by Sandra Brown
“Our dear professor was another concern, but I figured that if he ever came forward and tried to expose me, I’d…”
“You’d think of a way to worm your way out.”
“I always have.”
“Until now.”
“At least I’ll die knowing that you’re right behind me. You might even beat me into hell.”
“You think so?”
“You can’t crawl along on your belly fast enough to get out of here now, Parker.”
“No, but I can walk fast enough.” Then, as Noah watched with mounting disbelief, Parker struggled to his knees and then stood up.
“You cocksucking son of a—”
“It’s a Mackensie Roone trademark, Noah,” Parker said, smiling down at him. “Save one final plot twist for the very, very end.”
“I’ll kill you, Parker. I’ll see you in hell! I’ll—”
“You all right, Mr. Evans?” Deputy Sheriff Dwight Harris rushed through the door, accompanied by two other deputies.
“Exhausted,” Parker told him. “Otherwise okay.” He depressed a button on the remote control and the flames immediately died.
“Fire truck’s outside. We were getting worried.” Just then the spray from the fire hose struck the exterior wall with a hard whomp.
“I was getting a little worried myself,” Parker said. “Those smoke machines are killers.”
Deputy Harris glanced at the scorched walls. “Those smudge pots did some damage to your building.”
“It’s survived worse. Besides, it was worth it.”
“So you got it?”
“Every incriminating word.” Parker pulled out his shirttail and removed a cassette tape recorder clipped to the waistband of his pants. He disconnected it from the microphone wire and passed it to the sheriff. He winced only slightly when he ripped off the tiny microphone taped to his chest. “Thanks for setting this up, Deputy Harris.”
“No thanks necessary. I appreciate your calling me. It’ll probably be the only elaborate sting of my career.” The two shook hands.
Noah had continued to shout obscenities, but the deputy hadn’t acknowledged him until now. “I’m anxious to meet your guest here, Mr. Evans. Let’s haul him up outta there,” Harris said, motioning to the other two deputies, who were standing by with ropes.
“How you doin’ down there, Mr. Reed? The police chief up in Mass’chusitts sure is anxious to hear what you had to say about your daddy-in-law’s fall. My department’s talking to the folks down in Florida, too.”
Parker turned away, symbolically leaving Noah to the devil as Mike had urged him to.
He was taken aback, but not really shocked, to see his old friend standing just beyond the gin’s wide door. Mike always seemed to be there when he’d most needed him.
Maris was standing with him.
Deputy Harris noticed his hesitation and sidled up behind him. “They were tearing up the road in a golf cart. Intercepted them before they could barge in here and ruin the whole thing. Had a hell of a time keeping them out. They were worried about you.”
“Afraid Noah would kill me?”
“No, sir. Afraid you would kill him.”
Parker smiled. “Wonder where they got that idea.”
“The old man said something about your plot. Said Ms. Matherly pieced it together, figured it out.”
“That doesn’t surprise me.”
Shuffling across the dirt floor in a stiff-legged, awkward gait, his legacy of Noah’s treachery, he slowly made his way outside. Mike seemed to know he needed to make this walk alone and didn’t rush to assist him. He was within touching distance before Mike asked if he wanted his wheelchair.
“Thanks, Mike.”
Mike went to fetch his chair. Maris continued to stand stone still, staring at him.
“You thought I was paralyzed?”
She nodded.
“I figured. Thought it best to let you go on thinking that. For this to work, I needed Noah to think that, too.” He decided he might just as well tell her the worst of it flat out. “I ride whenever I can. This is about the best I can do. Will ever do.”
A tear rolled down her cheek. “It doesn’t matter. It never did.”
* * *
“The sweetest gift I ever received in my life was that glass of fireflies.” Parker was stroking her back in the aftermath of lovemaking.
“Lightning bugs.”
He chuckled. “You’re learning. With help you might become a bona fide belle.”
“That was a sweet night all-’round. The sweetest. Until tonight.”
“Maris, that next morning—”
“Shh. I understand now why you had to be so wretched.”
“You do?”
“You had to get rid of me before you could bring Noah here.”
He tipped her chin up so he could see her face. “But you know I used you to get to him.”
“Your original plan was probably to have him catch us like this.”
He glanced down the length of their entwined bodies. “Yeah.”
“But that changed when you fell in love with me. You couldn’t bring yourself to subject me to an ugly scene like that. So you hurt me in order to protect me. You made certain I would leave.”
He stroked her cheek. “You’re so smart you amaze me.”
“So I’m right?”
“As rain. Especially about me falling in love with you.”
“You did?”
“I am. Present tense.” He lifted her face toward his and kissed her in a way that left no room for doubt.
“There is one thing I can’t figure out,” she said when the kiss finally ended. “I know we promised not to talk about this tonight, but I’d like to have one point clarified.”
