Rizzoli & Isles 8-Book Set

of Frost’s car. The dog, excited to a frenzy by the fire, ran howling back and forth across the yard, chain clattering behind it.
    Another gunshot exploded. She heard a cry of pain, the crash of snapping underbrush.
    Frost is down!
    Through the obscuring veil of smoke and fire, she saw the shooter emerge from the house and step onto the porch. The woman’s blond hair reflected the glow of the flames. Rifle raised, she moved into the light. Only then could Jane see the face of Debbie Duke.
    No, not Debbie. Carrie Otto.
    Carrie started down the porch steps, her rifle poised to finish off Frost.
    Jane fired first. Even as she squeezed the trigger, she wanted it to be a killing shot. She felt no fear, no hesitation, only cold, controlled rage that took possession of her body and guided her aim. In quick succession she fired off
one, two, three
shots. They slammed into her target like repeated punches to the chest. Carrie jerked backward, dropping the rifle, and collapsed onto the porch steps.
    Lungs heaving, Jane eased forward. Still clutching her weapon, her gaze stayed on her target. Carrie lay sprawled against the steps, still alive and moaning, her half-open eyes reflecting the satanic glow of the flames. Jane glanced toward Frost, and saw him lying at the edge of the woods.
    Be alive. Please be alive.
    She managed to take only a few steps toward him when the pit bull slammed into her back.
    She had thought she was beyond the reach of the dog’s chain, and did not see it hurtling at her, did not have time to brace herself against the impact. His attack sent her sprawling forward. She put out her hands to break the fall, and as she landed, she heard a bone snap and her wrist collapsed beneath her. The pain was so excruciating that even the grip of the dog’s jaws on her shoulder seemed merely troublesome, a nuisance to be shaken off before dealing with this true agony. Twisting, she rolled onto her back, her weight landing on top of the dog, but it would not release her. The gun had fallen out of reach. Her right hand was useless. She could not beat the animal away, could not reach back and grip his throat. So she rammed her elbow into his belly, again and again, and heard ribs crack.
    Yelping in pain, the dog released its grip. She rolled away and scrambled to her knees. Only then, as she stared down at the whimpering dog, did she see that the chain was no longer attached to the collar. How had he gotten free? Who had released him?
    The answer emerged from the shadows.
    Jimmy Otto moved into the firelight, pushing Josephine before him as a shield. Jane lunged for her fallen weapon, but a gunshot made her flinch back as the bullet kicked up dirt only inches from her hand. Even if she could reach her gun she did not dare return fire, not with Josephine standing in the way. Jane knelt helpless in the dirt as Jimmy Otto came to a halt beside the burning car, his face aglow in the light of the crackling flames, his temple blackened by an ugly bruise. Josephine tottered against him, unsteady in her leg cast, her head shorn of all hair. Jimmy pressed his gun to her temple, and Josephine’s eyes snapped wide with fear.
    “Move away from the gun,” he ordered Jane.
“Do it!”
    Supporting her broken wrist with her left hand, Jane struggled to her feet. The fracture was so painful that nausea clenched her stomach, shutting down her brain just when she needed it most. She stood swaying as black spots danced before her eyes and a cold sweat bloomed on her skin.
    Jimmy looked down at his wounded sister, who was still slumped back against the porch steps, moaning. In one ruthless glance, he seemed to decide that Carrie was beyond saving and no longer worth his attention.
    He refocused on Jane. “I’m tired of waiting around,” he said. “Tell me where she is.”
    Jane shook her head. The black spots swirled. “I have no idea what you want, Jimmy.”
    “Where the fuck is she?”
    “Who?”
    Her answer enraged him. Without warning he fired his gun just above Josephine’s head. “Medea,” he said. “I know she’s back. And you’re the one she’d contact, so where is she?”
    That shocking explosion swept her brain clear. Despite her pain and nausea, Jane was fully focused now, her attention only on Jimmy. “Medea’s dead,” she said.
    “No, she’s not. She’s alive. I know damn well she is. And it’s time for payback.”
    “For killing Bradley? She did what she had to do.”
    “So will I.” He pressed