The Lonesome Lawmen Trilogy

by Pauline Baird Jones

  “Can I take these with me?”

  Grady hesitated, as if the question surprised him, then shrugged and nodded. As she climbed the stairs, she heard him asking Donovan if he wanted some brandy. It was all quite freaky. It was as if Grady couldn’t make up his mind between genial host and evil overlord.

  Back in her room, O’Rourke, with an apologetic air, had secured one wrist to the bed again and then locked her in. As soon as he was out of ear shot, she unbent the paper clip and went to work on the lock. She was still working on it when she heard the sound of a chopper arriving. Anxiety faded with action. She was doing something, not just a staked lamb waiting for the slaughter.

  There were cracks appearing in the wall of fog holding in her past. She had a hazy memory of being in the chopper, though none of falling out or struggling to get to Luke’s cabin. It was possible she never would remember that. She couldn’t remember where, but she did remember reading something about memory loss from an accident being permanent.

  Donovan played no role in any of the little bits of stuff she was remembering. It seemed obvious that she’d had a personal shock of some kind, something related to her father. It was possible that he was part of it, and that’s why she couldn’t remember him. Just thinking the word “father” sent little frissions of pain off in her head. Something so painful that her brain shied away from remembering it. Not being a masochist—that she knew of—she let that sleeping dog lie and turned to another unanswerable question.

  Who was it that Grady was trying to force Donovan to kill?

  He’d looked so grim, it must be someone important. If he succeeded, his life would be over. He’d either go to jail or be killed. She didn’t want, didn’t need the burden of that. If you were going to incur a debt, shouldn’t you get some say in it?

  She pulled the clip out and bent the end, then eased it back in, feeling for the latch that she was trying to release. If she could free herself, then she wouldn’t owe him. The point caught on something. Was that it? She upped the pressure and the cuff fell away from her wrist.

  “Not completely useless,” she muttered. Freed from restraint, she was able to search the rest of the room. Not that it did her much good. There was nothing in any of the drawers, other than the Bible she’d found before. The window was latched from the outside. With a sigh, she sat back down on the bed, hefting the Bible. As a weapon, it left a lot to be desired.

  Outside, the chopper lifted off again. She could hear the clatter of the blades fading toward the north. As it subsided, she realized that someone was unlocking the door to her bedroom. She looped the handcuff back around her wrist, tucking the Bible out of sight under her pillow.

  The door swung open, only this time it wasn’t O’Rourke or Grady in the doorway. It was the man she’d seen when she looked out the window, the one walking across the clearing. The one with the cruel face. His face was unchanged, except for the addition of an equally cruel smile. There was a look in his eyes that sent her adrenaline surging like a flash flood through a dry creek bed.

  He stepped in and closed the door behind him, bringing the stench of lust and a creeping sense of evil with him. Her mouth went dry as he set his rifle aside, removed his cap and jacket and tossed them onto the chair, then began unbuckling the heavy utility belt around his waist.

  * * * *

  The staging area Bryn chose was a bleak, cold piece of real estate enough miles away from the rendezvous to give them a reasonable sense they hadn’t been spotted. They were running with little or no lights, keeping their profile low while they waited. And waited. And waited.

  Luke spun and started back along the path he was wearing through the knee-deep snow and into the frozen turf. This was taking too long. They weren’t accomplishing anything. Everyone was pacing to stay warm, so Luke’s pacing didn’t stand out, but he’d have been doing the same had been one hundred degrees out, instead of spiraling toward zero.

  Matt approached carrying a hot thermos and a couple of sandwiches. It reminded Luke of a time when it had been Matt wearing the path. A couple of plastic cups hung off one finger by the handles. Matt held out one to him, his eyes daring Luke to refuse.

  “Enjoying this?” Luke growled.

  “No. Now eat and drink.”

  “I’ll just hurl it,” Luke protested, glaring down at the sandwich Matt dropped in his hand.

  “No,” Matt said. “You won’t. You’ll feel like it, but you won’t. And you’ll have the strength to do your job when we get ready to move.”

