by Caroline Lee
Jack Jennings—who happened to be Wade’s assistant, Bernie’s, brother—popped his head out of a back office. “What’s up?”
The two of them were still yelling back and forth when Charley finally let go of the door and it swung shut. She turned back to the Riston street where Tristan had already climbed on his motorcycle. As he held the helmet out to her, he grinned.
“We’re really doing this?”
“Come on.” She took the helmet from him and plopped it over his head. Last time she got to wear it, now it was his turn. “Don’t tell me you don’t like the thought of nailing Jim yourself.”
“I do,” he admitted from inside the helmet, helping her climb up behind him. “But no one will believe me if—”
“That’s why Bart’s coming with us.” She jerked a thumb towards the station, where they could see Bart through the big front window, pulling on his bulletproof vest while trying to use his cell phone.
Tristan just grunted, maybe in agreement. “Do you have your brother’s number?”
“Yeah,” she cautiously admitted. Of course she did. Not that she ever called the guy, because Bradley couldn’t talk to her without listing her faults. Kinda like Dad.
“I think I hate him, but you should call him anyhow. We can’t do this alone.”
He thought she needed Bradley’s help? “I don’t need him. I can—”
“I know.” He twisted slightly in his seat. “But call him for me, would you? I’m less capable, and you’ve got a weapon.”
As if she doubted his capability. “And it’ll stay on my hip where it belongs. I only pull it if it’s necessary and you’re not getting one, mister.”
“I know.” She could see his teasing grin behind the helmet’s face shield. “It’s illegal for convicted felons to have guns.”
She snorted—half agreement, half acknowledging the joke—as she pulled out her phone to text her annoying brother the new directions.
He turned back to the windshield. “You’d better call in the cavalry then. I’ll do whatever it takes, even without a weapon, but I can’t let anything happen to you.”
She bristled. “I’m perfectly capable—”
But he stopped her with a hand on her thigh. “I promised I’d keep you safe, Charley.”
He promised he’d keep me safe? Was that the only reason he hesitated to take her out to Dover? It wasn’t because he lacked faith in her abilities?
“Is that the only reason?” Her voice was scratchy from the way her heart was lodged in her throat, but she had to know.
“No.” He looked down at his hand resting on her thigh that was pressed against his as they straddled the bike. “No, it’s not.” He squeezed slightly. “I can’t stand the thought of you in danger, and I’m not going to let you get hurt.”
Oh. Well, okay then. She cleared her throat. “I think you’re pretty special too.”
And when he met her eyes, there was something new shining in them—hope.
She nodded once, firmly, and wrapped her arms around his middle. “Now, let’s go be good guys.”
CHAPTER TEN
The other cop—the deputy sheriff?—caught up with them soon enough. His lights were flashing and his siren blaring, and Tristan resisted the urge to send the bike onto the shoulder to get away from him.
Charley pounded on his arm and pointed ahead. “Keep going! We don’t have a lot of time.” Then she gestured to the deputy to follow behind.
Tristan glanced down at his watch. She was right; it was 1:18, and they might not make it to the rendezvous as it was. So he sped up and prayed the cop on his tail wouldn’t be too angry.
The two vehicles zipped around cars and truckers, both in a desperate race for mile marker 23. Would they make it in time? They had to. Charley had already texted her brother, and when Bradley hadn’t believed her, she’d called and talked him into handing the phone to Sheriff Clapper. He’d been skeptical too, but when Bart had radioed in the chase as well, Clapper had agreed to dispatch some of his men to head back to the new rendezvous. He also agreed to call some of the local jurisdictions to have them send back-up. Which was good, because at this rate, Clapper’s men wouldn’t get there in time.
Tristan sped up even more, crossing the Pend Oreille Bridge and weaving through Sandpoint.
He had to stop Uncle Jim. That surety surprised him. Somewhere along the way, catching Jim had become less about proving himself innocent, and…well, more about doing the right thing. Charley believed in him, and he wanted to make sure her trust wasn’t misplaced. He wanted to prove that he was worthy of that trust, worthy of her support.
