Blog Tour and Giveaway: Targeted by Lynette Eason, Lynn H. Blackburn, and Natalie Walters | Lone Star Book Blog Tours

Excerpt from
“On The Run” by Lynette Eason,
from TARGETED

One

Daria Nevsky slammed the door of her Ford F-150 truck and tucked her jacket under her chin to ward off the chill of the November wind. She headed toward the front steps of her Virginia townhome, thinking how nice it would be to park in a garage. But she loved this home located in a quiet neighborhood that backed up to a park where children played, dogs chased Frisbees, and couples picnicked on warm spring days.

As she started up the steps, her phone rang. She stopped midstep to swipe the screen and turned to lean against the porch railing. “Marsha?”

“Daria, honey, I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.” Marsha McBride managed Daria’s home in South Carolina. The one she abandoned seven years ago after the death of her mob-boss father and her adoption by FBI agents Linc and Allie St. John.

“Not at all.” She ducked her head against the wind but enjoyed being outside at the same time. “What’s going on?”

“Someone broke into my house.”

Daria straightened. “What? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, but the lock on the door is broken, and I don’t feel comfortable staying there.”

“All right. Why don’t you stay at my father’s—” She took a deep breath. “My house?”

“No, that place scares me too. I’ll clean it, but I don’t want to sleep there.” She let out a self-conscious laugh. Daria didn’t blame her. She didn’t care for the house either. But it was hers. She just avoided dealing with it.

“What did they take?” Daria asked.

“Nothing that I could tell. I guess I came home and scared him off. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be staying with my sister until I feel comfortable going home—and I’m not sure I’m up to cleaning this week. Do you mind if I put it off until next week? I know I sound like a wimp, but I keep thinking, What if I’d been home?”

“Of course I don’t mind. And you’re not a wimp. Anyone would be shaken after coming home to that.”

“Thank you, Daria. Enjoy your vacation and time with your family.”

Yes, vacation—with the family who was already waiting for her in the sunny Caribbean. “I will. I’ll check on you when I get back.” She hung up and shivered. The temperature was dropping, and the wind cut through her coat. She was done with being outside. Her flight left at six o’clock the next morning, and she still had some packing to do.

She dug her key from her pocket and aimed it for the deadbolt.

And froze.

The door was open a fraction. A slight crack that she might not have noticed if she didn’t always shut and lock her door—and arm the alarm system. Chills skittered up her arms and she took a step back. So someone had either been in her home—or was still there. But why hadn’t the alarm gone off?

She spun to leave, only to jerk to a halt with a gasp.

A man wearing a ski mask and a hoodie stood at the bottom of her porch steps.

“Who are you? What do you want?” She edged toward the railing.

“You. Your father sent me.”

Daria froze. “My father’s dead.”

Eleven brick steps now separated her from trouble. He started up, lessening the distance, and she caught sight of the knife in his left hand. “But he’s not gone.”

Daria drew in a deep breath, trying to control her hammering pulse and . . . think.

He lunged.

She whirled, gripped the rail, and hauled herself over. His fingers grazed her right foot. She hit the ground hard, the seven-foot jump jarring her to the bone. She stumbled, gained her balance, and headed for the side of the townhouse.

Think!

Her feet pounded the street while she searched for an escape.

“Hey! What’s going on?”

Mr. Jackson. The sweet neighbor who always looked out for her had just opened his door for his evening walk.

“Get back inside and call the cops!” With a quick glance over her shoulder, Daria saw the man in the ski mask gaining on her. She cut across the street to a neighbor’s front yard, hoping to go around and into the back.

“Hey! You! Stop! Leave her alone!” The man chasing her ignored Mr. Jackson’s shouts.

Her foot tripped over an exposed root and she landed with a breath-stealing thud.

Move! Her body wouldn’t cooperate.

He caught up with her and the knife flashed. She kicked out and connected with his knee.

“Ah!” He landed on the ground, and his pained cry gave her only a second of satisfaction before he caught her ankle in a tight grip. Daria lashed out once more with her right hand, feeling the burn of the blade on her side even as she slammed her fist into his jaw.

He jerked back and she lurched to her feet, ignoring the pain arching through her hand and just below her ribs. She kicked again. Her booted foot landed against his rib cage with a harsh crack. He screeched and rolled to his knees, his left hand clutching his side while his right hand reached for her. She grabbed it and twisted, then jammed her heel into his face. His roar reverberated in her ears as he fell to the ground once more, leaving her clutching his glove. A tattoo peered up at her from the back of his hand. Daria noted it, then covered her own bleeding wound with her right hand and ran.

To continue reading Chapter One of “On The Run,” click HERE!