“Sir, if you’ll just stay on the line—”
“Can’t do that. Just get me some help. That’s June Canyon Ranch—don’t have an address, but it belongs to Sierra Sam Malone. Gotta go.” He dropped the cell phone into the center console and took hold of the wheel with both hands. Sent up a prayer and yanked it to the right, steering into a relatively clear patch of sand. Backed up into the resulting dust cloud, shifted into forward gear and hit the gas. Moonshine whined as the truck went bouncing and jouncing up the winding road, back the way they’d come.
Rachel saw the helicopter pass overhead as she sat on the veranda rocking Sean. She knew instantly whose it was. She knew, because she had flown in it—or one just like it—not so long ago. The one that had whisked Nicky and her from their wedding reception at Carlos’s Malibu beach house to the airport, where Carlos’s private jet had been standing by to fly them off to Tahiti for their honeymoon.
Cold enveloped her. She held on to Sean as if someone might try to rip him from her arms. She didn’t remember leaping to her feet or going inside or crossing her room, but when she opened the door, Josie was standing there with her fist raised to knock.
“Carlos—” Rachel gasped.
Josie grabbed her arm, motioning with her other hand. “I thought so. Bring him. Come with me. Hurry.”
Rachel followed her blindly, back onto the veranda, then across the sunlit courtyard. The wing of the house opposite the kitchen and living room was higher than the rest of the hacienda. Josie opened arched double doors in the whitewashed wall and motioned Rachel to go in ahead of her. Inside it was cool and dim, and as her eyes adjusted to the light, Rachel saw that they were in a small chapel. Josie gave her no time to get her bearings, but took her arm and urged her to the left, toward a beautifully carved wooded altar. She hurried ahead of her up the steps, reached up and turned a candle sconce on the wall to the right of the altar. To Rachel’s bemusement, the altar creaked slowly outward to reveal an opening behind.
“Come,” Josie whispered, gesturing urgently. “You’ll be safe in here.”
Rachel gave a sobbing laugh. Once again, it seemed, she would be putting her trust in Carlos’s respect for his Roman Catholic upbringing.
Holding Sean for dear life, she ducked through the opening and found herself at the foot of a wrought-iron staircase that wound upward into shadows. Josie waited for her to begin the climb, then pulled the altar and secret door back into position and secured it with a heavy old-fashioned wooden bar before following.
The stairway ended at a landing, with a single door, also of heavy, old-fashioned wood. Josie opened the door and once again waved Rachel into the room ahead of her before closing and barricading this door, too, with a sturdy wooden bar.
“This is Sam’s room,” Josie said, breathless with excitement, or from the climb. “It used to be the bell tower, but Sam had the bell taken down. It’s mounted on the front patio downstairs.”
Rachel nodded, barely listening. There were small windows on three sides of the tiny room, set in walls nearly a foot thick. Other than that, she noticed very little, except that the room was sparsely furnished, with a twin bed covered by an old-fashioned handmade quilt, a nightstand and a straight-backed chair and a small writing desk. There were framed photographs on the walls, but she didn’t take the time to look at them. Still holding Sean, she went to join Josie at one of the windows.
The window looked out toward the front of the house. To the left was the curving flagstone walk and shallow steps that led to the front door. Straight ahead, the driveway wound through the stands of poplars and pines before reaching the barbed wire fence that bordered the meadow pasture and arrowing off to the right toward the old ranch house and barns. From this vantage point, they had a clear view of the meadow, and the black helicopter that was just settling onto it like a dragonfly onto a pond.
Sage was in the house, standing in front of the open gun safe, when he heard the chopper fly over. He went to the window and watched the black bird hover, then set itself down in the meadow across from the big house. He was pretty sure the chopper didn’t belong to anybody he wanted to see.
He went back to the safe and took out the only weapon that was inside. Then he got out a box of shotgun shells, loaded the gun and put a handful of cartridges in his shirt pocket. The rifles were gone, both of them, and he knew who had them. No use wishing for what wasn’t there. He knew the shotgun wasn’t going to be much good against assault rifles, but he figured it might come in handy at close range, if it came to that.
