When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  He trained his eye on the hospital entrance, watching for Dalton's return. When he spied his friend's easy stride, he itched to meet him halfway and pump him for information. Instead, he waited for Dalton to join him. As if the car would be too confining, Dalton crossed to the far side of the vehicle and leaned against the fender.

  Ryan opened the passenger door and slid out. With the door between them, he searched Dalton's face. "Any news?"

  "Hang on. She and the kid are probably just getting upstairs now. We had to wait until they made a delivery run from the gift shop."

  Ryan dragged his hands through his hair. "Right. It's—"

  Dalton twisted to face him. "Tell me what happened. I've gotta say, I've seen you lookin' better on a six day surveillance in the jungle."

  "I'm fine. Tired is all. You tell me what's going on."

  Dalton didn't press. He never did. Instead, he looked at you, his eyes boring into your skull until you told him everything. How you ate simply out of habit, food turning to dry cardboard which didn't always stay down. How you wandered through the forest, staring at leaves swirling down the current of a half-frozen stream. Or how you sat on the porch at night, counting the stars, afraid to go to bed and face your nightmares, until a dog grabbed your pants leg and pulled you inside.

  Somehow, Ryan resisted.

  Dalton spoke, his drawl barely evident. "It's touchy. Nobody really believed you'd sabotage a mission, much less two, without a damn good reason."

  "You're using the past tense. They believe it now?"

  Dalton lowered his head, scuffed his boots along a stripe of the parking slot. "I don't know. But you walked out of there, and Blackie didn't stop you. In the business, it's—let's say that everyone's been tempted, and everyone knows that they'd never sell out, but they're willing to believe anyone else would."

  Rage burned in Ryan's chest. "I worked with those people for years. Covered their sixes, trusted them with mine. How can they believe—?"

  "Until we show them what happened, it's easier to believe that someone did, especially when that someone isn't around to defend himself."

  Ryan didn't miss the "we" and allowed himself a flicker of hope. "What about Blackthorne?" Only Dalton called him Blackie.

  For the first week, he expected a call from his boss telling him this was merely another covert assignment, and that he was supposed to be ferreting out the real leak. When the call never came, Ryan figured he was the scapegoat Blackthorne needed to keep his company's image secure. He could hear him talking to potential clients.

  Oh, we had a small problem, but it's taken care of now. You can be assured we're one hundred percent reliable.

  He cast a glance over his shoulder toward the hospital. No sign of Frankie. He looked at his watch. He checked his cell phone before remembering they told her to use Dalton's number.

  "What's taking so long?" Panic surged again. Had someone been waiting by his father's room and grabbed her? Was his father in the midst of a medical emergency? Ryan had tried to explain the need for subterfuge to Pop, but he wasn't sure how much his father had absorbed. He hoped Pop would remember he was supposed to be John Daniels.

  "Check your phone, Dalt. You forget to charge it?"

  "Cool it. Most of the job is waiting. You know that." Dalton's expression shifted. He reached for his pocket. After looking at the display on his cell, Dalton brought it to his ear.

  Ryan's heart stopped while he tried to read Dalton's expression. Damn, the man had the best poker face on the team.

  *****

  Frankie gave Bob a mechanical smile. "I know Mom said you could pick her up, but I think I should drive her home. I'm already here, and Molly wants to spend some time with her grandmother."

  "Actually, dear, Bob and I are going to Lolo Hot Springs for a few days. We'd already made plans before this little setback. You dashed out so fast I didn't have a chance to tell you."

  Frankie swallowed, trying to keep any look of shock off her face. "Um…are you sure that's wise, considering? What if something else happens?"

  Bob crossed to the bed and took her mother's hand. "Then I'll make sure she gets help. It's not like we're going camping in the wilderness." Bob's tone was firm. Frankie looked at him, and he winked. "She'll be in good hands with me. Nothing to worry about."

  In good hands. Frankie tried not to let her mind go there.

  "That's right, dear," her mother said. "I've already asked the doctor, and he said fine. I can't see Dr. Sedgewick until next week, anyway. I made reservations at a nice little Bed and Breakfast, and we can enjoy the springs. Trust me, we won't be roughing it."

  "But your wrist?" Frankie protested. "You'll get it wet in the springs."

