by Misty Evans
His pulse sped up, his eyes—already adjusted to the dark—scanned the room for Collins.
She wasn’t there.
Mitch pulled the gun from his holster and lowered his voice. “Coop, I got to call you back.”
He hung up on his boss, praying he wouldn’t have to call him and tell him Collins was gone. Or dead.
Not on my watch.
Raising his weapon, he listened for her or the dogs. Heard nothing.
Stepping into the living room, he swept his gun around the room. His heart almost stopped when she came into view, sitting in a rocking chair near the fireplace, the shotgun from above the front door lying across her lap.
The dogs were asleep on the floor near her feet. She rocked slowly in the chair, a soft popping sound coming from it as it adjusted to the movement.
Her gaze was fixed on the door as she sipped from her cup. “If Chris comes after me, he’ll want to make a dramatic entrance. Dollars to donuts, he’ll come through that door.”
She was just crazy enough, Mitch feared she might have unlocked it after his last pass. The doorknob held, though, when he tested it. The deadbolt was in place.
He joined her, sitting in the matching rocker in the dark. One of the dogs lifted his head and thumped his tail on the ground. Mitch leaned over and patted the top of the dog’s head.
Collins handed him a cup from the table next to her. A reading lamp towered over a pile of books, their titles difficult to make out in the darkness. Psychotherapy nonsense, most likely.
The cup was warm in Mitch’s hands, the smell of very strong coffee rising up to meet his nose.
She clinked her cup against his. “Cheers.”
He sighed. “What are we toasting to, dare I ask?”
“We’re alive.”
He sipped his coffee and mimicked her, settling his gun in his lap. The shadows were comforting. Her odd presence, along with that of the dogs, was comforting as well.
Honesty bubbled up from his chest. “I’m not sure that’s worth celebrating.”
She let go of a soft chuckle. “Neither am I, but it’s the best I can do at the moment.”
They both sat in the dark, rocking. “Why do you hate Christmas?” he finally asked.
“I don’t.”
“Could have fooled me.”
She snorted. “It reminds me of a great loss, and I can’t…go there. So I’ve declared this house a Christmas-free zone.”
“I like it.”
“So do I.”
They clinked cups again.
After a few minutes, Collins put down her tea and stood, the shotgun hanging by her side from the crook of her arm. “I want to show you something.”
This should be good. “What is it?”
“Come with me.”
Before he could stop her, she unbolted the door and walked out into the night.
The stars were out, the moon nearly full. Fingerlike streaks of smoke cut through the distant sky to the northwest where the wildfires raged on. They were moving away from her ranch, and for that, she was grateful. Emma, shotgun swinging loosely at her side, strode for the barn.
Salt and Pepper took turns running ahead, then doubling back to her. Their eyes caught the flashlight beam here and there as she kept it on the path in case of snakes or other nocturnal critters she’d rather not run into.
“Where are you going?” Agent Holden quickly caught up to her. “You shouldn’t be out here.”
She handed him the flashlight and threw open the barn door. “I want to show you something.”
His voice was flat, tight. “You’re making yourself a target.”
“If Chris is around—which I very much doubt he is—he’ll confront me face to face, and wouldn’t that be nice? Between the two of us, we could shoot his ass and put an end to this before it even gets started. You could be home before sunrise.”
She smiled sweetly, and saw his jaw twitch. Not even the shadows could hide it. Annoyance? Oh, yeah. But maybe a touch of humor too.
“Are you always like this?” he asked, helping her move the big barn door out of the way, his eyes scanning the interior as well as shooting a look over his shoulder.
“Helpful?” she supplied.
“Bullheaded.”
Still smiling, she led him into the barn, flipping on the overhead lights and passing the stalls of her other horses to get to Second Chance’s. The foal was standing next to her mother, both of them lifting their heads and pinning the newcomers with their dark, soulful eyes. “Hope,” Emma said.