They had agreed that they wouldn’t rehash everything tonight. They faced months, possibly years, of legal entanglements before Parker was exonerated and Noah was tried and punished for his crimes. She had a publishing house to run, and he had books to write. They didn’t yet know how they were going to divide their time between New York and St. Anne Island. She would grieve her father’s death for a long while yet, and Parker was deliberating whether or not to reveal Mackensie Roone to his legion of fans. They had much to work out but were committed to making it work.
However, they had agreed that tomorrow didn’t start until sunrise and that they deserved tonight to strictly enjoy one another.
“I don’t want to invite Noah into bed with us,” he said.
“I understand. And agree. But this isn’t really about him.”
“Okay. One point and then I want to do some more of what we were doing.”
“I promise,” she said, smiling. “Mike discovered that The Vanquished was actually your book with Noah’s title on it.”
“Right.”
“And he tried to contact you for an explanation.”
“It took him almost a year to track me down. By then the paperback edition had already come out.”
“Why didn’t Mike expose Noah then?”
“Because I threatened his life if he did.”
“Why?”
“I was in piss-poor condition, Maris. An ex-con who looked like a beggar and was living like one. I was wheelchair-bound. Only after years of physical therapy am I able to walk at all. If you can even call that walking. When Mike found me, I was weak, wasted. Addicted to pills.” He shook his head stubbornly. “I refused to confront Noah in such a reduced state when he was the book world’s crowned prince.”
“Enjoying the success that rightfully belonged to you.”
“I chose to wait until I was strong and confident.”
“And successful.”
“That, too. I wanted to challenge him as an equal, when I had the credentials to back up my claim that he’d stolen my book. I knew it might take years, but I was willing to wait.”
“I’m surprised you got Mike to agree.”
“He didn’t agree. He just gave in.”
�
�Or?”
“Or I swore that I would never write another word as long as I lived.”
“Ahh. That would have cinched it.”
Now that he had answered her question, she eased herself on top of him and opened her thighs. With a grunt of satisfaction, he pressed himself inside her, began to stroke with the barest upward motion of his hips.
“Hmm. You are incredibly talented, Mr. Evans.”
“Yeah, and I can write a fairly decent book, too.”
Sitting up, she reached behind her, between his legs, and stroked the underside of his penis at its base. He strained a curse between his teeth. “You’ve got talents of your own, Ms. Matherly. Where’d you learn that trick?”
“I read it in one of your books.”
“Damn, I’m good.”
She continued to caress him until he pulled her down onto his chest and hugged her tightly around the waist while he pushed into her as high as possible. His raw, choppy breaths were muffled against her breasts.
Finally he relaxed, his head falling back onto the pillow. She smoothed his hair back from his damp forehead. “Felt good?”
“It still does.” Cradling her face between his hands, he kissed her, whispering into her mouth, “We’re being awfully messy here.”
“I don’t mind it. I’d like a baby.”
“I can live with that.”
“Or two.”
“Even better.”
“Parker?”
“Hmm?”
“Make me come.”
She was ready. It took only a few strokes of his fingertip.
Later, they lay facing each other, their heads sharing the pillow. He was tracing her fragile collarbone when she said, “I recognized you the first time you kissed me. The night we met.”
His finger fell still in the hollow just beneath her shoulder. He raised his eyes to hers. “What?”
“That’s why that kiss alarmed me. Because I knew you. And not just knew you, but knew you well. Intimately. I had spent so many nights with you, poring over every word. Your book was like a personal love letter. Like you wrote it to me. Just for me.
“When you kissed me, it was so familiar, it was as though you had kissed me like that a thousand times.” Adoringly, she touched every feature of his face. “I have loved you for so long, Parker. For years. From the day I first read The Vanquished.”
He swallowed hard. “When you talked about it with such passion… You got it, Maris,” he said with glad emphasis. “You got exactly what I had wanted to get across with those characters and that story. God, listening to you talk about it, my heart nearly burst. Can you imagine how hard it was for me not to tell you that I was the author? That it was me, not Noah, you’d fallen in love with?”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I couldn’t. Not then. Not yet. Besides, I was afraid I wouldn’t live up to your expectations.”
She ran her fingers through his hair. “You surpassed them, Parker. You created my fantasies. Now you’re fulfilling them.”
They kissed long and deeply and when they finally pulled apart, she asked him what his original title had been.
And he told her.
And she told him that she liked it much better.
About the Author
Sandra Brown is the author of over sixty New York Times bestsellers, including most recently Low Pressure; Lethal; Rainwater; Tough Customer; Smash Cut; Smoke Screen; Play Dirty; Ricochet; Chill Factor; White Hot; Hello, Darkness; The Crush; Envy; The Switch; The Alibi; Unspeakable; and Fat Tuesday, all of which jumped onto the New York Times list in the numbers one to five spots. There are over eighty million copies of Sandra Brown’s books in print worldwide and her work has been translated into thirty-four languages. In 2008, Brown was named Thriller Master by the International Thriller Writers Association, the organization’s top honor. She currently lives in Texas. For more information you can visit www.SandraBrown.net.
Journalist Dawson Scott knows well the horrors of war.
But when he investigates a pair of domestic terrorists, his true ordeal begins…
* * *
Please turn this page for a preview of Deadline.