  “Any news?”

  Matt shrugged. “According to GPS, Dewey’s truck is still waiting at the rendezvous. We’ve got the military tracking any aerial activity in the area. Nothing from them either.”

  Lucky for them, Dewey’s truck had GPS capability, so they’d been able to track it to the rendezvous point, but it was frustrating to know so little. It was like being blind, only this time his other senses weren’t enhanced, Luke decided, with a frustrated sigh. He shoved the sandwich in his mouth and chewed, using the coffee to wash it down. A flurry of activity around the truck had them moving that way.

  “What’s up?” Luke asked, as Jake jumped down.

  “Truck’s moving again, back this way.”

  “What’s our move?” Matt asked.

  “Bryn wants us to stop the truck.”

  Luke followed his two brothers to their truck. Matt took the wheel, firing the engine and spinning the truck around toward the road. In a few minutes, they were in position to block road on Bryn’s signal. Luke watched as the headlights, at first pinpoints in the black night, grew steadily larger. When the truck was about a hundred yards away, Bryn signaled and Matt pulled the truck into the road as Bryn pulled her rig in and closed the gap, turning on their headlights at the same moment.

  The driver of the truck hit the brakes. The truck fishtailed, then slipped sideways, stopping within inches of their road block. The truck was covered, as Bryn’s men moved in, their guns trained on the cab.

  “Get out of the truck,” one of them ordered.

  Because of all the headlights, all Luke could see was a figure with his hands up.

  The driver’s door opened with a creak of metal. The driver eased out, careful to keep his hands raised. As he stepped into the light, Luke saw a soldier in winter camouflage.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Bryn,” he said.

  Bryn’s gun was already being lowered, even before he spoke.

  “Donovan.” She rubbed the back of her head. “What are you doing in this rig?”

  “Following orders,” he said. He looked at Bryn, and for the first time, Luke saw the expression in his eyes. They were bleak and angry. Close to desperate. “He has her. I saw her. If you stop me, he’ll kill her.”

  Luke pushed forward and grabbed him by the collar, lifting him partly off his feet. He didn’t even resist. “Not if we stop him.”

  Eyeball to eyeball, Luke saw the moment the guy started thinking again.

  “Where is she? Where are they holding her?”

  He pulled free and straightened his clothes, his gaze curious as he studied Luke.

  “Who the hell are you?”

  Bryn pushed between them. “Long story. Just tell me, can you take us to where they’re holding her? Can we get to her?”

  With some reluctance, Donovan looked from Luke to Bryn. “Won’t be easy. He’s got the place well guarded. He won’t kill her until he gets what there is of Shield. And I do my job.”

  “And then he’ll kill her anyway,” Bryn said, her voice hard. “We both know it. So are you with us or not? Stop thinking like a father and start thinking like a soldier.”

  She was right, but Luke didn’t like thinking about it. Neither did Donovan if his face were any indication. How had she gotten so important to him so quickly? He turned and looked in the directions of the mountains, remembering another time the mountains had hidden someone. They’d seemed so big, so vast when Dani was in them with that crazy bastard, Jonathan Haye
s, and they’d managed to think their way to her and bring her back alive. He had to believe they could do it again, or he’d just sit down and cry. Or go off with his head up his butt like Donovan. He turned back to the group, where a tense Donovan still faced a pugnacious Bryn.

  Donovan’s chest heaved in a sigh. “I’m with you. Of course I’m with you.”

  Bryn’s hard look cracked into a real smile. “Good. I’m got a map in the van. Tell us what we need to do.”

  * * * *

  Amelia winced as he dropped his utility belt, laden with ammo and what looked like grenades, to the floor, only mildly relieved when something didn’t blow. More weaponry followed it to the floor, so much she was surprised he had been able to stand upright. Then he sat down and began unlacing his boots. She swallowed as he dropped the first one on the wooden floor, smiling when she jumped at the sound.

  Maybe it was the shock that gave her this terrible clarity of thought. Or maybe she just knew she didn’t have time to be afraid. She reached and found the cool, heavy Bible she’d left under her pillow. It wasn’t much, but its weight and its message offered comfort and support.