Agent Holden’s gaze inspected the barn, skimming over the stalls, tools, hay. “A smelly barn and some horses equals hope?”
It did to her. She pointed at the pair in front of them. “Hope is my new foal. Born a few hours ago and look how beautiful she is already. Strong and sleek. She almost didn’t make it. Her mother might have died, too, during the birth, but they both lived and they’re doing fine.”
As if on cue, Hope swished her tail. She raised her head and whinnied at them.
“That’s nice,” Agent Holden said. He studied the horses for a moment, shifting his weight between his feet as if itching to be anywhere but in the barn with her.
“This is my Christmas present,” she said, ignoring his restlessness. “Hope. She embodies a fresh start, a new year. An innocent joy I haven’t felt in a long, long time.”
Shyly, the foal ambled over. Emma stroked her nose. Both Labs inched closer and Salt put her nose up against the stall’s open slats, sniffing. The curious foal dropped her nose to do the same.
Holden’s eyes kept cutting to the barn door. Was he worried about Chris showing up or was he planning his escape? “She’s…cute.”
Cute? Hmm. His heart was colder than the Grinch’s. “New life represents hope. Babies, puppies, kittens…they all make us feel happy and optimistic.”
“If you say so.”
But he couldn’t seem to resist when the foal shifted her nose to him. One of his large hands reached out and rubbed her between the ears. He’d been that way with the dogs too. He couldn’t seem to ignore animals.
In Emma’s book, that made him even more likable.
Work your magic on him, Hope.
“Are you always like this?” she said, mocking his earlier question to her.
His lips twitched as he played along. “Charming and smart?”
“Detached and grumpy.”
The lip twitch turned into a frown. He checked his phone, scanned the barn door again. “Only when I’m trying to keep someone safe and she’s making that extremely difficult.”
He liked a challenge; she could see it in the way his eyes danced. “Constant vigilance must take a toll.”
“I’m not used to playing bodyguard.”
Maybe not, but she would bet he guarded his own heart and his feelings closely. “Victor must trust you a great deal, then, and feel confident that you’re up for the job.”
A soft chuckle escaped his lips. “I was the closest warm body when the call came in. Nothing more than that.”
Self-deprecating. She liked that. “Lucky me.”
His roving gaze landed on her face, his eyes boring into her as if deciding whether she was being sarcastic or not. “We should get back to the house. I need to make contact with my boss and Director Dupé to let them know you’re not going to the safe house tonight, which I have to state for the record, is a terrible idea.”
His stare was too intense, sending a tiny shockwave up her spine. How long had it been since a man had looked at her like that?
Too long apparently because she couldn’t hold his gaze. She broke eye contact and patted Hope’s neck. “You’ve made that clear, and I appreciate your dedication to keeping me safe. However…” A deep breath helped her clear her head, steady the hand petting the horse. “Chris Goodsman has already taken something very dear from me. Something I will grieve over for the rest of my life. He’s not chasing me away from this ranch. He’s not taking anything else fro
m me. Ever.”
Swallowing the tightness in her throat, she glanced up at the good agent. “Do you understand?”
He petted Hope too, his fingers brushing hers when the foal raised her head and whinnied. His pause hung in the air like electrically charged ions after a flash of lightning. “I’ll do my best to protect you, Dr. Collins, but there’s something I think you should see so you understand that this is no joke on Goodsman’s part.”
Her hand holding the shotgun tightened on the stock. “What is it?”
Removing his phone from his pocket, he stared at it a moment before turning the screen toward her. “My boss found this in Goodsman’s cell after he broke out.”
Red slashes formed words on a beige wall.
Her fate is death. Her destiny is death.
The Resistance knows.
Collins dies bloody.
Chills raced over Emma’s skin. The real Chris Goodsman—the man behind the charming persona everyone loved—was still hiding behind his role. What was he really planning? “Huh.”
“That’s it?” Agent Holden put an elbow on the railing and leaned toward her. “He leaves this message on the wall of his cell and that’s all you got, Doc?”
