by Cassie Miles
He spoke in a barely audible whisper. “How well do you know Jack?”
“Well enough to trust him with my life. Why do you ask?”
“There were eight men at the house, not including me. One of them was a federal marshal. He was dead.” Danny looked down at his hands. “I knew he was a lawman because they pinned his badge to his forehead. He was…mutilated.”
She glanced toward the front seat. Jack had worried about the whereabouts of the third marshal. Apparently, he wasn’t in on the scheme with Rojas and the other two. And he had paid the ultimate price. “I’m sorry.”
“How about you, Jack?” Danny’s tone turned hostile. “Are you sorry about the marshal’s death?”
“Stop it, Danny.” What was wrong with him? She reached forward and tapped Jack on the shoulder. “We’re here. This is the turn for the Circle L.”
He drove through the open gate toward a well-lit, two-story ranch house that was painted white with slate-gray trim. A tall, thick cottonwood tree stood as high as the roof. Though there were no children at the Circle L, a tire swing hung from one of the branches.
The ranch looked like a peaceful sanctuary, but Caitlyn had the sense that something wasn’t right. “Danny, what’s going on?”
“There are my girls.” The hint of a smile touched his lips as he gazed toward the wraparound porch where Heather stood with her arms braced against the railing. Beside her was a delicate-looking blonde who had to be Sandra. “They’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
Jack pulled up close to the porch and parked. As soon as he turned off the engine, two men emerged from the shadows. They moved quickly and with purpose, flanking the vehicle. The one who stood at the driver’s side window pointed a rifle at Jack’s head.
“U.S. marshal,” he said with an unmistakably Texan twang. “I’m taking you into custody.”
Chapter Twelve
If the marshals got their way, Jack would be cuffed and carted off, never to be seen again. Caitlyn refused to let that happen.
Her experience as a reporter in the world’s hot spots had taught her to talk her way around just about anything. She’d been the first journalist to wrangle an interview with an aging Afghani warlord who fought with the mujahideen. She’d interviewed politicians and generals, even faced a serial killer on death row. Argument was her battlefield. Words were her weapons.
She bolted from the car and launched her verbal attack at the two marshals. Though she spoke with authority, she wasn’t sure exactly what she’d said—something along the lines of legal and jurisdictional issues. “Danny was first deputy on the scene, which means he has custody. The Douglas County sheriff is responsible for this man.”
Still holding his rifle on Jack, the Texan drawled, “What in hell are you yapping about?”
“He’s ours,” she said.
Brandishing the handcuffs she’d removed from Danny’s wrists only moments ago, she opened the driver-side door and leaned inside. She whispered, “Let me handle this.”
Staring straight ahead, Jack sat with both hands gripping the steering wheel. He turned his head and met her gaze. A bond of trust stretched between them. He believed in her; he’d told her so. It was time for her to justify his confidence.
As she snapped a cuff on his right wrist, he muttered under his breath, “You’d better be right about this.”
“You should know by now. I’m almost always right.”
“Little Miss Know-It-All.”
When he stepped out of the car, she fastened the other cuff. Though she considered pressing the key into his palm so he could escape, she decided against it. Jack unchained was a force of nature, and she preferred a little finesse. The fewer bodies he left in his wake, the better.
Whirling, she faced the marshal from Texas. “Lower your weapon.”
Danny—the big, fat traitor—was out of the car and appeared to be gathering his strength to object, but his wife, Heather and a couple of ranch hands swarmed around him, determined to help him whether or not he wanted to be helped.
One of the ranch hands bumped the rifle, and Heather snapped at the marshal, “You heard Caitlyn. Put down your weapon before you accidentally shoot yourself in the foot.”
The Texan scowled but did as she said. His partner stalked around to their side of the car and spoke up. “Thanks for your help, folks. We’ve got it. This man is in our custody.”
“Where’s your warrant?” Caitlyn demanded.
“Don’t need one.” The gray-haired marshal produced his wallet and showed her his five-point star badge and his marshal credentials.
Caitlyn inspected his documents. “You’re Marshal Steven Patterson.”
“Correct.” His jaw was speckled with bristly white stubble, and his gray eyes were red-rimmed with exhaustion. “I’d appreciate if you’d step aside and let us do our job.”
“Is this man a criminal?”
“No.”
“Then why are you taking him?”
“He’s a witness,” Patterson said.
“A protected witness?”
“Correct.”
“Pointing a rifle in his face doesn’t seem like the best way to keep your witness safe,” she said. “Maybe he doesn’t want your so-called protection.”
“He’s in our custody. That’s all you need to know.”
Caitlyn nudged Heather’s arm. “Does that sound right to you?”
Heather drew herself up to her full height. In her boots, she was nearly as tall as Jack, and she towered over Patterson. She hooked her thumb in her belt, right next to her revolver.
Caitlyn noticed that all the ranch hands were armed; they must have heard that there was danger, and they all watched Heather for their cues. She said, “Nobody does anything until my brother is taken care of. Sandra, you get Danny inside and call the doc.”