  "There's a clever invention called a plastic bag. I've been managing to bathe at home. Why should it be different?"

  Because at home Brenda or I help you. Not Bob. And who's footing the bill for this little getaway?

  Frankie vowed to look at the bank account again as soon as she got home. She studied Bob. Well-groomed, a decent haircut, but the clothes were probably discount-store issue. His trousers were a little threadbare around the cuffs, and she could see the worn crease in the collar of his polo.

  Good grief. Three quarters of the people in Broken Bow dressed like that, especially on a Saturday. Comfort over style. Idle speculation was not going to get her anywhere.

  Bob cleared his throat. "Tell you what, Frankie. If it'll make you feel better, why don't you and Molly take Anna home? You can help her pack, and I'll come by a little later." He stroked her mother's cheek. He spoke softly, but didn't seem to care that Frankie heard. "I'll stop and get some candles and a bottle of wine, my little Anna Banana."

  "I guess that's the plan, then," Frankie said. Anna Banana? Mom was sixty-eight.

  An orderly appeared, pushing a wheelchair. "Mrs. Castor? Time to get you out of here."

  She gathered her mother's things. "I'll pull the car around, and Molly and I will meet you out front." She leaned down and kissed her. "See you in a little bit."

  Molly dashed ahead and pressed the down button on the elevator. Frankie sorted through her thoughts while they waited. She thought back to her sister's warning before she'd left for London. Keep an eye on Bob. For what? Claire never could be direct. She must have missed the geometry class that said the shortest distance between two points was a straight line.

  Okay, her mother was dating. Beyond dinner-and-a-movie. She pushed the images as far out of her head as she could. Could that be why Claire didn't trust Bob? Not because he was a shady character, out to exploit Mom, but because he was getting too close to her? Twelve years older than Frankie, Claire had known their dad a lot longer than she had. Maybe Claire felt betrayed. She couldn't imagine Claire coming out and saying she thought Mom was having an affair. Not Claire. Claire had trouble buying tampons without blushing.

  Enough. In the lobby, Frankie brought up Dalton's number on her phone again. With one eye on the signal strength, she walked toward the exit, and as soon as she saw three bars, she pushed the button.

  Dalton picked up after the third ring.

  "He's fine," she said. Molly ran ahead to activate the automatic doors. "I'm on my way to my car."

  "I see you. Hang on. I'll let you talk to—Jack."

  With one hand, Frankie fished through her purse for her keys while waiting for Jack to come on line.

  "I can unlock the door, Mommy." Molly snatched the keys from her hand and darted toward the Cavalier.

  "Wait, Molly."

  Jack's voice interrupted. "Did you talk to him? Is he all right?"

  "Fine and feisty. Molly, slow down."

  Molly skipped toward the Cavalier. A green car barreled through the parking lot, coming straight at her.

  "Molly! Stop!" Frankie yelled.

  She ran, flailing her arms to get the driver's attention, but the driver didn't slow. Molly kept skipping.

  In a split-second that lasted an eternity, brakes squealed, tires skidde
d, and Dalton appeared, tucking Molly under his arm like a football. The green car sped off toward the emergency room entrance.

  Frankie closed the distance to Molly at a dead run. She grabbed Molly to her. Trembling, she raised her gaze to Dalton's. "Thank you."

  "She's fine." He set Molly down and patted her head. "Next time, sugar, you don't go into a street without a grownup."

  "But it's not a street," Molly said, her voice petulant. "I know how to cross a street."

  "Mr. Dalton's right," Frankie said. "Parking lots are like streets, only worse, because you never know which way to look. You should always hold someone's hand."

  Molly pouted. "I had Mr. Snuggles."

  "Mr. Snuggles is not a grownup," Frankie said. "You hold my hand now. Let's go say good-bye to Mr. Daniels." She half-dragged a reluctant Molly to Dalton's car.

  Ryan leaned against the hood of the car, rubbing his knee. Ignoring the scowl on his face, she marched up to him. "Good bye, Jack. I'm glad your father's all right."

  "Hang on." Reaching over his head, he pulled off the t-shirt she'd given him. "Here you go. Thanks."