More shockwaves rippled up her spine—because of Holden’s closeness or because of the danger she was in? “Something has set him off again. He’s misleading everyone like he did before, wanting them to believe he’s had another break with reality similar to when he killed his fiancée.”
She tore her gaze from the phone’s screen. “Did they say what precipitated this? Did he have an argument with someone? Get into trouble? More importantly, did he know he was going to have an opportunity to escape and set this up ahead of time?”
Agent Holden shook his head. “Like I said, I don’t know the details, but I can find out if I can ever get through to Coop or Dupé.”
Cell service was hit and miss on a good day at the ranch. With the fires, it was mostly miss right now. “I have a CB radio if that would help.”
His face lit up. “That might. In the meantime, I really wish you’d reconsider the safe house at least for a night or two. You said you had a guy living here. He can take care of the horses and the dogs until it’s safe for you to return, right? But who will take care of the place if you’re dead?”
They were heading for the barn door when Will appeared, making an imposing figure in the doorway. He took in the agent, then dropped his attention to the shotgun in Emma’s hand. “Everything okay, boss?”
How to answer? “Will, this is Agent Mitch Holden from the SCVC Taskforce. One of my former patients broke out of prison and Agent Holden, here, came to check on me because there is a possibility the man may come here. Agent Holden, this is my employee, Will Longram.”
“It’s Mitch.” He held out a hand.
Will’s eyes narrowed. He ignored Mitch’s hand. Lady appeared, her old hips keeping her always a few steps behind. “Is Emma in danger?”
Holden nodded. “She won’t leave.”
“That true?” Will said to her. “How dangerous is this guy?”
Great, now they were ganging up on her. “The only thing that’s going to chase me off this ranch is the wildfires. If you’re worried, Will, you’re free to leave. No hard feelings. Either way, you’ll have a job when Chris Goodsman is caught and things return to normal.”
“Goodsman, huh? I saw a blip on the news about that waste of a human being. Heard he escaped. You think he’s coming after you?”
“Most likely he won’t,” Mitch said. “But we can’t take that chance.”
Will nodded. “I’ll take care of the horses, keep an eye on the barns and outbuildings. You need anything, Em, ring me on the walkie talkie.”
“I will. Thank you.”
He gave Mitch another once-over, then walked away. Lady took her time getting to her feet, then trailed after him.
“Charming guy,” Mitch said.
Emma smiled. He’d described himself the same way. “Apparently, I’m a magnet for them.”
Chapter Four
Mitch used Emma’s CB radio to get hold of the local police, who were able to get a message to Victor Dupé. He kept it short and sweet:
Collins refuses to leave.
I’m staying.
Whether or not Dupé sent reinforcements was up in the air. With the current situation, getting anyone to the ranch to relieve him might take a while. Knowing Cooper Harris and the SCVC Taskforce, someone would show up eventually, even if they had to walk through fire to do it.
At least he had Will and the dogs to help with security. He’d worked with less and made it out alive.
The good doctor had taken her shotgun and gone to bed. For some strange reason, Salt and Pepper had stayed with him.
Emma didn’t seem the least bit worried. He liked that about her. Most people would have freaked out and been eager to go to the safe house. His job would have been easier from that standpoint. Her refusal made the situation more challenging, but also more interesting.
What did frighten her? For some reason, the question kept circulating in his head.
He retrieved his laptop from his truck with the footage Dupé had sent the previous day of their potential arsonist. Could be a long night. Might as well get started on his real assignment.
He took the laptop, a fresh cup of coffee—better now that Collins had doubled the grounds—and headed up the wooden stairs to the second floor. Better vantage points from up there. Emma’s bedroom was the best, but she was sleeping, and he didn’t think she’d appreciate his presence.
