Linda Winstead Jones.

Sinclair Connection.

Hot On His Trail.

Prologue.

No one would look at him. Five men and seven women filed gravely into their seats, their eyes on the floor or their shoes or the back of the juror before them. One woman dabbed at her red eyes. Tears. That couldn't possibly be a good sign. Nick's heart felt like it was about to burst through his chest.

The judge didn't look at Nick, either, nor did the aide who remained close by the judge's side. The a.s.sistant district attorney appeared to be supremely bored. His steely gaze wandered the room in an aimless way.

Nick's own lawyer didn't look at him, either. Norman 's solemn eyes were on a blank sheet of paper on the table. His fingers worked restlessly.

From beyond this very small part of the world, in the seats beyond the jury box, eyes were trained on Nick. He knew that. But in the past two weeks he had learned to ignore those onlookers so completely they ceased to exist. His mind had remained on the witnesses against him, the evidence the D.A. had presented so competently, the defense Norman had put together.

His defense was simple, but it was enough. It had to be. Innocent men didn't go to prison for the rest of their lives. They didn't go to the electric chair.

At the judge's direction, he and Norman rose to their feet. Still, no one looked his way. Not the judge, not the D.A., not the members of the jury. Everything was so ... quiet. Nick wondered if they could all hear the beat of his pounding heart and the way the blood rushed through his veins, so loudly he could hear the roar in his ears.

He waited to hear the words "Not guilty." He waited for Norman to smile, to clap him on the back, for relieved eyes to turn his way at last.

Guilty. At first he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. The noise that followed the verdict was deafening. The crowd murmured loudly, with individual voices raised. A few men and women hurried from the room: reporters, d.a.m.n them all to h.e.l.l. The judge banged his gavel, and the sheriff's deputies came to take Nick away. They didn't look at him, either. Norman said something low and indistinct, something Nick couldn't hear for the roar in his ears.

Numbly, he allowed the two sheriff's deputies to lead him away. Through the side door, through the small office, into the hall by way of a doorway near the elevator that would take him back to jail. Back to jail.

His heart beat much too hard now, threatening to burst through his chest. He couldn't breathe. His vision dimmed. Guilty?

One of the deputies reached for his handcuffs. In a move more instinctive than deliberate, Nick lunged for the man's weapon.

Chapter 1.

S hea ran up two courthouse steps, spun around quickly and lifted a hand to her hair. She smoothed one dark strand, which barely brushed her shoulder. "Do I look okay?"

Mark, in his usual ratty T-shirt and a backwards ball cap that covered most of his bright red hair, c.o.c.ked his head and glanced from behind his video camera to smile at her. He was the same age as Shea, twenty-five, but could easily pa.s.s for sixteen years old. Since he didn't stand much more than five foot six he looked like a kid lugging around that big camera. "You're beautiful, sweetheart."

She didn't feel beautiful. The August heat was suffocating, humid and almost overwhelming. Her hair was going to fall, her makeup was going to melt ... and she had to look her best.

If she'd had more time she might have chosen the royal-blue suit instead of the red one, but it was too late to worry about that now. The call from the station had been unexpected, and she'd had less than fifteen minutes to put on her makeup and change clothes. Fortunately, she was getting good at this. Concessions had to be made, though, in the name of expediency. Her legs were bare and she was wearing a pair of running shoes instead of the red pumps that matched this suit.

It didn't matter; she'd only be on camera from the waist up.

"So," Mark said casually, the heavy camera that was resting on his shoulder leaning precariously to one side. "What did you give Astrid to make her sick?" He wagged his pale eyebrows and gave her a devilish smile.

Shea restrained the childish impulse to stick out her tongue. "Nothing, I swear." She grasped the microphone nervously; her palms were sweating. Oh, she never got nervous filing a story!

But then, she'd never covered a story like this one. Astrid Stanton had been with Channel 43 for nearly seven years, and the Nicholas Taggert murder trial was her story. She'd even gotten a few seconds of play on the network. The network! If not for a nasty bout of the stomach flu-which Shea had absolutely nothing to do with-it would be Astrid standing here; six foot tall, blond-haired, blue-eyed, ratings-go-through-the-roof-when-she-smiles Astrid.

"Weird case," Mark said, sensing Shea's nervousness and trying to make conversation. "I mean, Taggert actually killed his neighbor because the guy was painting his house the color of Kermit the Frog?"

"Chartreuse," Shea said. "The color was chartreuse."

"Whatever," Mark answered with a grin.

"And there has to be more to it than that," she mumbled, as much to herself as to Mark. "People don't kill over something so inconsequential." At least, she hoped they didn't. The very possibility was depressing.

