The entire town was alive with costumed people: cowpokes, saloon girls, gunslingers, sheriffs, schoolmarms, and gamblers. Nic counted the townsfolk as the wagon rolled along Main Street. By the time the driver stopped the wagon on the outskirts of town, she had counted more than twenty people. Who were they? Surely they weren’t all York’s captives.
The guards lowered the back of the wagon, ordered them to get out, and quickly divided the men from the two women. She and Jonas exchanged hasty good-bye glances before she and the other woman, a raw-boned brunette only a couple of inches shorter than Nic, were escorted to a nearby shade tree. Their hands were cuffed behind them and attached to shackles hanging from the side of the tree. From where she stood manacled to the tree trunk, she had only a partial view of Main Street, but she could hear the jubilant celebration taking place in the old ghost town.
She glanced at the woman beside her and wondered if she should say something to her. But before she had a chance to decide, one of the guards came for the woman. Nic watched as he released the brunette from the cuffs and dragged her away, forcing her to march in front of him.
A few minutes later, a riotous roar rumbled down the street from the little godforsaken town. Cheers and shouts preceded what sounded like a loud drumroll. And then the crowd quieted. The eerie sound of someone whistling sent shivers through Nic. She didn’t recognize the tune, something chillingly melancholy.
Time seemed to stand still.
The sun warmed the earth.
The autumn breeze cooled the air.
A gunshot rang out. And then another.
Boisterous shouts and delirious whoops followed.
Every muscle in Nic’s body stiffened. She knew the first execution had taken place. One down and two to go. Jonas would be the next executioner and then it would be her turn. How long would it be before they came for her? How long before she would have to commit murder?
“You’ll do it, if not for yourself, for your baby,” Jonas had told her.
The second execution had taken place a good while ago, the noise from the townsfolk, York’s honored guests, quieted now to a low rumble.
What are they waiting for?
With each passing moment, Nic became more nervous and less certain that she could actually kill another human being in cold blood.
You can do it. You have to in order to save your life and your child’s life.
The sun hung high in the sky, directly overhead. Midday.
She saw the guards approaching and knew the time had finally come. One man removed her cuffs, pulled her away from the sheltering tree, and the other man strapped a gun belt around her lower waist. Inserted in the single holster now strapped to her leg rested what Nic suspected was a .45 Colt revolver. My God, was it an authentic weapon or a reproduction? She had handled one of the big old revolvers a few times, a weapon effective for power and control by the user.
As the two guards led her into what she figured had once been a bustling mining town, another drumroll resonated loud and strong, announcing the main event for today’s execution ceremonies. When they were able to see her, the onlookers, a dozen or so on each side of the street, cheered her slow, dramatic march up the street to face her opponent.
Whoever the poor man was, would he have a fighting chance? Would he have a gun? And if he did, would it actually be loaded?
When she had gone a third of the way into the center of town, one of the guards stopped her, and then both moved away from her, leaving her alone in the street. Her heart raced like mad, booming in her ears. She felt hot. Sweat dotted her brow despite the mild temperature. Her hands grew moist with sweat.
Nic looked right and left, searching the crowd for any sign of York. The damn egotistical son of a bitch, decked out in cowboy finery, stood front and center, a big smile plastered on his face. He looked right at her, threw up his hand, and waved. Could she draw the revolver and shoot York before the guards either tackled her or shot her? If only ...
Suddenly the whistler trilled another tune, one Nic immediately recognized. The theme song from the old movie High Noon.
You’ve got to be kidding.
Like the exciting hunts for humans and the bloody fights in The Ring, today’s reenactment of an old west gunfight possessed all the pomp and ceremony York’s rich clients expected.
As the whistler completed his rendition of “Do Not Forsake Me, My Darling,” two guards escorted Nic’s challenger down the street from the other side of town.
She squinted as they approached, trying to see the face of the man she was expected to kill. Just as the guards moved away and left the gunslinger alone, Nic got a clear view of his face.
No! It can’t be. Please, God, no.
The man standing less than fifteen feet from her was Jonas MacColl.
This was York’s doing, just another sadistically cruel maneuver in his game of revenge. He knew she wasn’t a killer, knew how difficult it would be for her to execute an innocent person. And now he was making it impossible for her.
She couldn’t shoot Jonas.
She glanced away, staring into the crowd at York. The son of a bitch laughed when their gazes met.
Her hand hovered over the holster flap, itching to undo it, and then pull the revolver and aim it at York.
She looked straight at Jonas. I can’t do this, she wanted to shout. But the look in his eyes told her that he expected her to kill him.
Fear and frustration induced a strong rush of adrenaline that flooded through her system. Her gaze momentarily settled on Jonas’s holster. He had a gun. He could shoot her. But he wouldn’t.
And then suddenly, before she realized what was happening, Jonas pulled his revolver from the holster. It was in that moment when she reacted by mimicking his actions, their guns then pointed at each other, that Nic knew without a doubt that Jonas’s gun was not loaded.
She knew then what she had to do, regardless of the consequences. She did not want to make the ultimate sacrifice, but she could see no other way to end this.