And if that meant betraying his family, and standing on the side of Law and Order, then so be it.
Her arms tightened around his waist, and he wondered if she could hear his thoughts. Her holding him like this, with her head tucked against his shoulder blades, felt right. She was his friend, yeah, and she believed in him…but it was more than that. Her belief—her trust, her support—lifted him higher than anything else ever had in his life. Thanks to her, he would be a better man. Thanks to her, he was a better man.
1:27. Five minutes to go.
If Jim held true to the system they’d used years ago, then the hand-off would be made on the side of the road, between two cars. The delivery car would be sitting with its hood up, like it was disabled, and Jim would pull up behind, as if to help. Of course, maybe they’d changed that system—Jim and whoever was delivering things for him these days—since that’s how Tristan had been caught all those years ago.
They sped past Dover westbound and Tristan glanced at his watch. 1:31. They were going to make it. The miles zipped by under his bike’s wheels, and he ignored the blue lights flashing in his rearview. Would that give them away, let Jim know they were coming? Or were they moving too fast to worry?
23.8. 23.5. 23.2. As they came up on mile 23, Tristan breathed a silent sigh of relief. They were in time.
Two cars parked on the shoulder, one with its hood up. Two men, scrambling away from the first car. A small duffel bag, falling out of one man’s hands as he raced towards the woods. The panicked look on the familiar face that turned towards them.
This was it. They’d reached the hand-off in time.
Tristan’s bike skid to a stop, gravel from the shoulder flying every which way. Charley was moving before he’d fully braked, and was off the bike with her gun out of her holster. Apparently the situation was serious enough to warrant it after all.
“Freeze! River’s End Ranch Security Patrol!”
The other cop braked his car hard and threw himself out of it—the motor still running—as he took off after the man who’d run for the woods beside the road. That was the delivery man, and Tristan wished the deputy the best of luck in catching him.
That left the other man—the one with eight fingers—for them.
Uncle Jim was turned slightly away from Charley, apparently unimpressed with her claims to be some ranch’s security guard. Knowing Jim, he’d be unimpressed even if she hollered she was with the FBI.
That didn’t seem to faze Charley though. Impressively, she held her voice, her weapon, and herself steady as she gestured emphatically. “Get down on the ground, sir! On the ground with your hands behind your head, or I will use force.”
As if someone as small as her could expect to force Uncle Jim to do anything. But if anyone could do it, it’d be Charley Easton. She was a force to be reckoned with, and she had pulled her weapon.
Jim didn’t do as she ordered though. Instead he threw himself over the hood of the second car and whipped out a handgun of his own. Between one blink and the next, Charley had gone from being in control of the situation to being out in the open, without cover, a gun pointed at her chest.
And she wasn’t a cop, so she wasn’t even wearing body armor.
Tristan’s heart dropped into his stomach, and he lurched off the bike, even as he admired how cool and calm she was being. Her weapon didn’t even shake, where
as Jim’s gun was weaving all over.
Charley didn’t blink. “Jim Quarles, you’re wanted for drug manufacturing and distributing—”
“Shut your mouth, cop! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Jim craned his neck, looking into the woods where his accomplice and the officer had disappeared. “I’m innocent!”
He’d pulled a gun on them. He wasn’t innocent. Still, Tristan used his uncle’s distraction to move up beside Charley.
“Back away slowly,” he murmured to her. “We’ll be safer behind my bike.” Even safer behind that deputy’s car, but it was farther away.
Charley ignored the suggestion, all of her attention on Jim…and Jim’s weapon.
Fine. Knowing her, he hadn’t really expected his plea to run to safety to work, anyhow. But he wasn’t going to stand out here and let his own uncle threaten her life either.
Stop searching! Happiness is right in front of you.
The fortune cookie had been right, but he couldn’t stand behind her, not when she was in danger.
Taking a deep breath, Tristan stepped in front of her, careful to block her body while not impeding her line of fire.
