She screamed, kicking at the wall. But again, she was a professional. She needed to act like it. There was still a civilian in danger.

  She stepped over the dead bodies of the gunmen. And then, she couldn’t help herself. She turned back, ran to Johnny’s side, and checked a final time. Such a silly motion. Like her mother so often did when leaving the house for an event or church, making sure that she hadn’t left the gas on the stove. In the same way, Cora checked for a pulse. But it was gone. His eyes were lifeless. Johnny was dead. And she knew it. Nothing she did, no matter how many times she checked the stove, would change it.

  She snarled and turned, moving fast. Ahead, from the second floor, she spotted the spark of gunfire. More shattered windows. A scream. A distinctly feminine scream?

  Cora couldn’t tell. She moved around the side of the building, snatched the sniper rifle from where it lay on the ground, shouldered it, checked the chamber, slid the bolt action, and sprinted away.

  It felt like a betrayal to leave Johnny there, dead in the dust. It felt like she should stay by his side. Should help, do something. But there was nothing to do; nothing except to run into gunfire. And so, she ran, clutching the sniper in one hand and her sidearm in the other.

  CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

  Cora could hear the screaming once again, echoing from the floor above. Her heart pounded as she raced forward, moving towards the mall with reckless abandon. More gunshots. As she crossed the boundary moving onto the ice-rink, glass tumbled from the door overhead, trickling down and tapping against the floor all around her.

  She brushed some of the glass off her shirt collar, wincing as she did. Shouts came now. More gunshots.

  Ahead of her, she spotted a figure in a stairwell, peering up, murmuring as he did. Suddenly, the figure turned, startled by the sound of her footsteps crunching on glass.

  As the figure rounded, Cora’s sidearm leapt up. She pulled the trigger twice. The man hit the ground, dead.

  And then a sputter of bullets tore into the floor at her feet. She spun around, flinging herself behind a trolley by old, worn cleaning supplies. The bottles had long since been emptied, evaporated, or used as some squatter’s makeshift piss bottle.

  Across from her, she spotted another stairwell. Two men were limping down it, both moving carefully. The mobster with the golden watch was hissing. “Shoulda just shot him—asshole!”

  The other man muttered. “She looked like Gladys!”

  Both figures were keeping their guns trained on the cart that Cora had now sheltered. But neither of them pulled the triggers again. Waiting, it seemed, for her to emerge.

  Three mobsters dead now. Two left.

  The leader was limping on a gunshot leg. By the look of things, Ohana had used his hostage as a shield.

  Cora’s pulse pumped, and she desperately hoped that the woman wasn’t dead.

  Now, the two gunmen were hastening towards the door. Cora watched as they began to leave. There was a sudden shout from the stairwell.

  A woman. Sprinting now, screaming. “Help! Please help!”

  The man with the golden watch raised his hand, weapon gripped. He aimed. Cora shot him in the back.

  The second man cursed, spinning around, trying to target her. And she shot him as well.

  The woman stumbled now, staring in horror at the two dead figures. She gasped, desperately, gaping at the bloodied ground. Then looked up again. Then down again.

  Cora emerged, hands up. “FBI!” she lied. “It’s going to be okay. Are you—”

  But then, the woman shouted, “He’s running! He’s running out the back!”

  Cora cursed, hastening forward now. The pain in her side from where a gunshot had scraped was numb compared to the agony in her chest from what had happened to Johnny. But she had to hasten forward all the same.

  No slowing. Just forward.

  She stumbled by the woman, checking her up and down. “Are you alright? Are you hit?”

  A quick shake of curly hair.

  “Sit here. Hide behind that—got it? Don’t come out. Here, use my phone. Call 911. Tell them where we are! Okay? Turn on the location so they can track it and don’t turn it off.”

  The woman stammered, her lips trembling. Cora stared at the frightened figure. She patted the woman on the shoulder and used the same motion to guide her towards the trolley of defunct cleaning supplies. And then, she broke into a sprint, racing up those same stairs.