  Frankie didn't know where to look. His whiskey eyes were troubled, which triggered her maternal instincts. But when she lowered her gaze to avoid them, she saw his chest, dusted with light brown hair that didn't hide a well-developed six-pack, which triggered entirely different instincts.

  "Please. Keep it. Consider it a gift—to remember your mother."

  "I'll get my own," he said, his voice husky. He dropped it into her arms and got in the car.

  Dalton slid past her into the driver's seat and started the engine. He tapped his fingers to an imaginary hat brim. "Take it easy, little ladies."

  She watched the two men drive away, and thought about next Tuesday, when she'd be at the Three Elks again. Would Jack show up?

  So what if he did? Men like Jack didn't want a women with a kid. She'd learned that long ago. And she didn't need a man, unless that man wanted to be Molly's father. She and Molly had been on their own from day one, and were doing fine.

  "Let's go, Mommy."

  "Right, Molly."

  Waiting at the hospital's patient pickup point, Frankie watched the orderly push her mother's wheelchair. Bob rested a hand on her mother's shoulder, and her good hand covered it. She was smiling up at him.

  Bob pulled the passenger door open and helped her mother into the car. He leaned across and fastened her seatbelt. Frankie stared straight ahead.

  "I'll see you in about an hour," Bob said.

  Frankie twisted the key in the ignition, and the engine squealed.

  "Can we go on a picnic, Gramma? Mommy said I could pick something special to do on vacation."

  "Not today. But when we get home, you can help me pack my overnight bag."

  "Are you going on a sleepover? I went on a sleepover to Katie Sue's house in Boston. We made popcorn and hot chocolate."

  Frankie wheeled out of the parking lot, trying to think of popcorn and hot chocolate instead of candles and wine. Or whiskey colored eyes filled with pain.

  Chapter 7

  Ryan waited while Dalton dug through the trunk and emerged with a Longhorns sweatshirt. He tossed it across the seat.

  "Thanks." Ryan pulled it on, only then aware he'd been cold.

  "I kinda liked you in pink," Dalton said with a grin.

  Dalton started the car. Ryan's heart still flapped against his ribcage like a pheasant caught in a snare. He'd seen Molly darting across the parking lot, and his damn knee had given out before he could get around the car. If it hadn't been for Dalton…damn kids. Always doing the unexpected. Hell, keeping people safe was part of their job, and in a split second, in a hospital parking lot, for God's sake, they could have lost another innocent life. They had gotten complacent because they weren't on assignment in the middle of nowhere.

  Dalton's expression said he was thinking the same thing. "You're not going to charge me a buck if I swear, are you?"

  Ryan shook his head.

  "Crap. I can't believe she nearly got hit. Cute little critter, seemed too savvy to pull a stunt like that."

  "I should have gotten to her," Ryan said, trying not to see Carmelita in Colombia. "Damn knee couldn't take the torque when I tried to get around the car." He rubbed the offending joint.

  "Maybe we both had something else on our minds. Civilization makes you drop your guard."

  "After last night, I don't think we can take that risk. Consider this an eye opener."

  Dalton drove to the end of the parking lot. "Where to?"

  "Left," Ryan said. "Then onto the highway. I want to take a closer look at the crash site."

  "You have any idea who wants you dead? Assuming it wasn't an accident."

  Ryan shook his head. "I was hoping you might shed some light on that one. Hell, I'm assuming it was one of those last two missions, but I don't know which one. My guess—it's a drug connection."

  "Why?"

  "The warehouse in Panama was probably a meth lab. But nobody'd used it in a long time. Still, it's a possible link between Alvarez and drugs, which might hook him to the Colombians. You get anything on the leaks?"

  "I'm clueless. I did a little surreptitious digging, but there's nothing. Yet."

  "So where are we?" Ryan asked.

  "From where I stand, it looks like the tangos got what they wanted in both cases. Nobody alive, and the intel was destroyed." Dalton gave Ryan a piercing glare. "It was destroyed, right?"

  Ryan couldn't see why terrorists would want a list of sources of missing art and artifacts, but he'd long since decided if it had been worth killing for, then the fewer people who knew it existed the better. Including Dalton.

