ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE

by Cindi Myers

  “It’ll be easier if you slide down until you’re sitting on the floor.”

  She lowered herself to the floor. The concrete was cold, the chill quickly seeping into her. “Now what?”

  “Now you’ve got to bring your arms under your body and around until they’re in the front. It’ll be easier for you because you’re short. How flexible are you?”

  “Pretty flexible. I do yoga.”

  “Then no problem. Take it slowly.”

  But moving slowly only made her ribs hurt worse, so she forced herself to push past the pain. Leaning back, she worked her wrists under her bottom, then scooted back, gritting her teeth as she contorted her spine into a C and worked her bound hands down the back of her thighs. Knees to chest, she made herself as small as possible. She kicked off her shoes and forced her arms down, ignored the protests from ribs and arm sockets. She sucked in her breath and slid her arms around her feet.

  From there, the rest was easy. She eased her bound hands up until they rested at her waist in front of her.

  “Good girl,” Patrick said. “Now all you have to do is break the cuffs.”

  She almost sobbed. “How am I going to do that?”

  “You’re a lot stronger than you think. Raise your hands to about chest height and spread your wrists as far apart as you can. Point your elbows out.”

  She followed his directions, then looked to him for further instruction.

  “Now thrust down with as much force as you can, pulling your arms apart as you do so. Deep breath in.... Now!”

  She jerked her arms down, putting everything she had into it, and the plastic snapped apart. She gasped, then stifled a shout of triumph. If any of their captors was close enough to the barn to hear, she didn’t want to give herself away. “It worked!”

  “Now see if you can untie me. If not, we’ll have to find something to use to cut me loose.”

  Her ankles still bound, she used the wall to push herself to her feet, then hopped awkwardly to him. “I can do this,” she said as she fumbled with the rope. “They didn’t tie it very well.”

  “They probably figured with the restraints it was overkill.” He turned sideways to give her more room to work. She bit her lip, concentrating on threading the strands of the coarse rope back through the loops of the knot. “There,” she said as she pulled the last of the knot loose. “The rope’s gone, but what about the rest?”

  “Now take off one of your earrings.”

  “My earring?” She put a hand to the thin gold hoops.

  “Just one. And I can’t promise this won’t break it.”

  “It’s just an earring.” She unhooked the bauble and held it out to him.

  “Take it and thread the end of the hook between the plastic strap and the little square lock on the zip tie.” He turned his back to her and offered up his bound wrists. “It’ll be a tight fit, but you should be able to force it in.”

  She grasped his hand to hold him steady, then wedged the tip of the earring wire into the lock on the cuffs. “I can’t get it to go in without bending.”

  “Keep working at it. A little at a time.”

  She took a breath, let it out then tried again. This time she was able to ease the wire in a full inch. “What now?”

  “Pull on the plastic. See if it will loosen.”

  She tugged hard on the plastic strap and it began to slide from the lock until it was loose enough for her to remove it from his hands. “What about the duct tape?” She studied the thick layers of silver tape wrapping his wrists.

  “Find an end and rip it.”

  She picked at the tape with one nail, idly noting that she was overdue for a manicure. She almost laughed to be thinking of such things at a time like this.

  “What are you smiling about?”

  She looked up and found his eyes on her, the affection and tenderness in his expression sending warmth through her. To think she had resented him when they’d first met—been afraid of him, even. She looked away. “I was just thinking how different this is from the life I’ve been leading—about how sheltered I’ve been.”

  “You’ve done great. I don’t know when I’ve met anyone braver—man or woman.”

  His praise made her feel about ten feet tall. She pulled the last of the tape from his wrists. He rubbed them, wincing. “Now the ankle bindings—do yours first.”

  Now that she knew how to use the earring to bypass the locking mechanism on the zip ties, she made short work of their ankle restraints. She was even able to slip her earring back into her ear when she was done. Patrick was still rubbing his wrists, grimacing. She took one of his hands between hers and smoothed the angry red flesh, still sticky with tape residue. “Does it hurt much?”

