He frowned, because the bench seat of the dinette was empty. Dr. Romero had been there. Where the hell was she?

Ephraim stumbled backward at the sight of the woman on the floor as she rolled to a stop at the open door. Her feet kicked out and he stumbled backward several more steps, gasping at the sudden pain in his groin. Romero lay on the camper floor, her legs halfway out the door, bound feet dangling. Breathing hard through her nose because he’d duct-taped her mouth, she lifted her head enough to glare at him.

If she’d kicked him one inch lower, she’d have had him curled on the ground in the fetal position. As it was, it hurt so bad that he was dizzy with it. But he wasn’t down for the count.

I am going to enjoy killing you.

He staggered to his feet and grabbed her by the duct tape that bound her ankles, holding her feet away from his body as he pulled a knife from his pocket and sliced the tape. Once her feet were freed, he yanked her up by her shirt collar. “You will cooperate or die,” he whispered. “But you get to see your fiancé die first because you don’t know how to behave.”

He leaned down to pick up the golden gun he’d dropped when she kicked him, but straightened to backhand her hard when she tried to twist out of his grasp. “Bitch,” he snarled softly.

A loud thump from inside the camper made him jump. Then swear, because the camper’s stereo began blaring. It was only static because the dial had been set by the honeymooners to a Nevada station, but it was loud.

The nightmare only got worse when the New Orleans cop appeared in the doorway, using the door’s frame to push himself to his feet. The only saving grace was that his hands were still cuffed behind him.

I guess he wasn’t asleep, Ephraim thought numbly, and then his brain kicked back into gear. He yanked Romero back to her feet, nearly stumbling when she tried using her body weight to drop out of his grasp. She did stumble, but then she paused . . .

And kicked Regina’s gun under the camper.

“Fucking bitch,” he hissed, dragging her a few steps backward as her fiancé staggered down the stairs, murder in his eyes.

Fucking hell.

“Stop! FBI!”

The shout came from the direction of the clearing where Gideon and the other Fed had been nosing around. “Fuck,” he snarled. The Feds were coming. Grabbing the rifle from where it leaned against the camper, he aimed and fired at the New Orleans cop who was charging him.

The man was built like a linebacker, so the shot should have hit. But it didn’t because Romero threw herself into Ephraim, knocking his arm so that his shot went wide.

He turned to shoot again, but the cop had taken cover behind the camper and Ephraim was out of time. He shoved the barrel into Romero’s back. “Move. Now.”