  Ohana had used his victim as a scapegoat. To draw Cora’s attention. To draw the mobsters’ attention.

  And now, he was making good his getaway.

  He’d shot Johnny.

  He’d killed so many others.

  And he thought he could get away.

  Cora gripped the rifle and her handgun, taking the stairs rapidly. But she paused as she circled the banister, listening intently. Upstairs, the carpets smelled of mold. No sign of the ice rink she’d seen advertised. Perhaps it had never been constructed.

  But now, as she rounded the corner, her head was nearly blown off.

  A gunshot slammed through the wall behind her. She yelped, stumbling back, her shoulders pressing into the wall at her back.

  Gasping, breathing rapidly, she went still, listening intently.

  No sounds, only a pause and heavy breathing.

  And then another bullet. This time, it struck the rail, shattering the faux plastic thing.

  “I know it’s you, Agent Shields! I saw you!”

  The voice was familiar. Cora scowled as she heard it. Shivers moved down her back. She didn’t call out, though. Didn’t want to give him any information. Let him panic. Let him be the one who was scared.

  “Come on, now!” he called. “Don’t hide. Let’s chat!”

  She didn’t move.

  She heard shuffling from within. The sound of a chair moving. He was barricading himself.

  She inhaled slowly, ducked, and then—at waist height—moved around the corner. A brief glimpse. Two shots. But both hit a locker, sparking as the bullets ricocheted. The stair she’d been in eye-line with had a chunk blown out of it. She jerked her head back around.

  Briefly, she’d glimpsed a dark figure, hiding behind a barricade. And she could smell the kerosene. He was going to set the place on fire. And he was trying to bait her into it.

  She felt a flicker of frustration.

  Anger.

  He shot Johnny.

  He wasn’t allowed to burn himself.

  She knew what Perez had sent her to do.

  She knew that it didn’t end with cuffs. And she’d beaten Saul Brady to find the Cop Killer.

  He was giggling now. Laughing. “You know!” he called out. “My old man went like your friend out there. Gunshot!”

  “Is that why you kidnap them?” Cora called now, breaking her silence, wanting to gain more information. But also, she was just pissed. How dare he bring up Johnny? “So, you can take out your own daddy issues? Get the love you never had? Creep!”

  The questions were probing. The last part was just for her.

  Another gunshot, but it missed.

  Cora could hear him breathing heavily. She didn’t have a clean path up the stairs. He was aiming right at it. He had the entrance completely covered. If she forced it, he might take her out before she could shoot him.

  He was giggling again.

  She supposed that was what made her reach a decision.

  She hesitated, staring at the wall above her that had been blasted to bits, then turned, and stared at the wall in front of her and the stairs to the left, moving up. She stood on the landing to the right. The wall in front of her stretched from the entrance to the second floor, across the top of the stairwell.

  Flimsy material, though. The same material that the killer had shot over her head.

  Cora exhaled shakily. She could hear crying below. The sound of a woman weeping. Cora’s heart went out. At least she was alive. Unlike most of the people who’d entered the mall.

  Ohana was still chuckling, speaking again. But she didn’t listen. He was trying to toy with her, and she wasn’t interested in playing.

  Instead, she reached a decision.

  “You gonna come out?”

  “You wanna come in?” he shouted back. “I’ve got a surprise.”

  The scent of kerosene had grown worse.

  Cora pictured the shadow she’d seen hunkered down behind the shelter. Hiding behind a couch. The couch would stop small caliber bullets. He knew that. And so, he lay in wait like a spider luring her into his web.

  Perhaps he intended to go out in a blaze of glory. Or, perhaps, having seen her, he thought the FBI surrounded this place, and he wanted to take out as many law enforcement agents as possible when he went out.

  She pictured him again. Crouched, the shadow like some oil spill against a clear horizon.

  Cora paused, exhaled.

  The couch would stop small caliber.