This was Shea's chance, and she knew it. Reporting the news was what she wanted to do more than anything else in the world, and she was tired of filling in for the weatherman on the weekends, sick of smiling inanely through stories on how pets looked like their owners or how a bunch of schoolkids had celebrated spring with kite day. She was in this business to cover real news, and murder was as real as it got.

The jury was coming in; they had that much. No one had much doubt as to what the verdict would be. Even though Nicholas Taggert had maintained his innocence throughout the trial, the evidence was overwhelming. The state had DNA-a couple of stray hairs on a blood-and-paint-stained Taggert Construction T-shirt. A small amount of the same blood and paint had been found in Taggert's kitchen. They had the murder weapon, a baseball bat with Taggert's fingerprints on it, and several neighbors had witnessed a heated argument between Taggert and his neighbor, the late Gary Wilder.

Still, Taggert had been convincing on the stand as he'd professed his innocence, and these days when you put twelve people together and called them a jury, anything was possible.

Nicholas Taggert had been residing in the jail on the ninth floor of the Madison County Courthouse for the past ten months, as there had been no bond set for this bizarre and grisly case. Today a jury would decide if he'd remain imprisoned until his sentence-either life without parole or death by electric chair- was pa.s.sed, or if he'd go free.

Shea's producer, Kimberly Lane , came bursting through the courthouse doors. "Guilty," she said, breathless from her run from the second floor.

A deep breath calmed Shea. Suddenly her palms were dry, her heartbeat slowed and she was no longer nervous. I can do this. It's who I am, it's what I want. Her shoulders squared as Mark nodded to her, and she lifted the microphone to her mouth.

"This is Shea Sinclair reporting for Channel 43 live from the Madison County Courthouse, where Nicholas Taggert has just been found guilty of murder. Ten months ago the successful building contractor was accused of killing his neighbor, Gary Winkler. Mr. Winkler-"

An unexpected bursting noise, like a firecracker, broke her concentration, and Shea snapped her head around so she could see the gla.s.s courthouse doors. "That was a gunshot," she said softly into the microphone. m.u.f.fled shouts followed, and then another sharp report of gunfire from within the building.

She climbed a step, her eyes on the doors.

"Get back here!" Mark growled at her. She looked at him once, just to make sure he was following her, and ignored his advice.

"There seems to be something happening in the courthouse," she said softly and clearly. "Whether or not it's related to the Taggert trial, I can't say at this time."

A man with a gun in his hand pushed through the doors and onto the covered walkway that encircled the courthouse. Shea recognized Taggert right away, with his neat black hair and expensive gray suit.

That face was unforgettable, even if it hadn't been plastered regularly on the evening news and in the newspapers for the past ten months. It was handsome, with intelligent eyes and distinct, sharp lines. More than one woman who'd glanced at Taggert's picture had proclaimed it a crying shame that he'd gone bad. "What a waste," Astrid had said on several occasions.

Mark yelled this time. "Shea, get down here right now!"

She glanced over her shoulder to see that he had his camera on the escaped murderer, but she ignored his order and took another step toward Taggert. Maybe she could catch a word from the convicted murderer with her microphone. Oh, this was too good.

Taggert limped, she noticed, dragging his right leg with every lurching step he took. As he came closer she saw that there was a nasty hole in his pant leg, and he was bleeding badly. He left a thin trail of blood on the white concrete pathway as he headed for the steps.

The courthouse doors burst open again, and five law enforcement officers rushed out, weapons drawn. Two Madison County deputies came through the doors first, and three Huntsville City uniformed policemen were right behind them. No one fired; there were too many civilians on the street and the sidewalk.

"Are you getting this?" she asked softly, her eyes never leaving the drama that was taking place just a few feet away.

"Yeah baby, I got it, I got it," Mark whispered.

There were other camera crews in the area, but she and Mark were closest. No one else would have a shot like this one on the five o'clock news. No one. Shea smiled.

Taggert jogged in her direction, and he locked the coldest, bluest eyes she'd ever seen onto her face. Suddenly she realized that the pictures in the newspapers and the clips on the evening news had not done justice to his size. The man was tall-over six feet, surely; wide in the shoulders and long legged. Shea's smile faded, and she shivered from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Taggert was pale, and frantic, and dangerous ... and staggering straight at her.

She waited too late to take Mark's advice and retreat from the situation. Taggert grabbed her microphone and tossed it away, and in a swift, sure move he wrapped one arm around her waist and spun her about with a jerk, so that she faced the advancing officers. Her heart leaped into her throat as she stared down the barrels of several guns.