He went to the front door and whistled for the dog. He came bounding from the direction of the barn, evidently excited over the prospect of visitors from the sky. Sage held the door open for him, said, “Stay, dog,” and shut him inside.
He could hear the dog whimpering as he set out for the big house at a dead run, cradling the shotgun in one arm while he pulled the Glock out of its holster in the small of his back with the other.
He was outnumbered and outgunned, but he had knowledge of the terrain on his side. That, and maybe the instincts of his ancestors. If he could make it to the trees, he figured he could flit from tree to tree, picking the gunmen off one by one as they came up the lane. He’d seen a documentary one time about how the Natives had shown the American colonists how to fight like that against the British. It had evidently worked for them, so he figured he had as good a shot as any at holding off these guys until help arrived.
Only one problem. There was a stretch of open ground along the road to get across before he reached the cover of the trees.
Even so, he almost made it. He was about fifty yards from safety when he heard the first shots. He didn’t fire back, figuring it would just waste what ammo he had, just put his head down and ran like the wind, praying all the way. The bullet hit him just as he reached the trees. It didn't hurt, just felt like someone had whacked him with a shovel. He spun around and the shotgun went flying, but he held onto the Glock as he crashed onto the pine-needle cushioned ground.
High in the bell tower, Josie uttered a sound like a wounded animal and clamped her hand over her mouth.
Rachel felt as though she’d been slugged in the stomach. Breath gusted from her lungs; instinctively, she tightened her arms around Sean. Oh God, oh God, oh God, was all she could think, at first. Then: I can’t let this happen!
Turning, she thrust her baby at Josie. “Here—please. Keep him safe—”
Cradling Sean in one arm, Josie caught at her shirt. “Wait—no—you can’t.” Tears were streaming down her face. “You have to stay here. J.J. said—”
Breathless, Rachel shook her head. “No—no, it’s okay. It’s Sean they want. If I go out there without him, they won’t kill me. Not until they make me tell them where he is.” She gave the other woman a quick hug and slipped from her grasp. At the door, she lifted the bar, opened it and ran down the stairs, footsteps echoing loudly on the metal steps. At the barricaded door to the chapel she paused to gasp for breath, one hand going to the cheek that no longer bore any trace of the bruises Carlos’s fist had put there. She felt cold…like throwing up. He would beat her, she was sure. He’d hit her for a letter she’d hidden from him; what would he do to her for hiding his grandson?
She saw again, in super slow-motion, Sage whirling around from the impact of the bullet, then crashing to the ground. Tears blurred her vision.
I’m sorry, Jethro. This is my fault. I should never have sent you away.
She dashed away the tears, took a deep breath and lifted the heavy bar and pushed the altar back far enough so she could slip through the opening. She shoved the altar back into place, ran through the chapel and out the arched double doors, across the courtyard to the front entry. On the front steps, she hesitated. Through the trees, out in the meadow she could see three men dressed in black making their way slowly toward the fence. They all held automatic weapons, ready to fire.
She pressed her hand against her wildly thumping heart, gasped in a breath
, and ran down the lane, waving her arms and screaming, “Wait—don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!”
She didn’t wait to see what the gunmen’s response to her cry might be, but ran on between the towering trees. Just before the trees ended and the lane straightened to run parallel to the fence, she saw Sage. Relief overwhelmed her when she saw that he was sitting upright, his back against a tree trunk. He held a gun in his hand. When he saw her, he struggled to rise, and called out to her in a voice like the croaking sound a crow makes.
“Rachel! Rachel—no!”
She ignored him and ran on. At the fence—that damned barbed wire fence—she halted, holding on to the top wire, and yelled across to the advancing gunmen. “Let me talk to Carlos. If he’s with you, let me talk to him!”
The gunmen slowed, then stopped, weapons pointing straight at her. Her heart was racing so fast, she wasn’t sure she could make a sound, but somehow she heard herself yell, “Tell Carlos, I’ve hidden the baby where he’ll never find him. If he wants to see his grandson, he’ll have to talk to me.”