  “I’ll live.”

  She kissed his wrist, his pulse fluttering against her lips. He slid his hands up to cup her cheek and raised her mouth to his. Closing her eyes, she gave herself up to the kiss, all thoughts of danger and lost children and uncertain futures deliberately shoved aside for this one moment of sweetness.

  A moment that ended too soon. Patrick pulled away, though he still cradled her face between his hands. “Whatever happens, I want you to know you’re the most amazing woman I’ve ever met,” he said.

  “Only because I’m with you.” She rested her hands on his chest, palms flat over his heart. “You make me believe I can do anything.” No one—not her parents or old boyfriends or her husband—had ever had that kind of confidence in her. She could have loved him for that alone.

  “That’s because you can.” He kissed her forehead, then turned toward the door. “Come on. We have to find Carlo before they do.” He grasped the doorknob. It turned easily enough, but the door refused to budge. He shoved against it, but the heavy wooden door scarcely moved.

  “What is it?” Stacy tried to see around him. “What’s wrong?”

  He turned back to her, his face grim. “There’s a bolt thrown over the door from the outside. We can’t get out.”

  * * *

  CARLO WAS COLD. The night air cut through his thin pajamas and his socks were soaked from running through the snow. The snow was cold on his hands, but when he walked now, the snow burned his feet. How could the snow be both hot and cold?

  He huddled between the water barrels on the side of the house and looked out at the darkness. He was afraid of the dark. Even in the daytime, he had never been far from the house alone. Uncle Abel said there were wild animals out there—coyotes and bears that would eat little boys.

  He could hear people calling his name—Uncle Abel and other men he didn’t know. He didn’t answer them, and tried to make himself smaller in the narrow space between the two water barrels. He’d decided to hide here because he could see the lights of the yard from here. He could see the barn and the cars and other familiar things.

  He was so cold. His teeth chattered and his whole body shook. Even with his knees drawn up to his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs, he was still cold. He had lost the blanket somewhere while he was running; he couldn’t remember where. When he breathed out, his breath made little clouds in front of his face.

  The voices had moved around to behind the house now. Would they come around here eventually? What would Uncle Abel and the men do if they found him? Uncle Abel was usually nice, but tonight he had looked angry. He’d been very angry at Mommy and the man with her. Carlo didn’t like it when people were angry.

  His daddy had been angry a lot, and had yelled at Mommy. Sometimes he’d made her cry, and that made Carlo sad and mad and afraid, all at the same time.

  Where was Mommy now? She hadn’t been here for so long, then tonight she had finally come, and then she’d told him to run away. None of it made sense.

  He put his head on his knees and closed his eyes. Maybe if he went to sleep he’d dream ab
out being some place warm.

  The barn was warm. The horses made it warm. The horses were big, and they scared him a little, but he liked to watch them from a distance. The other day Uncle Abel had put him up in the saddle in front of him and walked the horse around the corral. Carlo had never been so high up before. He loved the feel of the horse rocking beneath him. Uncle Abel had promised to teach him to ride when he was bigger. Carlo would have his own pony and learn to be a cowboy.

  He could go to the barn and hide. He’d be warm and if he couldn’t sleep, he could watch the horses.

  He stood and peered around the barrels. The yard was quiet and empty. He dashed across the wide strip of blackness between the house and the barn. When he reached the deeper shadows beside the barn, he was out of breath and his side hurt from running. His feet still burned, but the rest of him felt a little warmer.

  He felt his way around the side of the building to the door to the feed room. Standing on tiptoe, he could just reach the doorknob. He opened it and went inside. The door from the feed room to the main barn stood open. Low-voltage lights illuminated the central walkway between the horse boxes. The barn cat, Matilda, came up and leaned against his legs. He ran his hand along the soft fur of her back and smiled. “Good kitty,” he whispered. He didn’t want to wake the horses, who were probably sleeping.