Taggert backed down the steps, the hand that held his weapon snaking past her waist as he took aim at the officers.

"Put 'em down," he said hoa.r.s.ely. His hot breath touched her neck, and she could feel his irregular breathing against her skin. The officers didn't immediately do as he asked, so he wedged the gun he held into Shea's side. The oddly warm black metal pressed sharply against a rib.

The advancing armed men came to an immediate halt and lowered their weapons.

"Now, Taggert," a gray-haired deputy in a khaki uniform said calmly. His Southern drawl was like mola.s.ses, thick and sweet and dark. "Let the girl go and come on back in. We can write this off as a moment of poor judgment on your part, get you to a hospital and get that leg fixed up, and then we'll just forget it ever happened."

"Yeah, right," Taggert said into her ear, his hoa.r.s.e voice so low Shea was sure no one but she could hear.

A tall, thin man in a dark suit skirted around the lawmen. Shea recognized him, from numerous news reports, as Taggert's lawyer, Norman Burgess. "Come on, Nick," he said calmly. "Let the lady go, give me the weapon and let's go back inside." Absurdly, his voice was almost sweet, serene and musical. "It's not over. We can appeal."

"They don't believe me," Taggert whispered again. Shea didn't know if the statement was meant to be heard or if the injured man was talking to himself. His arm tightened around her, and he dragged her down another step.

One cop raised his gun. I can take him. Shea read his lips as he whispered. She didn't have to read the lips of the deputy who reached out to make him lower the weapon again, drawling a loud curse as he tried to avoid more bloodshed.

"You might hit the girl," he added in a calmer voice. As if she wasn't panicked enough with the muzzle of a gun stuck to her ribs! That one hothead would take the chance without a second thought, if he believed he'd get Taggert. She was expendable ... but not as long as Mark had the camera on her and Taggert. No law enforcement agency could afford that kind of bad press.

"A car," Taggert whispered breathlessly into her ear again, and he jerked around so they were half facing the street. "Is one of these yours?"

She made a split second decision, an easy one when she weighed all her options. "The red Saturn," she said, nodding her head in the direction of the car that was parked at the curb. "The keys are in my pocket, and you can have them. Just let me go."

The idea of getting into the car with Taggert terrified her. He was desperate, he had a weapon and she remembered too well the stories Astrid had filed on him. A former military man, he'd spent several years in Special Forces. Before that he'd been a teenage troublemaker. The state had made part of their case the fact that Taggert was capable of anything.

He dragged her toward the car, holding her in a viselike grip and keeping her body between him and the officers. He kept the gun pressed tightly to her ribs.

Burgess ran down the steps. "Nick, you're making a terrible mistake. This is kidnapping!"

"The keys," Taggert said, the whispered words an unquestionable order.

Shea reached into the pocket of her red jacket and pulled out a small silver key chain with the initials S.L.S. engraved in the center in a delicate script. Two keys hung from the chain-one to the car, the other to her apartment. She considered trying to remove her house key, then decided against it. Her trembling hands would make the task too difficult, and besides, she could have the locks changed this afternoon.

"Here," she said. "Take the car and let me go."

Taggert ignored her request for freedom, but he did take the keys from her hand. His hold on her faltered for a fraction of a second as he made the transfer. "If anyone follows, I'll shoot her," he rasped, tightening his grip as he made the threat. "Let me get away clean, and in two hours I'll release her. You have my word."

"Nick, don't," Burgess whispered.

The door to her Saturn was unlocked, and Taggert reached behind him and threw it open. He sat down hard and brought Shea with him. She dropped back and down, and ended up sitting in his lap and practically falling to the front pa.s.senger seat. Warm blood touched the back of her calf. He was bleeding pretty badly; maybe he'd pa.s.s out...

With the hand that held the weapon he threatened her with, Taggert slammed the pa.s.senger-side door shut, and for the first time Shea actively tried to get away. The slamming of the door was so final, so terrifying. Gun or no gun, she refused to willingly ride off with a murderer.

She used her elbows first, lashing back into his ribs with all her might. One elbow connected solidly and Taggert grunted, but he didn't loosen his grip. She used her feet, kicking back blindly. Taggert let out a howl when the heel of one running shoe connected solidly with his injured leg. While he yelled she snapped her head back and bashed his nose. He let out a string of low curses and grabbed her hair, twisting her head and forcing her to look at him. He held her so tightly she couldn't move, not even to look away.

Her short struggle gave the officers an opportunity to move closer to the car, but with Taggert in control there was nothing they could do. The escaped murderer glanced at them and made sure they saw the gun he had pointed at her head.

