Gone Missing (Kate Burkholder 4)

waits, as if knowing there’s more. He knows me too well.
    “They’re running out of time,” I say.
    “You can’t rush in there like some rookie.”
    “Mast knows it’s over. He’s going to kill them.”
    “You go into that tunnel, he’ll kill you. Or me.” He jams a thumb at the trooper. “Or that young cop over there. Is that somehow better?”
    “That’s what we’re trained to do.”
    “Our training doesn’t include taking crazy risks.”
    I turn away and start toward the trooper’s vehicle with no real destination in mind. I know I’m being unreasonable; the intellectual part of my brain knows he’s right. It would be foolhardy to venture into that tunnel. But I saw the terror on the faces of those girls. I saw the cold determination in Perry Mast’s eyes. And I know if we don’t do something, he’ll execute them.
    I’ve gone only a couple of strides when Tomasetti sets a hand on my arm and stops me. “Wait.”
    I turn to him, struggling to control my temper and the fear that’s squeezing my chest, making it hard to breathe.
    “Kate.” He says my name roughly and with a good deal of reproof. “We have to follow protocol on this one.”
    “Sometimes I hate fucking protocol.”
    “Welcome to law enforcement,” he snaps, unsympathetic.
    I focus on the line of trees growing along the length of the lane, saying nothing.
    After a moment, he sighs. “Come here.”
    I let him guide me to the rear of Tahoe. There, he turns to me, backs me against the door. Gently, he shoves my collar aside and looks at my neck. “Those look like second-degree burns.”
    Without asking for permission, he unbuttons the top two buttons of my shirt and slips my bra strap aside. It feels too intimate for the situation, when there are two other cops in close proximity. Somehow, he makes it seem appropriate, and I allow it.
    “It doesn’t hurt,” I say.
    “It will once the adrenaline wears off.”
    He touches my arm, brings it up for me to look at. I’m shocked to see a swath of bright pink flesh that’s covered with blisters.
    Turning away, he retrieves his keys from his pocket and opens the back of the Tahoe. I watch as he pulls out a field first-aid kit, flips it open, and begins to rummage.
    By the time he turns to me, my mind is back on the girls below-ground. “The shots came from the barn,” I say. “He doubled back. That means he would have passed by the chamber where the girls are being held.”
    Instead of responding, Tomasetti pours alcohol over both of his hands, letting it drip onto the ground, then unfastens another button on my blouse. I barely notice as he tears open a small pouch of gel and smears it over my burns. I don’t want to acknowledge it, but the pain is coming to life: a tight, searing sensation that spreads from my collarbone, upper arm, and breast. It’s strange, but I’m almost thankful for the distraction. Anything to keep me from imagining the scene belowground.
    “You scared the hell out of me,” he says after a moment.
    “I’m sorry.”
    “No, you’re not.” But he leans toward me and gives me a quick, hard kiss.
    I think of the family he lost—his wife and two little girls—and suddenly I feel guilty for doing that to him when he’s already been through so much. The pop of a gunshot ends the moment.
    On instinct, we duck slightly, look toward the house. At first, I think the deputy or the trooper has taken a shot. But they’re also looking for the source.
    “Where did it come from?” Tomasetti growls.
    “The house, I think.”
    Another shot rings out.
    “The house!” The deputy shouts the words from his position behind the trooper’s vehicle.
    A woman’s scream emanates from inside. At first, I think Mast has brought one of the girls topside. That he’s going to use her for leverage or cover to blast his way out. Or kill her right in front of us to make some senseless point.
    But the scream is too deep, too coarse to have come from one of the girls. “That was Irene Mast,” I hear myself say.
    Tomasetti’s eyes narrow on mine. I can tell by his expression that he knows what I’m saying. “What the hell is that crazy son of a bitch doing?”
    A third shot rings out.
    The house falls silent. We wait. The minutes seem to tick by like hours. Around us, the rain increases. No one seems to notice. I hear sirens in the distance, and I know the fire department and medical personnel are parked at the end of the lane.
    “There he is!”
    I don’t