  He pulled a saddle blanket from a pile by the door and lay down on a bale of hay beside the feed bins. The cat curled up against him. He was warmer now, and sleepy. Maybe in the morning, he’d see Mommy again.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Patrick studied the door on the horse box. It was made of heavy wood with forged iron hinges on the outside. It was built to contain animals weighing hundreds of pounds. But he couldn’t accept that there wasn’t some way out. “Stand back,” he told Stacy.

  When she’d moved out of the way, he took a few steps back, rushing the door. He slammed into the heavy wood, the impact reverberating through his already battered body, rattling his teeth and blurring his vision. The door didn’t budge.

  “I don’t believe this!” Stacy wailed. “We’ve got to get out of here and find Carlo!” Her voice rose in a shout of frustration. Patrick felt like shouting with her. Instead, he looked around the bare stall for anything he could use to hack or pry at the door.

  “Mommy? Mommy, where are you?”

  He froze and looked to Stacy, whose eyes locked with his. “Carlo?” She ran to the door and stood on tiptoe, as close to the rectangular wooden vent at the top of the door as she could get. “Carlo, Mommy is here, in the horse box.”

  Shuffling sounds—small feet on concrete and hay—moved toward them. “Mommy, I want to see you.”

  “I’m in the horse box, baby. Someone locked the door and I can’t get out. I need you to help me.”

  Small fists pounded on the door. “Come out, Mommy.”

  Stacy knelt now, making herself the height of a three-year-old. “I’ll come out, baby. But I need your help. Look up, at the top of the door. Do you see the bolt?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can you climb on something and get to that bolt? Is there a feed bucket or something you can stand on?”

  “There’s a bucket in the feed room.”

  “Then be a good boy and get it and bring it over to the door.”

  He didn’t answer, but Patrick thought he must have moved away. Stacy closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the door. Patrick moved to put a hand to her shoulder. She must be exhausted, but they’d all be out of here soon, she and Carlo safe.

  Something scraped on the concrete. “I got the bucket!” Carlo shouted.

  “Good. Now turn it upside down and put it in front of the door. Climb on top of it, but be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, Mommy. I’m a good climber.”

  “I’m sure you are. But be careful.”

  Patrick scarcely dared to breathe while they waited. The last thing they needed was the boy falling and busting his head on the concrete floor. The bucket rattled and the boy beat his fists against the door. “I made it!”

  “Great,” Stacy said. “Now reach up and pull back the bolt.”

  “I have to stand on tippy-toes.” Scrabbling noises, accompanied by little grunts. “It’s in there really hard.”

  “You’re a strong boy. Pull hard.”

  A metallic thunk announced the bolt’s moving. “I did it!” Carlo crowed. “I opened the door.”

  “That’s wonderful, baby. Now climb down and move away from the door so I can come out.”

  More scraping and fumbling with the bucket. “You can come out now, Mommy.”

  Stacy eased open the door. Carlo hurtled into her arms. “What were you doing in there, Mommy?” he asked, his arms around her neck. “Were you hiding?”

  “That’s right, baby.” She stroked his hair and kissed his cheek. “We were hiding, but not from you.”

  The boy looked over her shoulder at Patrick, eyes wide. “I was hiding,” he said. “But I got cold, so I came into the barn.”

  “You did great.” She hefted the boy onto her hip and turned to Patrick. “Can we go now?”

  “In a minute.” He scanned the passageway and the area around the stalls, then slipped into the feed room, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a short-bladed knife on a shelf there and pocketed it. He picked up a horse blanket and took it to Stacy. “Wrap the boy up in this.”

  She tucked the blanket around her son. “When we get to the car, you’ll be a lot warmer,” she said.