  "Alvarez blew up his computer. The grenade took care of the rest. The whole place was one big fireball. Who really gives a shit about smuggled art?" Before he'd come to Montana, Ryan had peeked at the files, and they appeared to be exactly what the informant had said they were. Names, addresses, and pictures of works of art. He rubbed his temples. Nightly searches using computers at the Three Elks hadn't shown anything otherwise.

  "Headache? You still look like shit," Dalton said. "I got some aspirin in my pack in the trunk. I can pull over."

  "I'm okay. Trying to sort things out." He made sure his voice would remain steady before he spoke again. "I'm glad you're here."

  "After the last gig, I've got a few days."

  "How'd it go?" Ryan wouldn't ask for details.

  "Not bad. Sneak in, charm the natives, and wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. Everyone's home safe and sound."

  Ryan doubted it had been quite that easy. He missed the days when he and Dalt were on the same team, but separating them had created two almost invincible teams. Almost. Shit. "Rumors?" he asked.

  "Some rumblings that the Phantom might be back."

  "You're kidding." Ryan sat up straight and turned to Dalton. "I know I pissed him off in Saudi, but I didn't think he'd hold a grudge. It's been, what? Four years?"

  "Can't say what makes him tick. You cost him plenty when you squelched his arms deal."

  Ryan shrugged. "It's not like he intended to pay for the damn things. You think it's personal?"

  "Who knows? For now, it's only a rumor that he's back. Nobody knows who he really is, so he gets credit when things go wrong. Or should I say, he gets the blame? If we listened to the scuttlebutt, he'd been in six places at once."

  "Still, you think he's moving his operations to the other side of the world?"

  "Hell, for all I know, he could be flipping burgers at a Mickey D's in Duluth. But I've got my ears open." He flipped open the console between the seats and pulled out a plastic bag. "Want one?"

  Ryan smiled when he saw the familiar package, and extracted a butterscotch candy. The simple act of unwrapping the yellow cellophane brought a smile to his face. He popped the sweet in his mouth and a mental montage of interminable hours of waiting during assignments whipped through his brain.

  "Thanks," Ryan said. "Have
n't had one of these in awhile."

  The two settled into the comfortable silence of people who had worked together until they knew each other's thoughts, and Dalton apparently sensed Ryan wanted to be alone with his.

  About a hundred yards from the place where Ryan had found his Mustang wrapped around a tree, he told Dalton to stop the car. "Pull into that clearing, leave the car behind those trees. We can walk from here."

  "You sure?"

  Ryan caught Dalton's glance at his knee. "Walking will loosen it." He opened his car door and started walking as if to prove it, although he bit back a curse as he tried to avoid limping.

  He looked over his shoulder. Dalton had the trunk open and was rummaging around. When he caught up with Ryan, he had a pack on his back, a Winchester rifle over his shoulder, and a collapsible hiking stick in his hand.

  He offered the stick to Ryan. "Team's only as strong as its weakest link, and you need to give that joint time to heal. Cut out on rehab, didn't you?"

  Ryan didn't bother to answer as he extended the metal stick and let it take some of his weight. After about twenty paces, the knee felt better, and the knot in Ryan's stomach loosened. Maybe he hadn't damaged the knee further after all. But Dalton was right—he needed to follow up with rehab if he was going to heal, and he had to stop being so stubborn about it. His attitude that rehab was for wimps, not ex-SEALs who had worked in black ops for the past seven years wasn't going to cut it if he wanted full use of his leg.

  To do what? Would Blackthorne take him back if he cleared his name, assuming he'd even want to go there? He refused the thought, filing it away to be dealt with once he solved his current problem.

  "Tell me what happened." Dalton's voice cut through Ryan's pity party.

  "I heard the explosion and ran. By the time I got here, I was too busy looking for Pop and taking care of him to examine the car. They towed it to my place, but I wanted to see if there was anything that might give us a clue as to who did this."

  By now, they'd reached the site. A maze of tire tracks from the police, paramedics, and fire crew had obliterated anything that might have been on the ground. He strolled to the tree that his father had hit, noticing the bloodstains on the bark. Seeing the scene in daylight, Ryan's stomach lurched when he realized how close his father had come to serious injury—or death. He'd been hurled against the tree, but considering he missed a jagged boulder by mere inches on one side, and a forty-foot drop on the other, the tree had probably saved his life.