Asking God and Griff and her unborn child to forgive her, Nic whirled around, aimed, and fired.
The crowd gasped in shock. Jonas ran toward her as the four guards took aim straight at Nic. He lunged toward her as the guards opened fire, their bullets riddling his back when he protected her from their attack.
Jonas took her down to the dusty ground with him and covered her body with his. “Why did you do it?” he asked her.
Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
“Jonas? Oh, Jonas.”
He lay on top of her, his body a heavy, protective weight.
Nic closed her eyes.
And then the weight of Jonas’s dead body disappeared. Nic opened her eyes to see a man standing over her. He reached down and dragged her up and onto her knees.
“No!” she screamed.
“You thought you killed me, didn’t you?” Malcolm York said. “I’m afraid you shot my bodyguard. Poor fellow is dead. He died to save me just as Jonas died to save you.”
York tucked his index finger under her chin. “What’s different about you, Nicole?” He grabbed her and dragged her to her feet, then whipped apart her vest and ran his gaze over her body. “You’re getting fat.” And then as if suddenly realizing the truth, he laughed. “You’re pregnant. What a delightful turn of events. Is MacColl the father or dare I hope you’re carrying Griffin Powell’s child?”
Looking right at him, Nic spit in York’s face.
Chapter 37
“It’s time for the final game,” York told Griffin. “I can’t keep your wife alive much longer. She has become more trouble to me than she’s worth. She’s quite a feisty little bitch, isn’t she?”
Griff clutched the phone with white-knuckled anger. “Name the time, the place, and the terms. Just you and me, York.”
“Now, don’t be selfish. We can’t leave Sanders and Yvette out of all the fun we’re going to have, now can we?”
“I’m the one you
want. It’s my wife you’re holding captive.”
“Yes, I want you, Griffin Powell. I want your head stuffed and mounted over my fireplace.” York laughed, the sound edged with hysteria.
The man was insane, every bit as insane as the real York had been.
“And I want to gut you while you’re still alive and make you suffer till you beg me to kill you.”
“What a bloodthirsty devil you are, Griffin. But we all have our dark side, don’t we? That sweet little wife of yours certainly has hers.”
“Tell me what you want. But before I agree to anything, I want to talk to Nic again.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible. You see, she’s being punished for an unforgivable crime. The crazy bitch actually tried to shoot me.”
That’s my Nic. “Good for her.”
“No, actually, it’s bad for her, especially in her condition. I’ve had to put her in solitary confinement. Bread and water only, unless of course she can kill and eat the rats in her cell.”
Griff’s face heated with rage. His hand trembled. “What do you mean, her condition?”
“Oh, that’s right, you don’t know, do you?” York chuckled. “I could send you some photographs, but since you’ll soon be visiting me, you can see for yourself. Nicole is pregnant.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“As I said, you will soon be able to see her swollen belly. How does it feel, knowing the child your wife is carrying could be her lover’s baby?”
“You’re lying. Nic isn’t pregnant.”
“Oh, she’s pregnant, all right. But I can’t say just how pregnant. It’s hard to tell about these things. She could be far enough along for the baby to be yours. How about that, Griff? I not only have your wife, but I may have your unborn child, too.”
“No, I don’t believe any of this.”
“As I said, you can see for yourself. I’m inviting you and Sanders and our lovely Yvette to join me and my guests for the hunt of a lifetime. An exclusive guest list. And the prey will be premium quality—the three of you and Mrs. Powell, too, of course.”
Griff had known there would be a final showdown, that in the end York would want to kill him. Go ahead and try, you son of a bitch. The real York tried for four damn years and I outsmarted him every time. I can outsmart you, too.
“I want you to fly to Colorado tomorrow and land at the Denver International Airport,” York told him. “There will be a car waiting for you. You’ll find instructions in the glove compartment. I’ll have a small plane at a private airstrip ready for you and your dear friends. Don’t try anything stupid. If you do, I’ll be forced to kill Nicole.”
The last thing Griff heard was the sound of York’s maniacal laughter. Long after York had hung up, Griff still clutched the phone in his hand.
York had lied to him. Nic wasn’t pregnant.
But what if she was?
What if the baby isn’t mine?
Griff stormed out of his study.
“Sanders! Barbara Jean! Maleah! Derek!” He fired off the four names in rapid succession.
Sanders barreled around the corner, followed by Maleah and Derek, all of them coming from the office.
“What is it?” Sanders asked.
“What’s wrong?” Derek and Maleah questioned simultaneously.
“York called. He wants us—you, Sanders, and me and Yvette—to fly to Denver, Colorado, tomorrow. If you choose to go with me—”
“Of course we will go with you,” Sanders assured him. “He wants all of us. He won’t be satisfied with only you.”
Griff nodded. “Please contact Yvette and let her know that I’ve heard from York and explain that he has a special hunt planned, with the three of us and Nic as the quarry.”
“Oh my God,” Maleah said.
Barbara Jean arrived several minutes after the others. “Is something wrong?”
“York called with marching orders for Griff,” Maleah explained.