  He unlaced the other boot and pulled it off, dropping it, too. He unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging it off to reveal powerful shoulders. A tattoo of a dragon marred one side of his chest, the head where his heart should have been. The tail trailed down his biceps almost to his wrist. All that was left was his pants. He stood, undoing the buttons one by one. He had the soul of a stripper, taking them down slowly, then kicking them into the corner.

  The whole time, he didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. His body movement said it for him. Amelia looked once, then kept her gaze fixed on his face. It was obvious that he felt in control of the situation as he looked her top to bottom, his eyes stripping her down to cringing flesh.

  Her body tensed, adrenaline screaming in her veins. Her head buzzed with it. Only one clear thought. She had to stop him.

  His smile was feral as he closed on her. He grabbed her chin. His fingers digging in with cruel force, tightening until they cut down on her air.

  Her head spun. Her vision narrowed sharply as she fought to stay conscious.

  His eyes, his touch told her he wouldn’t be kind. He was a predator, concerned only with what he could take. With his free hand, he grabbed the neck of her shirt and ripped it off. His eyes raked her exposed flesh, her bra a frail barrier in the storm. His hand went to the strap on her shoulder, his nails raking her flesh as he ripped it down. His mouth swooped toward hers.

  She couldn’t stand it. The stench of him filled her nostrils; her stomach roiled. She couldn’t abide his touch, couldn’t stand to have him erase the sweet memory of Luke’s kiss with his vileness.

  Her knee jerked up with all the force she could muster, plus the adrenaline chaser. It slammed into his groin. His gasp sprayed her with his spit. She flinched away from it, from him. He shoved her away, the force knocking what little breath she had left out of her.

  His body curled around his injured member with a wheezing groan.

  She could see his neck. It was dirty, like a boy who’d been in mud. She lifted her arm holding the Bible. Then brought it down on his neck. The jolt of it vibrated up her arm. Her hand went numb and the Bible dropped. She backed away.

  He seemed to hang there for a several heartbeats, then fell onto the bed.

  She was sorry he’d had a soft landing. Her breathing was quick, panicked, but still distant. As if she’d left her body and become an observer. The air felt cold on her exposed skin. The wounds he’d inflicted throbbed with the frantic beat of her heart. But something insulated her from the full horror of what had almost happened. She edged past the feet sticking off the edge of the bed and grabbed his rifle.

  It was an M1 carbine. She checked the clip. It looked like it held at least thirty rounds. She shoved the clip home again and pointed it at him, somewhat startled by how familiar it felt in her hands.

  He wasn’t moving. He was breathing. A harsh, sonorous sound in the deep silence of the room. It occurred to her that she ought to secure him while she could. Keeping him covered, she retrieved the hand cuffs and secured one around his wrist, shoved it through the bed post and secured the other.

  It was awful being close to him. He stank of cheap cologne, sweat and booze. He groaned, and her heart jumped into overdrive again. If he woke, he could raise an alarm. From her safe distance from herself, she watched as she lifted the butt of the gun and brought it down, but she stopped short of his temple.

  What are you doing? She asked herself, horrified.

  He was going to rape you, she reminded herself.

  She lifted it again. This time she closed her eyes and brought it down without stopping. It crunched sickeningly. She opened her eyes. Saw blood bubble up from the wound she’d made and start down the side of his face. It dropped, brilliant red, on the white sheets of the bed.

  Her stomach heaved. She could smell the blood. Worse, she could smell him. His smell was all around her. It seemed to fill the room. For a moment, horror broke through the barrier of shock protecting her, but she fought it back.

  She covered him with the blanket and turned away with relief. She turned her back on him and looked at the door. It was closed, but she was pretty sure he hadn’t locked it when he came in. Why should he? He had the guns and the size. Just hadn’t had the brain.

  She checked. The knob turned. She eased it open, peering out through a crack. The hall was empty. No sounds from downstairs. She could see the key hanging where O’Rourke kept it. She closed the door and leaned against it. She stared at the motionless man, then she picked up his pants.