Prologue
Branch, Oregon—1976
The first hail of bullets was fired from the house shortly after daybreak at 6:57.
The gunfire erupted in response to the surrender demand issued by a team of law enforcement agents.
It was a gloomy morning. The sky was heavily overcast and there was dense fog. Despite the limited visibility, one of the fugitives inside the house got off a lucky shot that took out a deputy U.S. marshal whom everybody called Turk.
Gary Headly had met the marshal only the day before, shortly after the law enforcement team comprised of ATF and FBI agents, sheriff’s deputies, and U.S. marshals met for the first time to discuss the operation. They’d congregated around a map of the area known as Golden Branch, reviewing obstacles they might encounter. Headly remembered another marshal saying, “Hey, Turk, grab me a Coke while you’re over there, will ya?”
Headly didn’t learn Turk’s actual name until later, much later, when they were mopping up. The bullet struck half an inch above his Kevlar vest, tearing out most of his throat. He dropped without uttering a sound, dead before landing in the pile of wet leaves at his feet. There was nothing Headly could do for him except offer up a brief prayer and remain behind cover. To move was inviting death or injury, because, once the gunfire started, the open windows of the house spat bullets relentlessly.
The Rangers of Righteousness had an inexhaustible arsenal. Or so it seemed that wet and dreary morning. The second casualty was a redheaded, twenty-four-year-old deputy sheriff. A puff of his breath in the cold air gave away his position. Six shots were fired. Five found the target. Any one of three would have killed him.
The team had planned to take the group by surprise, serve their arrest warrants for a laundry list of felonies, and take them into custody, engaging in a firefight only if necessary. But the vehemence with which they were fired upon indicated that the criminals had taken a fight-to-the-death stance.
After all, they had nothing to lose except their lives. Capture meant imprisonment for life or the death penalty for each of the seven members of the domestic terrorist group. Collectively the six men and one woman had chalked up twelve murders and millions of dollars’ worth of destruction, most of it inflicted on federal government buildings or military installations. Despite the religious overtone of their name, they were wholly without conscience or constraint. Over the relatively short period of two years, they had made themselves notorious, a scourge to law enforcement agencies at every level.
Other such groups imitated the Rangers, but none had achieved their level of effectiveness. In the criminal community, they were revered for their audacity and unmatched violence. To many who harbored antigovernment sentiments, they had become folk heroes. They were sheltered and were provided with weapons and ammunition as well as with leaked classified information. This underground support allowed them to strike hard and fast and then to disappear and remain well hidden while they planned their next assault. In communiques sent to newspapers and television networks, they’d vowed never to be taken alive.
It had been a stroke of sheer luck that had brought the law down on them in Golden Branch.
One of their arms suppliers, who was well-known to the authorities for his criminal history, had been placed under surveillance for suspicion of an arms deal unrelated to the Rangers of Righteousness. He had made three trips to the abandoned house in Golden Branch over the course of that many weeks. A telephoto lens had caught him talking to a man later identified as Carl Wingert, leader of the Rangers.
When this was reported to the FBI, ATF, and U.S. Marshals Service, the agencies immediately sent personnel, who continued to monitor the illegal weapons dealer, and, upon his return from a visit to Golden Branch, he was arrested.
It took three days of persuasion, but, under adv
ice of counsel, he made a deal with the authorities and gave up what he knew about the people holed up inside the abandoned house. He’d only met with Carl Wingert. He couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say who was sequestered with Wingert or how long they planned to harbor there.
Fearing that if they didn’t move swiftly, they’d miss their opportunity to capture one of the FBI’s Most Wanted, the federal agents enlisted help from the local authorities who also had outstanding warrants for members of the group and were more familiar with the rugged terrain. The team was assembled and the operation planned.
But it became immediately obvious to each member of the team that Wingert’s band had meant what they’d said about choosing death over capture. The Rangers of Righteousness wanted to secure their place in history. There would be no laying down of arms, no hands raised, no peaceful surrender.
The lawmen were pinned down behind trees or vehicles, and all were vulnerable. Even a flicker of motion drew gunfire, and members of the Rangers had proven themselves to be excellent shots.
The team commander radioed the operations post, requesting that a helicopter be sent to provide them air cover, but that idea was nixed because of the inclement weather.
Special Ops teams from local, state, and federal agencies were mobilized, but they would be driving to Golden Branch, and the roads weren’t ideal even in good weather. The team was told to stand by and to fire only in self-defense while men in safe, warm offices debated changing the rules of engagement to include using deadly force.
“They’re playing patty-cake because one of them is a woman,” the commander groused. “And God forbid we violate these killers’ civil rights. Nobody admires or respects us, you know,” he muttered to Headly, who was the rookie of the team.
“We’re feds, and even before Watergate, ‘government’ had become a dirty word. The whole damn country is going to hell in a handbasket, and we’re out here freezing our balls off, waiting for some bureaucrat to tell us it’s okay to blast these murdering thugs to hell and back.”