Before Barbara Jean could respond, Griff zeroed in on her and said, “I want to speak to you and Maleah in my study now. Please.”
“Yes, of course,” Barbara Jean replied.
Maleah seemed hesitant, but said, “Yeah, sure.”
Griff waited for the two women to move ahead of him, and when they did he followed them to his study and closed the door.
“York told me something that I didn’t want to believe. I called him a liar. But I don’t know if he really was lying.” He looked back and forth between the two, hoping that one of them could tell him what he needed to know. “I have to ask you both, as Nic’s best friends, if she shared a secret with both or either of you before she left Griffin’s Rest, something that, at the time, she didn’t want me to know.”
“No,” Barbara Jean said instantly. “Nic isn’t the type to keep secrets, especially not from you.”
Maleah remained silent. Griff looked at her.
“What about it, Maleah?” he asked.
“What did York tell you?”
“He told me that Nic is pregnant.”
Barbara Jean gasped. Maleah swallowed.
“He claims that he doesn’t know exactly how pregnant she is and doesn’t know if the baby is mine or the man he keeps referring to as her lover.”
“The baby’s yours,” Maleah told him.
Griff felt as if he’d been punched in the gut.
“Then she is pregnant?” he asked. “She was pregnant when she left Griffin’s Rest?”
“Yes. She just found out for sure a couple of days before and she wanted to wait until things calmed down around here before she told you.”
Griff stared at Maleah, his emotions all over the place. He was happy. He was sad. He was angry. He was hurt. He was racked with guilt and remorse.
“Why didn’t you tell me? All these months and you knew and didn’t tell me?”
“You may not believe me, but I didn’t tell you because Derek and I agreed that—”
“Derek knows?”
“You’ve had just about all you could handle dealing with Nic’s kidnapping and the sick games York has forced you to play. The last thing you needed was to know that Nic was pregnant. I didn’t tell you for your own sake.”
“Damn it, Maleah, you had no right to ...” Griff swallowed a gut full of tears.
Struggling to keep his emotions under control, he turned away and walked over to the window.
Several minutes later, he said, “Maleah, see to it that the Powell jet is ready to leave for Denver first thing in the morning.”
“Yes, sir.”
When he heard Maleah exit the den, he slowly turned to Barbara Jean. “If you love Sanders, and I know you do, then make tonight count. There is no guarantee that he or Yvette or Nic and I will come back alive.”
Chapter 38
Sir Harlan had kept the location of The Hunt top secret, so it wasn’t until their jet had landed at the Missoula International Airport, that Rafe realized he was in the United States. He had wanted to get word to Griff ASAP, but found it impossible to get away from his traveling companion. The old buzzard even went into the men’s room with him. While in a private stall, Rafe had managed to get out a quick text message. Two words: Missoula, Montana.
The driver who met Rafe and Sir Harlan had loaded their bags in a Land Rover and informed them their trip would take less than an hour. Sir Harlan chatted nonstop for the first thirty minutes, then dozed off, giving Rafe time to soak up their surroundings in peace and quiet. He’d never been to Montana. But from the view out of the SUV windows, he could tell why people raved about this state. The farther away from Missoula they were, the more scenic the landscape as they rolled along on US-93 South. Autumn in all her splendor. The boy he had once been would have loved capturing all the colorful beauty on canvas. Raphael had been an artist with the soul of a poet.
“We are going to a rather exclusive hunting preserve that our host, Malcolm York, owns,” Harlan Benecroft had told him before they left London. “Some peo
ple actually prefer hunting deer and elk and bears, but we will be hunting the most deadly creatures on Earth—humans.”
The Cessna Citation, a small eleven-seat jet, landed on a private airstrip in a valley cradled between snow-capped mountains, the foothills gleaming golden in the evening sunlight. When Griff stepped off the plane first, he breathed in the crisp, cool autumn air. A muscular, medium-height man, wearing sunglasses and a black Stetson waited at the bottom of the passenger steps.
“Hope you had a pleasant flight, Mr. Powell,” the man said with a slight British accent.
Griff descended the steps, Yvette directly behind him, and Sanders following her. As he glared at their greeter, he caught a glimpse in his peripheral vision of an armed guard standing beside a silver Land Rover.
The minute Griff’s feet hit solid ground, he turned to assist Yvette, who grasped his hand, more for moral support than for any other reason. Once Sanders joined them, their escort came forward, removed his sunglasses, held out his hand and smiled at Griff.
“Welcome to Montana. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mr. Powell.”
Griff ignored the man’s outstretched hand.
He dropped his hand to his side and said, “The lodge is only a short drive from here. Mr. York is eager to see you again.” He glanced at Sanders and nodded. “Damar Sanders. I’ve heard almost as much about you as I have about Griffin Powell.” Then his gaze settled on Yvette. “May I say, Dr. Meng, that you are even more beautiful than Mr. York described you.”
“Where is York?” Griff asked.
“As I said, he is eagerly awaiting your arrival at the lodge. He has instructed me to handle you three with kid gloves. It seems you are extra special guests.”
“And just who are you?” Griff asked, but suspected he already knew.
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