  One hand resting lightly on Stacy’s shoulder, Patrick leaned in to address the little boy in her arms. “We’re going to sneak past your uncle and his guards and go to my car, which is parked on the road through the woods. It’s kind of a long way for your mom to carry a big guy like you. Would you let me carry you?”

  Carlo put his thumb in his mouth and looked at his mother. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll be right here beside you.”

  The boy nodded, then held his arms out to Patrick. That simple gesture of trust brought a lump to his throat. He settled the boy against his chest; the weight felt good there. Right. Stacy’s eyes met his across the top of the boy’s head and she offered a weary smile. “Thanks,” she whispered.

  He should be thanking her. Until he’d met her, his life had revolved around work and duty. He still took those things seriously, but she made him see beyond the job, to other things that might matter to him. “Let’s go,” he said. “Stay close to me and keep to the shadows.”

  Once he’d determined the coast was clear, they left the barn. The yard was silent and still, not so much as a moth fluttering around the light over the back steps of the house. No one called Carlo’s name or ran through the yard. Had they called off the search for now, or taken it farther afield?

  He guided Stacy around the perimeter of the light, the knife clutched in one hand, ready to lash out at anyone who came near. Once they reached the pasture and the deeper darkness there, they’d retrieve their snowshoes and be able to move faster. They wouldn’t stop again until they reached the car. In half an hour they’d be headed toward Denver, where he’d find a safe house for Stacy and her son until the task force had rounded up Nordley and Uncle Abel and everyone else involved.

  They’d reached the edge of the yard when a woman’s scream tore apart the night silence. He whirled and saw a woman racing across the yard, a man chasing after her. The man grabbed the woman by her long hair and dragged her back toward the house. “The babysitter,” Stacy whispered.

  “Why is he hurting Justine?” Carlo asked.

  “I don’t know, baby.” Stacy rubbed his back and looked at Patrick with eyes full of questions.

  “That was one of Nordley’s thugs,” Patrick said. “Maybe she panicked and threatened to go to the authori
ties.”

  “Maybe so.” She continued rubbing Carlo’s back. “Was Justine nice to you, honey?”

  “She was real nice. So were Uncle Abel and Grandma.” His lower lip trembled. “When will I see them again? Uncle Abel promised me a pony.”

  Before she could answer, the back door to the house flew open once more. This time a man rushed down the steps, followed by one of the thugs. “Is that Uncle Abel?” Stacy asked.

  The first man was Abel. He and the younger, burlier man struggled, then three gunshots sounded, Pop! Pop! Pop! like firecrackers in the winter stillness. Abel slumped to the ground, and a dark stain formed on the snow. Patrick cradled Carlo’s head against his shoulder, turned away so the boy wouldn’t see.

  “What’s happening?” Stacy whispered, as she pulled the blanket over Carlo’s head.

  “Mo-om! What are you doing?” He tried to push the blanket away, but she held it in place.

  “You don’t have a hat. I don’t want your head to get cold,” she said.

  The younger man dragged Abel back into the house. Patrick couldn’t tell if the old man was alive or dead. “Do you think Nordley turned on him?” Stacy asked. “We have to do something.”

  “You really want to help these people?”

  “They were kind to Carlo. And they’re the only relatives he has left. If the senator is attacking them...”

  She was right. He couldn’t abandon two old people and the babysitter to Nordley’s thugs. “Let me get you and Carlo to the car, then I’ll come back.”

  “No. I won’t leave you. And two people against Nordley are better than one.”

  Not when one of the people was a woman with a little boy to look after, but he didn’t bother to say it. He knew Stacy well enough by now to know he wouldn’t be able to convince her to leave. “We need a way to draw them out,” he said. “If we try to charge the house, they have the advantage.”

  “Let’s find a safe place to leave Carlo.” She looked around the compound. “I wish we had someplace warmer.”

  “That’s it.” Patrick felt the surge of excitement that accompanied a good idea, one he knew would succeed. “We need to start a fire. That will draw them out of the house, plus alert the agents who are watching the place.”