mother… There was another shot."
The supervisor was saying something about the responding officers, about protocol, about taking a break, but Diane barely heard her. All she could hear was the young boy’s voice—"My mom shot me"—and the final gunshot that had severed their connection.
She reached for her coffee, knocking it over with trembling fingers. The brown liquid spread across her desk, soaking into her notepad. She stared at the expanding stain, watching it blur the words like tears.
In her twenty-three years as a 911 operator, Diane Mercer had heard gunshots before. She had listened to the last breaths of strangers, had guided callers through the worst moments of their lives. But as she sat in her ergonomic chair, with coffee dripping onto her sensible shoes and her headset buzzing with a new incoming call, she knew with terrible certainty that this boy’s voice would join the few that still visited her in the dark hours before dawn.
Part I
Tampa, Florida
Chapter 1
I stood by the central fountain at Tampa Mall, the cascading water failing to drown out the pounding in my chest. My fingers brushe d against the cold metal of the handgun in my pocket—a last resort I never thought I'd use this way. Around me, shoppers drifted between stores, consumed by their normal lives: teenagers posing for selfies, mothers corralling excited children, elderly couples walking arm-in-arm. None of them noticed me—a slightly overweight, middle-aged woman with red hair streaked with silver. Invisible. That was about to change. I'd spent twenty years hunting criminals; now I needed to become one.
The weight of the decision pressed down on me like a physical force. Ten days on the run had taught me that playing defense would only end one way—with me in handcuffs or a body bag. Rule Six of the Profiler's Code echoed in my mind: The hunter can become the hunted. I needed to flip the script and create a controlled chaos that would serve my purpose.
I scanned the mall's upper level methodically, not randomly. There—the security camera blind spot near the food court entrance. And there—the service corridor leading to the back parking lot.
A young security guard strolled past, radio crackling at his hip, not even glancing my way. Two Tampa PD officers stood by the north entrance, chatting with the mall's head of security. They were here because of the increased patrol presence throughout the city, hunting for me. The irony wasn't lost on me.
My hand closed around the grip of my weapon. I'd never fired a gun in a public place outside of duty.
I took a deep breath and pulled the gun out in one smooth motion, raised it, and squeezed the trigger three times in rapid succession.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
The shots echoed off the high ceiling, amplified by the mall's acoustics. For one frozen moment, nothing happened—as if everyone's brains needed time to process the impossible event unfolding in their safe, ordinary space.
Then the screaming started.
A wave of panic rippled outward from me like a stone dropped in water. People dove behind planters, scrambled under tables, and pulled children to the ground. A teenage boy knocked over a rack of sunglasses as he bolted for the exit. A security guard reached for his radio with shaking hands, ducking behind a kiosk.
"Active shooter! Active shooter!" someone shouted, and the panic redoubled.
I remained standing, the gun still in hand. Not moving. Not threatening. Just waiting. The crowd parted around me like water flowing around a rock, creating an empty circle of space with me at its center. The two police officers at the entrance drew their weapons and began pushing through the fleeing crowd, but the human current worked against them.
A middle-aged woman stumbled in her haste to escape, shopping bags spilling from her hands. As she struggled to her feet, her eyes locked with mine. I saw the moment of recognition wash across her face—the widening eyes, the slight gasp. She pointed a trembling finger at me.
"That's her!" she screamed, her voice piercing through the chaos. "That's that rogue FBI profiler from the news!"
Just as I'd expected. My face had been plastered across every news channel. The media had told the story of the dangerous former agent gone rogue, a woman with inside knowledge using it to commit the perfect crime.
I kept my expression neutral, though inside, my stomach churned. For twenty years, I'd been the one people ran toward for safety, not away from in terror.
Mall security guards converged from multiple directions, trying to coordinate through their crackling radios. The younger ones looked terrified, while the older guards moved with more purpose, creating a loose perimeter. None of them had firearms—mall policy—but they were trying to contain the situation until police arrived in force.
I calculated the timing in my head. From the moment the first shot was fired to full police response: approximately four minutes. I'd already used nearly two. The initial responders would be whoever was closest—the two officers already inside—followed by patrol units, then SWAT. They would secure the perimeter first, then begin clearing the building.
My plan relied on this predictable response. Law enforcement would follow protocol, and protocol was something I knew intimately.
I lowered my gun slowly, making sure everyone saw the deliberate motion. Several phones were pointed at me—recording, livestreaming. Perfect. The more digital footprints, the better. I needed the world to see.
The first police officer had finally pushed through the crowd, gun drawn, positioned behind a concrete planter thirty feet away. "Drop the weapon!" he shouted, his voice steady despite the chaos. "Do it now!"
I made eye contact with him and slowly placed the gun on the floor, sliding it away from me with my foot. Not surrendering—just changing tactics.
"Eva Rae Thomas!" he called out, recognition dawning on his face. "Get on the ground! Hands where I can see them!"
Instead of complying, I checked my watch. Three minutes eighteen seconds. Right on schedule. The service corridors would be my exit route, but I needed the timing to be exact. Too early, and I'd be caught. Too late, and the opportunity would vanish.
The second officer flanked from the left, moving cautiously between abandoned shopping bags and overturned chairs. Mall security had formed a loose ring around the first officer and me, keeping frightened stragglers back.
I raised my hands slowly to shoulder height—not surrender, just buying seconds. My eyes locked on the fire alarm on the wall near the food court entrance. The commotion had emptied most of the mall, but the alarm would trigger the sprinkler system, adding another layer of confusion.
As the officers inched closer, I tensed my muscles, ready to move. This was my one chance to access what I needed, and I wouldn't get another. If I failed now, I'd never clear my name.
"Now, on your knees!" the officer shouted, just fifteen feet away.
I took one last deep breath.
Four minutes.
Time to move.
Chapter 2
I bolted toward the food court, moving against the tide of fleeing shoppers. My body operated on pure instinct now, weaving between obstacles with practiced efficiency.
"Stop her!" someone shouted, but the command was swallowed by the chaos. The mall's fire alarm began to wail—whether triggered by security or some panicked shopper, I couldn't tell. Perfect timing. The sprinklers would activate soon. People collided with me as they rushed for the exits, shoulders bumping, hands grabbing briefly before letting go. No one wanted to be a hero today. No one except the security guards and police officers, now in pursuit behind me.
An abandoned food tray crashed to the floor as I dodged around a corner. The service corridor entrance waited ahead—a gray door marked "Staff Only," partially hidden behind a decorative palm. A young employee in a green polo shirt stood frozen before it, his eyes wide with indecision as the chaos unfolded around him.
"FBI!" I lied without breaking stride. "I need access now!"
The familiar authority in my voice worked—a reflex from my twenty years with the Bureau. The young man stumbled backward, his shoulder hitting the door as he moved aside. I pushed past him, shouldering through the door before he could question why an FBI agent would be running from mall security.
The service corridor hit me with its stark contrast to the mall's polished public face. Fluorescent tubes buzzed overhead, every third one flickering with a sickly pulse that cast moving shadows against cinderblock walls. The concrete floor was stained with decades of spills and tracked-in dirt. Exposed pipes and electrical conduits ran along the ceiling like industrial veins and arteries.