Across from her master bed and bath were two decent sized bedrooms and a guest bath. Both bedrooms had sweeping views of the ranch. He could see the entire drive stretched out below, as well as the barn, pasture, and horse runs. A stream ran on the east and south sides of the property at the foot of the hill. Woods along the east side as well, intermingling with the stream.
He put Pepper in front of Emma’s bedroom door and told him to stay. He’d finally learned their names before Emma had retired. The Lab stretched out across the threshold of the closed door, laying his chin on his paws. Salt followed Mitch to the first bedroom, a large, airy space that had been turned into an office.
Bookshelves lined one wall. A sturdy Arts & Crafts desk sat facing a bank of windows that overlooked the driveway and valley beyond. Under the window was a big, comfy couch with pillows and a folded afghan draped over one arm. Next to the couch was a matching chair and ottoman. Probably where the doctor grilled her patients when they weren’t riding horses.
Horse therapy. Yippee ki yay.
Mitch peered outside. All was dark out, a blanket of ash and fog rolling into the low spots. In the distance, the orange glow of fires threaded across the top of the hills.
Mitch set up his laptop and opened the video file. The security camera footage was clear enough, but the man’s face was half hidden by a baseball cap and hoodie drawn up over it. The FBI’s facial rec program had identified him as Sean Gordon.
Gordon was on foot, carrying nothing more than a small backpack, entering the park at dusk.
Mitch calculated the distance from the entrance to the point of origin of the fire. Three miles. Six miles, round-trip.
Even sticking to the main roads, a six-mile round-trip through a national park at night was no picnic. Using the trails, seasoned hikers and campers had been known to lose their way, run into wild animals, twist an ankle. Though around the holidays, there were fewer visitors in general.
The drought had caused massive wildfires throughout the northwest and extended the fire season beyond normal. Millions of acres from Washington State down through California up in smoke, lost lives, homes and businesses destroyed.
Mitch fast-forwarded the footage, estimating the time it would take Gordon to reappear leaving the park. He reran the footage and watched again.
Nada. The man in the hoodie never left, at least not on foot through the main entrance.
Had
someone been waiting for Gordon inside the park to hustle him out after he started the fire? Had he taken a different way out? Was he still inside the 1800 acres of pine and cedar trees?
The motorcycle gang the man belonged to was part of a survivalist/homegrown terrorist group who called themselves The Reckoners. They claimed to live off the grid and yet their group ran several websites and blogs for doomsday preppers and survivalists, recruiting more people to their cause via social media. A few of their members had been busted for gun running, sales going down inside the park in some of the lesser traveled areas.
Mitch clicked the laptop to connect to Emma’s wireless network but the slow satellite service struggled to find a local tower. He sat back and watched the bars on his laptop’s digital antenna fade in and out.
If he’d had his kit, he would have set up a mobile hotspot and boosted it with his own portable satellite dish. Emma’s house had a nice southern exposure that would have worked great. Unfortunately, the kit and satellite dish were back at his hotel, two miles from his childhood home.
Whatever gods existed took pity on him, and the fog in the atmosphere momentarily cleared enough for the satellite hookup to work. Sitting up, he connected to the Internet and typed in a search.
The wildfires were headline news across the country, right under the breaking news about Chris Goodsman. The actor’s escape had trumped the danger to people. Go figure.
Scrolling past the Goodsman news, Mitch found links to dozens of articles on the wildfires as well. Expert analysis was mixed in with plenty of opinions on how the fires had started and the best way to put them out.
Mitch logged into the various blogs and forums used by The Reckoners. While there was plenty of banter about the fires and the government’s inability to contain them, no one in the group claimed responsibility. Not that he’d expected them to, but it would have made his job easier.
The Deep Web held more information. He trolled a few forums under his fake accounts, found lots of discussion about fire raining down from Heaven, the Second Coming, and biblical quotes. Apparently, it was the end of times. Folks argued about the true identity of the antichrist: the president or the Pope? Vitriol spewed from commenters hiding in the anonymity of false usernames and imaginative avatars.