One of the gunmen put his hand to his ear, then nodded at his comrades. He started toward her while the other two stayed where they were. Shaking with hope and fear, Rachel bent over and began the tricky process of climbing through the fence.
From somewhere on the edges of her consciousness she heard a powerful engine revving…the screech of tires. Someone shouted, called out her name, but she didn’t pause. Out in the meadow, the two gunmen raised their guns.
Then all hell broke loose. And Rachel was caught in the middle of it—literally. Hung up in a barbed wire fence.
Barreling along the lane, J.J. could barely see through the dust cloud he was raising. But he saw Rachel. Saw her come flying out of the shelter of the trees into the open, waving her arms. At first he thought she’d lost her mind. Then, that she was waving at him. Then he saw she was heading straight for three thugs armed with assault rifles. What the hell?
When he saw her bend down and start to climb through the fence, and one of the gunmen lower his rifle and start toward her, his heart nearly stopped. Part of him was so furious with her he could have killed her himself. The other part…the biggest part was so terrified he felt paralyzed.
As he brought the pickup to a jolting halt, he caught movement from just beyond the horrifying scene being played out by the fence. He opened the door and dove out, telling Moon to stay put as he slammed the door shut. Crouched by the front fender, he could see Sage ahead in the trees, pulling himself upright with his back against the trunk of a tall pine. His shirt was stained dark and his right arm hung limp at his side. In his left hand was J.J.’s Glock. He waved the Glock at J.J. and made a jerking motion toward the meadow with his head.
J.J. got the message. Go get her. I’ll cover you.
He nodded. Ran in a crouch around the front of his truck and headed for Rachel, who was still bent over in the middle of the barbed wire fence. He got to her about the same time Delacorte’s goon did.
The goon halted and leveled his gun at J.J., who was wishing he’d unholstered his backup Glock before dashing to Rachel’s rescue. It was the kind of rookie mistake that could cost a man his life. And was about to cost him his.
In the next fraction of a second, he saw the goon’s gun go flying out of his hands. The man screamed and grabbed his thigh, and went down with blood squirting from a bullet hole in his pants leg.
Thanks, Sage. I always knew you’d be a good man to have on my side in a fight.
Out in the meadow, the other two gunmen had opened fire. J.J. grabbed Rachel and hauled her out of the fence, ignoring the sounds of ripping cloth. He had her almost back to the cover of his truck when he felt his right leg go out from under him. He caught hold of the front bumper to keep from going down, all but threw Rachel behind the front tire, then dove headfirst after her. He couldn’t feel his right foot, but was afraid to look at it, pretty sure he wasn’t going to like what he saw.
“You’re hurt,” Rachel confirmed. She was on her knees beside him, her cheeks streaked with tears and dust. Her eyes, he saw, were glassy with shock.
J.J. grunted. He was too busy trying to get his backup Glock out of the holster on his wounded leg to reply.
Sam Malone was making his way along the creek, heading toward the old ranch house, when he saw the black chopper beating its way up the canyon. He watched it hover over the meadow, then drop out of sight behind the barn.
“Don’t much like the look of that, Ol’ Paint,” he said to the horse, who twitched his ears in reply. Sam urged the painted horse into a gallop.
Keeping the barns between himself and whatever was going on out in his meadow, he didn’t see the gunmen get out of the chopper and head for his house. He didn’t see Sage go dashing up the lane. But he heard the sound of gunfire. That was when he pulled up in the shelter of the corrals and unbuckled the leather flap that held his hunting rifle in its saddle holster. The rifle was a favorite of his, a nice old Winchester bolt-action—not fancy, but it would do the job. He loaded a magazine, threw the bolt a couple of times, then laid the rifle across his lap and said, “Let’s go, Paint.”
He came out of the shelter of the barn unnoticed, and saw Rachel come running down the driveway, yelling and waving her arms. He saw her stoop down to climb through the fence. He saw the sheriff’s pickup truck go barreling along the lane, screech to a halt, and the sheriff jump out and run to Rachel. He let out a cackle of approval.