His face hovered close to hers, so close she could see the dark stubble on his chin and the beads of sweat on his brow. A thin trickle of blood seeped from one nostril. Shea shivered. The ice-blue eyes he locked on her were colder, more menacing, than anything she'd ever seen.

"I don't want to hurt you," he whispered.

"Then let me go." She struggled against his grasp as he slowly maneuvered over the console and into the driver's seat. His hold on her never slackened. His moves smooth and sure and amazingly quick, he placed the weapon between his legs and jammed the key into the ignition.

Instinctively, she reached for the gun. She was fast, but not fast enough. The engine started, and Taggert snagged the gun before she could. He pointed it at her chest. "Don't make me hurt you."

He released his hold on her, slammed the car into drive and took off. The weapon he pointed at her never wavered. When they were well down the street he glanced at her, and those icy eyes softened a little. "I'm really not going to hurt you," he said. "In two hours I'll let you go. I promise."

Shea settled warily back against the seat, her eyes on the weapon Taggert lowered slowly. She was terrified; she was angry. And for some odd reason, she believed him.

* * * He didn't have much time. They'd have news helicopters in the air in a matter of minutes, and while they might not attack while he had a hostage, they would definitely be looking for him. In order to make this work, he had to disappear.

Nick glanced in the rearview mirror. An unmarked car followed, at a distance of course. Since he had a hostage, they were playing it safe, being cautious, but if they could stop him now they would. That wouldn't do.

He turned right, and then quickly turned right again, and before the car that was following turned onto the residential street, he made a sharp turn into a narrow alley that ran between two old houses. The car lurched as it hit a pothole.

His heart pounded so hard he could feel it, and in his head he could still hear the guilty verdict and the roar of the courtroom that had followed. His leg was bleeding badly and the girl sitting in the pa.s.senger seat looked like she was thinking of opening the door and jumping out, taking her chances that the fall would be less dangerous than he was. He cast a quick, warning glance in her direction to change her mind. And then he returned his attention to his driving. He concentrated on getting out of here in one piece, and tried to dismiss the nagging certainty that he'd just made a bad situation worse. He had nowhere to go from here.

He knew these downtown neighborhoods well; he'd renovated several of the historic homes here, when he'd first started his business. Years ago, a lifetime ago. Another sharp turn put him in a backyard, where he was hidden from view for a few moments. The car bounced over a short stretch of rough terrain until he found another dirt lane, one that led to another quiet street.

With one hand on the steering wheel, Nick drove the car down a series of tree-lined roadways. The major roads would be covered; there was no way he'd be able to drive straight out of town. News helicopters were probably already overhead, but the heavy canopy of trees in this old neighborhood would keep the car out of sight. For now.

He wasn't a hundred percent, mentally or physically, right now-not even close-so two hands on the wheel would have been better ... but he didn't dare set the pistol down again.

The adrenaline pumped through his veins, adrenaline and fear and rage. The rage kept him going, kept him from pulling the car over and collapsing. He'd been so sure the verdict would be not guilty. He was innocent, and if the system worked, if there was any justice...

But there wasn't any justice. If a man could be convicted of a murder he didn't commit, if everyone was so d.a.m.n quick to convict an innocent man, then there wasn't any justice at all.

His leg throbbed. It had been blessedly numb until the girl had kicked it, and before too much longer it would hurt like h.e.l.l. It continued to bleed, but the flow had slowed some. He'd have to bandage it ... soon.

Nick again glanced sideways at the girl he'd grabbed from the courthouse steps. She'd fought for a while, but now she was quiet and she no longer gripped the door handle as if she was thinking of jumping. He half expected to see tears, fear, anger, anxiety-but she remained relatively calm. Her hazel-green eyes were fixed on him, clear and unafraid, and at that moment she looked very familiar, like an old friend whose face you recall but whose name escapes you. She was a reporter, he knew. h.e.l.l, he'd grabbed the microphone from her hand and tossed it down. But still he couldn't place her. He just couldn't quite remember...

"How'd you get away?" she asked softly, just a hint of the South in her voice.

"What difference does it make?" He returned his attention to the empty, tree-lined road that headed up Monte Sano Mountain .

"I want to know, that's all."

He hadn't planned it. Up until the moment the jury foreman said "guilty," Nick had been so sure he'd be walking out of that courtroom a free man. "A deputy was taking me upstairs to the jail, but before he could put the cuffs back on I grabbed his pistol right out of the holster and clipped him under the chin. He went down like a stone. Another one came at me." Out of nowhere, with a shout and a hand on his weapon. "I brought him down with a swift kick and headed for the stairs."