“What are you doing?” she hissed at him. “Get behind me.”
He snorted in return. Like he should hide behind her? Unlikely. He’d protect her with his own life, if necessary. And judging from the way Jim was waving that weapon around, it might be.
Slowly, Tristan placed both hands on the helmet. His uncle’s eyes followed his movements, but Tristan wanted Jim to see that he wasn’t a threat. Yet.
He lifted the helmet off of his head, and held it by his side. “Hello, Uncle.”
Jim’s eyes widened when he saw Tristan’s face, and he cursed, long and low and furiously. Unfortunately, he didn’t drop his handgun.
But Tristan’s lips quirked upwards anyhow. “This is my friend, Uncle Jim. And she has some rules about profanity I’d appreciate if you’d respect.”
“A cop, boy? You’re friends with a cop? A woman cop?”
“A lady,” Tristan corrected, not bothering about the cop part. Charley had the heart and the mind of a police officer, no matter her title. “And she doesn’t like cursing.”
“You think I give a— What are you doing here, boy?”
Tristan took a step towards his uncle, and then another. And he breathed a little sigh of relief when the barrel of Jim’s gun shifted to point directly at Tristan’s chest. At least Charley was out of danger now.
But behind him, Charley sucked in a breath. “Stop it, Tristan. He’s got a gun.”
Yeah, he had a gun, and now it wasn’t pointed at her. That made it worth it. Tristan didn’t respond to her, but raised his voice to call to Jim. “I’m here to stop you, Uncle. What we did was wrong back then, and it’s wrong that you started it up again—”
“Wrong?” Jim stood up, forgoing the cover of the car. Probably because Tristan was standing firmly between him and Charley’s weapon. And because his own weapon was making figure eights in the air between them. “You think we’re wrong? Just because we’re expressing our freedoms? The government makes laws, boy, but that don’t make them right.”
It was the same rhetoric he remembered from Pop, and Tristan managed not to roll his eyes.
From behind him, Charley hissed. “Get down. You’re in my line of fire.”
And without turning, he muttered back, “I know. I’m sorry. I have to stop him.”
“Not alone.”
But he wasn’t alone. Having her here—protecting her the way he was—made the last dozen years worth it. He was fulfilling her trust in him.
So he took another step closer to the cars. “Uncle Jim, the meth might not be in the original Bill of Rights” —Tristan remembered Pop being big into those rights— “But pointing a gun at your own nephew’s gotta be against the law. It’s in the Bible or something.”
Jim didn’t laugh, although Tristan could swear he heard a short chuckle come from behind him. His uncle, on the other hand, grew angrier and began to wave the gun around as he yelled.
“I wouldn’t have to if that nephew knew a thing about loyalty. How could you stand against your own flesh and blood like this? What would your father say, boy, to see you colluding with someone like her?”
“I know what he’d say, Uncle Jim.” It wasn’t hard to imagine. There’d be curse words involved, and probably fists. “I also know that I’ve learned a lot about loyalty lately, and I’ve decided I don’t owe you anything.”
“Me?” Jim was practically screaming now, his face red in fury and the gun waving madly. “I’m the one who set this whole thing up. If it wasn’t for me, you and your father wouldn’t have had all that money! You would’ve starved as a kid. You’re welcome, you ungrateful brat!”
Money? Tristan raised a brow. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have spent all those years in and out of prison and social workers’ offices. If it wasn’t for you, I’d have finished high school like a normal kid, maybe gotten a license or degree! I could’ve made something of my life.”
Jim cursed again, and the barrel of the gun settled down to point squarely at Tristan’s chest. He ignored it, and took another few steps until he stood beside the wheel well of the car, across the hood from his uncle.
“Get back, boy!” Jim warned, stumbling backwards a step or two.
He kept both hands on his weapon, and Tristan didn’t like how steady it had become. Still, he reminded his thundering heart, at least it wasn’t pointed at Charley.