  “Have it your way!” she called. “You shot my friend. I get to decide how you go out.”

  She tossed her gun, the only thing she had, sending it out across the stairwell, arching high, so he was bound to see it.

  And then she snapped the rifle to her shoulder and aimed at the thin, flimsy wall towards the spot where she’d seen the shadow. She couldn’t see him now. She was aiming at a blank wall.

  But she could picture the scene in her mind.

  And she pulled the trigger. Boom! The bolt action rifle blasted a crater through the drywall. She was already cranking the lever. She fired again. Boom!

  She had fired two shots in the same time that it had taken the gun to arc, then fall, then clatter to the ground.

  And now, Cora was staring through a head-sized hole in the thin drywall. The shadow was gone. A thin pool of blood was trailing along the ground from behind the couch. In the reflection of the glass, she spotted a motionless figure.

  She frowned briefly. Didn’t approach. Didn’t head upstairs. Didn’t know what sort of trap he might have in store.

  Instead, she raised her sniper again and pointed it at the fallen form.

  She knew that this wasn’t what the FBI would do.

  Wasn’t what Saul Brady would do.

  But she wasn’t with them anymore.

  This guy had shot Johnny.

  She pulled the trigger, turned, and didn’t look back.

  She took the stairs two at a time, every part of her feeling numb as she raced to tend to the survivor.

  CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

  Cora’s eyes were closed. It felt nice to inhale a familiar scent. Dusty corn fields. Back in West Virginia. The voice on the phone was murmuring now. She’d barely listened for the last half hour, but for a man who’d just signed her freedom, the least she could do was listen.

  Now, Director Perez was saying, “Good job, Shields. Really damn good job. Josh Ohain . . . Ohain. Close enough, right? Jesus.”

  Cora sighed. “I think I remember that one. His dad was Ohain. Shot, yeah?”

  “In the line of duty. Twenty years ago. And yeah, you’d remember it. Story went national. Officer Ohain was a hero in St. Louis.”

  Cora sighed. “Sir, not to be rude, but I don’t want to know.”

  A cough. A cleared throat. “You’ve earned that,” Perez said after a moment. “Good job, Cora. Really good job. And don’t worry, you won’t be hearing from Ogden.”

  She blinked. “Thank you. You told him to back off?”

  “I told him if he didn’t, it’d be his job.”

  She allowed a faint smile. It had been hard to smile over the last few days. Since what had happened to Johnny. She wasn’t sure that she could take another Navy funeral. To have to rub shoulders with her old crowd. Her old commander.

  She sighed. “Alright,” she murmured softly. “And the charges?”

  “Cleared. Dropped. Dead and buried. Like we said. Also, payment is on the way.”

  She felt another pang. “Thanks.”

  “One other thing, Shields.”

  “Yeah?”

  She opened her eyes fully now, peering through the windshield at the corn fields outside the small town where her parents lived. Where Gabriel Finch lived.

  “I think you should consider coming back. Working for us again.”

  Cora blinked now, wiping some sleep from her eyes. She hadn’t rested well in days. Too many nightmares. She hadn’t hit the booze, either though. Mostly she’d just been numb. And exhausted.

  “Excuse me, sir?”

  “I mean it. A special assignment. This sort of thing.”

  “I’m not sure the FBI has much room for me.”

  “Nonsense,” he shot back. “At least consider it. Will you?”

  Cora sighed. She shrugged, though he couldn’t see. She said, “Alright, fine. Yeah. I can consider it. Fair’s fair. Is that all, sir?”

  “Yes, Shields. That’s all. Thanks again. You did a good thing back there. And please . . . consider it.”

  He hung up.

  At least she didn’t have to go through another half hour explaining about the other mobsters found on the scene. And she certainly refused to explain the blood in her car. She hadn’t left Johnny behind. She couldn’t bear the thought of some coroner ripping him up. She’d taken him to his helicopter pilot friend. Taken him some place safe.