  “Yuck.” To get her mind off what he’d probably done in these pants, she measured her foot against the side of his boot. They’d work. It felt good to have a plan. And it kept the horror at bay.

  EIGHTEEN

  Luke couldn’t remember ever being this cold. It drilled through his gear and plucked at his face with icy fingers as he struggled after Donovan through the waist-deep snow. The world, his world, had narrowed to two goals—keeping Donovan in view and taking the next step. If he just focused on those two goals, he’d make it. Outside of that was everything else. His fears for Amelia and the cold that dug through layers of clothing and skin.

  He’d insisted on being partnered with Donovan. He was their point man and the one who knew where Amelia was. Obviously, he was the guy to be with when they hit the camp.

  Huge mistake.

  The guy wasn’t human. Didn’t seem to feel the cold. Or tired. If he felt fear, it didn’t show. He didn’t stop. Didn’t hesitate. Went over, under or around. Whatever it took to move forward. All of the ground had been up, but the terrain abruptly took a downward turn. The burning pressure on his lungs eased. The labor to get air where it was needed eased. He could talk again.

  “Why?” he asked, as he drew almost level with Donovan.

  He looked at him. “Why what?”

  “Why didn’t you ever tell her?”

  Donovan’s stride broke for the first time. “How well do you know her?”

  He settled for a shrug. The downward turn got steeper, seriously steep. The straining forward now shifted to straining backward. He grabbed at trees, rocks, whatever he could find to hang on to. They weren’t worried about covering their tracks right now, just about covering ground. Luke sensed that Donovan shared his feeling of urgency.

  “Then you wouldn’t understand.” Donovan eased his way around a large boulder, then dropped into a crouch. “We need to be more careful now.”

  Luke dropped down beside him. Below, a long way below, he could see a cabin with a few lights showing, crouched on the edge of a large clearing.

  “We’re in the range of his lookout bunkers. I spotted two on this side when I was working my way down today. Must have some kind of underground access, because there’s no sign of a trail in the snow,” Donovan said. “We’ll have to take them both out, or they’ll sound an alarm.
”

  “Any idea how many men per?” Luke asked. He was ready for some action. Not the struggling through snow action. The kick some butt action.

  “One, maybe two.”

  “How’d you spot them?” From here the hillside looked serene and untouched, like a postcard.

  Donovan flashed him a quick grin, the first Luke had seen break the bleak in his face since he’d met him an hour ago. “X-ray vision.”

  He could like this guy. Now that they were heading downhill.

  * * * *

  Amelia tightened the belt, but it was still too big for her. She undid it and simply tied it in a knot around her middle. The jacket arms extended well past her hands, but it had Velcro bands at the wrists that she was able to tighten to keep them in place. The utility belt was heavy. She had to lift it on the dresser, then used its top to support the weight of the belt as she secured it around her waist. She staggered, but then found her balance.

  She checked her armaments. Plenty of ammo. She seemed to know all about it but didn’t know anything about the grenades. That was odd, but she didn’t have time to mull it. There was a silenced hand gun—most convenient—and a vicious looking knife. She kept the gun, but hid the knife in the dresser drawer. In one of the pockets of the jacket, she found night-vision goggles. There was also a pair of regular snow goggles and a pair of thick, warm gloves. There was even a compass and a small flashlight.

  She had to hand it to Grady. His men were well equipped.

  She used the mirror to adjust the hat on her head, trying not to think about how much grease it had probably absorbed. His gear was mottled white and gray. Snow camouflage, much like what Donovan had been wearing. The usual green and tan wouldn’t be much use in this weather. She looked pretty menacing and could probably pass a cursory inspection from a distance. Up close could be dicey.

  Something flickered, in the mirror? Or in her head? Instead of the faux soldier, she caught a glimpse of a sober face like hers in the license picture, only this time she was hiding behind dark glasses. Her hair was pulled up and back. If that was Prudence, it was no wonder no one had recognized her. Why had she worn glasses? She didn’t need them.