Then he saw the guy closest to the fence go down, and the two out in the meadow raise their guns. He saw J.J. grab Rachel and run for his truck in a hail of gunfire. And he saw him go down. He didn’t see Sage, not then. But rage filled him.
I’m not letting those hoodlums hurt our granddaughter, Elizabeth!
A breeze skirled through the corral, raising dust. It brought a whisper. What do you think you can do to stop it, old man?
“I may be old, but I can still ride, and I can still shoot!”
He looped the reins around the saddle horn, shouldered the Winchester, dug his heels into the painted horse’s sides and said, “Come on, Paint!”
Once clear of the corral fences, Sam Malone gave a blood-curdling yell, and horse and rider went hurtling across the meadow toward the advancing gunmen, Sam firing the rifle as he rode.
The two gunmen never saw them coming.
It was Rachel’s nightmare playing out in broad daylight.
Gunfire, the smell of blood and gasoline…but I’m lying in dust and trampled grass, not wet and grimy pavement. No gleaming asphalt and flashing lights. The sun is hot on my scalp. I see Nicky’s bloody hand as he pulls up his pants leg and unbuckles—no, not Nicky. It’s J.J. who unbuckles the gun from his ankle, which is bloody and turned the wrong way.
Or is it?
Everything was chaos, happening either in slow motion or too fast to take in.
Crouched down beside J.J. with her hands over her ears in a vain attempt to drown out the gunshots, Rachel heard a terrible sound. A blood-curdling yell that stirred the hair on the back of her neck. She’d heard that sound before. She’d heard it in those old western movies she’d watched with her grandmother.
Impossible. And yet.
It was an Indian war cry, straight out of Old Hollywood, if not actual history.
Flat on her belly, she peered under the truck and knew she must be dreaming. She’d been shot, perhaps, and hadn’t realized it. Now she was delirious, or dying.
Out in the meadow, suspended in heat shimmer, a rider on a painted horse was bearing down on the helicopter and the two remaining gunmen. He rode tall in the saddle, hat gone, white hair and beard blowing in the wind, and as he rode, he was firing a rifle and yelling that hair-raising war cry.
J.J. couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had to look. Dragging himself around the front end of the truck, he managed to get himself into position to see what was happening out there in the meadow. And now that he could see it, he still couldn’t believe it.
From out of nowhere, it seemed, came a horse and rider at full gallop, straight into the face of the two men armed with assault rifles. The man had white hair and a beard, and was riding no-handed, firing a bolt-action rifle and yelling like a banshee. A one-man cavalry charge.
The two gunmen seemed to freeze—in a state of shock, probably. Then they both ran for the chopper. They had barely scrambled aboard before the chopper lifted off. The old man on the horse waited calmly, rifle raised, as the chopper launched into the air. He took careful aim, following the chopper’s flight, and fired. Threw the bolt and fired again. The chopper seemed to hesitate. Then it wobbled, dipped to one side, plunged straight down into the meadow grass and erupted in a ball of flame.
J.J. had ducked instinctively and covered his head when the chopper crashed. When he raised it and looked out on the meadow, at first he couldn’t see anything through the billowing black smoke. Then the smoke finally lifted, and it was clear that both the horse and rider had vanished.
For a moment he just leaned his head back against the bumper, fighting nausea and darkness. He was losing a lot of blood, he knew that. And he had no idea how bad off Sage was. But first, there was Rachel.
She was crying, sobbing, tears pouring down her face like rain. He crawled over to her and when he gathered her into his arms, she kept sobbing, “It was Nicky…it was Nicky…”
“Shh…not Nicky, sweetheart—Carlos,” he croaked. “It was Carlos. But he’s dead. They’re all dead. You’re safe now. You’re safe…”
That was all he remembered.
Everything was the same. It had been exactly four weeks since she’d been there—three since what the newspapers had been calling The Shootout at June Canyon Ranch. Once again, a three-quarter moon hung high in the cloudless sky, extinguishing the stars and casting shadows across the land. And the hound dog named Moonshine kept her vigil on the barren rise in front of the trailer.
Sheriff's Runaway Witness (Scandals 0f Sierra Malone Book 1) Page 19