  The pilot, Miguel, as he was now calling himself, had promised to bury the body the right way. The way he would’ve wanted.

  She didn’t know what this had meant, and she hadn’t asked.

  Johnny didn’t have much family left. His relatives still lived in Florida but were estranged from him. She wasn’t sure how they’d take the news.

  If they’d even care.

  She closed her eyes again, exhaling.

  Now, all she really wanted to do was sleep. But she knew that if she did that, then the urge to drink would come back.

  From one crisis to the next. She was pushing herself too hard.

  But some things never slept.

  And now, her phone buzzed.

  It was with an air of some relief that she glanced down, double-checked, and realized that it wasn’t a call but a text.

  Simple, straightforward.

  But enough information to cause her to open her eyes wide, double-check, and read again.

  “Handwriting is a match. Confirmed by your expert.”

  The text was from Gabriel Finch. He was in town—the same town she was now idling outside of. Handwriting is a match.

  “Shit,” Cora muttered.

  Gabe’s father had written love letters to Cora’s little sister.

  “SHIT,” she said louder, more emphatically.

  And then she chose rage. It was a far easier emotion than grief. The anger came hot and fast, bruiting through her veins.

  She put the car in gear, glared through the dusty windshield, and floored it, kicking up dirt. She texted as she drove.

  “Meet me at the usual place.”

  And then she picked up speed, burning down the country roads.

  NOW AVAILABLE!

  UNGLUED

  (A Cora Shields Mystery—Book 5)

  In this action-packed mystery thriller by #1 bestselling author Blake Pierce, Cora Shields, 30, former Navy Seal turned FBI Special Agent, is fired from the FBI for breaking one rule too many. When her 20 year old niece is kidnapped and trafficked in Eastern Europe, and the police can’t help, Cora’s sister pleads with her to intervene—and find her niece and bring her back alive. But can Cora take down a criminal organization alone—and find her in time?

  “A masterpiece of thriller and mystery.”

  —Books and Movie Reviews, Roberto Mattos (re Once Gone)

  UNGLUED (A Cora Shields Suspense Thriller—Book 5) is the fifth novel in a new series by #1 bestseller and USA Today bestselling author Blake Pierce, whose bestseller Once Gone (a free download) has received over 7,000 five star ratings and reviews.

  On the outside, Cora Shields is a total badass. A Navy SEAL veteran and a top agent in the FBI’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, Cora has a reputation for doing whatever it takes to catch a killer. What no one knows, though, is that she’s a wreck on the inside, addicted to painkillers and deeply depressed.

  Sometimes, cases need to be pursued outside the law.

  With no backup, Cora is finally free to act, to bend as many rules as she needs to, at any cost, to bring killers down.

  She has found her new calling.

  But will it also be her undoing?

  A page-turning and harrowing crime thriller featuring a brilliant and tortured vigilante, the CORA SHIELDS series is a riveting mystery, packed with non-stop action, suspense, twists and turns, revelations, and driven by a breakneck pace that will keep you flipping pages late into the night.

  Future books in the series will soon be available.

  “An edge of your seat thriller in a new series that keeps you turning pages! ...So many twists, turns and red herrings… I can't wait to see what happens next.”

  —Reader review (Her Last Wish)

  “A strong, complex story about two FBI agents trying to stop a serial killer. If you want an author to capture your attention and have you guessing, yet trying to put the pieces together, Pierce is your author!”

  —Reader review (Her Last Wish)

  “A typical Blake Pierce twisting, turning, roller coaster ride suspense thriller. Will have you turning the pages to the last sentence of the last chapter!!!”

  —Reader review (City of Prey)

  “Right from the start we have an unusual protagonist that I haven't seen done in this genre before. The action is nonstop… A very atmospheric novel that will keep you turning pages well into the wee hours.”

  —Reader review (City of Prey)

  “Everything that I look for in a book… a great plot, interesting characters, and grabs your interest right away. The book moves along at a breakneck pace and stays that way until the end. Now on go I to book two!”