Feeling more confident, Tristan planted one hand flat on the hood, wondering if he should try to move around the front of the car to get to his uncle. And what would he do once he was standing beside the older man? It wasn’t like Tristan could arrest him.
Well, he couldn’t…
“More cops are on their way, Uncle Jim. A lot more.” He leaned forward slightly, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet. “Put down that gun and let Charley arrest you, and things will go easier for you.”
“Arrest me? For what? I’m just an innocent motorist, stopped to see if I could help someone.” His eyes flicked towards the first car, and the look on his face said he was already concocting his defense.
“And the medicine in that duffel bag?” Tristan nodded towards the bag without taking his gaze from his uncle.
“I can’t be responsible for whatever he was carrying around, can I?”
Tristan grunted. “Whatever. It’s not up to me to prosecute you. All I know is that pulling a gun on two people looks guilty as—well, looks really guilty. And you’re still pointing it at your nephew.”
Jim’s eyes hardened as his voice lowered. “And that nephew needs to remember that he’s not bullet-proof. I’ll take you out, if it means getting away from here. You, and your little cop friend over there.”
When he nodded at Charley, Tristan’s blood ran cold. “Over my dead body,” he muttered. There was no way he’d stand by and watch Jim—or anyone—threaten Charley. He would keep her safe.
When Jim’s weapon shifted slightly, pointing over Tristan’s left shoulder, Tristan knew he only had one shot at this. He channeled his fear into anger, and his anger into strength, and launched himself over the hood of the car at his uncle.
As he slid, the world slowed down, and he watched in horrified fascination as the barrel of the handgun swung back towards his torso. The first shot went wide, but the second one slammed into him. Tristan felt the burning in his left shoulder the second before he reached the end of the hood and fell into his uncle, his momentum and his weight dragging them both down to the ground.
The gun was trapped between them, and Tristan imagined he could feel his uncle’s finger tightening on the trigger for one last shot. One more shot to finish what he’d started all those years ago.
And Tristan would’ve let him, if he hadn’t heard Charley scream his name.
Tristan!”
Charley screamed his name in the moment before he dropped out of
sight. Before his uncle fired again, before his foolish sacrifice to keep her safe. He’d said that’s what he was doing, but she couldn’t… How could he possibly think she wanted him to stand between her and danger? She didn’t. She’d never wanted that, from any man.
But no other man had ever looked at her the way Tristan had, right before he’d stepped into his uncle’s line of fire. No other man had ever made her heart speed up the way Tristan did.
And now she’d lost him. Or had she?
Charley was moving the moment he’d launched himself over the car’s hood at his uncle, and was already halfway there when the first shot rang out. And then the second, with the accompanying grunt of pain from the man she was beginning to suspect she might love.
She reached the other side of the car as the two men dropped to the gravel shoulder, and her stomach clenched at the sight of Tristan, red blooming from his upper arm, and lying unnaturally still on top of the older man. Oh dear God in Heaven…was he dead?
But Jim cursed—Charley was too distraught to care—and pushed at his nephew. Tristan rolled away with a groan that made Charley’s knees go weak with relief. He was alive!
That was all she needed to know. A big part of her wanted to scream, to throw herself at his side, to cry and wail and press against him uselessly, just to know he was alive and she was with him. But the part of her that had wanted to be a cop since she was a little girl—the part that believed in Truth and Justice and Law, the part that wanted to protect the innocent and put away the bad guys—firmly tamped down on those silly urges. Tristan was alive, and there’d be time to fuss over him later.
For now, with him out of her way, and Jim Quarles struggling to sit up, she knew she would do anything to protect Tristan. Stepping forward smartly, she kicked the gun out of Jim’s hand, sending it skidding along the gravel, far enough out of his reach that it was no longer a threat. She stepped down—hard—on his open palm, and when he slumped backwards once more, pressed her other boot to his chest at the side of his face. It was unconventional, sure, but she’d had a combat instructor who’d taught her how to use her small frame to restrain bad guys.