Danny’s petite blonde wife didn’t need instruction; she was focused one hundred percent on her husband. Her devotion touched Caitlyn, and she would have been happy that Danny had found the perfect mate if she hadn’t wanted to kill him for leading them into this trap.
Patterson spoke to Heather, “Looks like you have everything under control, ma’am. We’ll be going now.”
“Hold on,” she said. “The Circle L is my ranch. My property. We do things my way. On my schedule.”
“What are you saying?”
“I want you to answer Caitlyn’s questions,” Heather said.
“I don’t answer to you.” Patterson’s polite veneer was worn thin. “I’m a federal officer, and your ranch isn’t some kind of sovereign nation.”
He couldn’t have picked a worse argument, and Caitlyn was glad to see him digging his own grave. In this part of the world, respect for ownership of the land was as deeply engrained as the brands on the cattle. “Marshal Patterson, I can tell that you haven’t spent much time in the West.” To his partner, she said, “Explain it to him, Tex. Tell him how we feel about our land.”
“The name’s Bryant,” said the younger marshal. “And I promise you, Miss Heather, we ain’t here to cause trouble.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Heather watched Sandra and the ranch hands escort her brother into the house, then she swung back toward Caitlyn. “What were you saying?”
“According to Marshal Patterson, he can take a witness into custody whether he wants to be protected or not. Now, that doesn’t seem fair, especially since Patterson is a U.S. Marshal. The U and the S stand for us, as in you and me. He works for us. And I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t want to be dragged off without my permission.”
“She’s got a point,” Heather said.
“And I’ve got a job,” Patterson said.
Caitlyn pulled out her cell phone. “Before you proceed, I need to make sure I have the facts right. I want to verify with the director of the Marshals Service or the attorney general.”
“You can’t.”
“Oh, I think I can. I’m a journalist for a national news service.” A little wh
ite lie since she wasn’t actually employed at the moment. Using her cell, she snapped a photo of Patterson and his partner. “As a reporter, it’s my job to raise holy hell if this situation isn’t handled properly. Will you call the director? Or should I?”
Bryant asked his partner, “Can she do that?”
“Damn right I can.”
Jack spoke up. “I’d advise you to listen to her.”
“Why’s that?”
“She might look like a Barbie doll, but this woman is G.I. Jane. She was embedded with the troops. Just came back from a war zone.”
Patterson regarded her with a little more respect and a lot more loathing. “Is that so?”
“She knows people,” Jack said. “Important people. The kind of people who could end the careers of a couple of marshals who screwed up.”
“Bad luck for you,” she said to Patterson. “I’m guessing that you’re close to retirement. It would be a shame to lose your pension.”
Two police vehicles careened down the driveway and parked, effectively blocking the exit. Four deputies rushed toward them, firing questions about what had happened to Danny and who was responsible. The confusion rose to the edge of chaos.
“Enough,” Patterson said loudly. “All of you. Back off.”
Frustration turned his complexion an unhealthy shade of brick red. He grasped Jack’s upper arm—a move that Caitlyn saw as a huge mistake. The muscles in Jack’s shoulders bunched as though he was preparing to throw off Patterson’s hand. Even unarmed and in cuffs, he was capable of annihilating the two marshals. He might even be able to defeat the deputies, grab a vehicle and run.
But she didn’t like the odds. There were too many guns. Too many nervous trigger fingers.
“Marshal Patterson,” she said, “I have a suggestion.”
He was desperate enough to listen. “Go on.”
“You and your partner could step into the house. I’m sure Heather would let you use her office. And you could contact your superior officer for further instructions. When you produce verification that you have jurisdictional custody of this witness, we’ll all be satisfied.”
“Fine,” he said, “but we’re taking this man with us into the den while we make our phone calls.”
It wasn’t exactly the outcome Caitlyn had hoped for. The marshals weren’t going to give up easily, and she’d have to come up with another ruse to get Jack away from them. But she’d bought some time. And nobody had gotten killed.
EVER SINCE DANNY MENTIONED the marshal who had been murdered and mutilated, Jack had been remembering details of what had happened to him at the safe house when Rojas came after him. How many times had he asked himself about the third marshal? At a deep, subconscious level, he had sensed the importance of the third man.
His name, Jack clearly remembered, was Hank Perry. His age, forty-two. He stood five feet ten inches. Brown hair and eyes. He was divorced, and his oldest son had just graduated from high school.
Hank Perry was dead. He’d given his life to protect Jack. Somehow, Jack would make sure that Perry’s ultimate sacrifice would not be in vain. Somehow, he had to escape and make it back to Chicago for the trial.
Sitting on the floor in the den, he rested his back against a wall of bookshelves with his cuffed wrists in his lap. No doubt the two marshals in the room with him would have liked to hogtie him and pull a hood over his head, but they had to treat him humanely or Caitlyn would raise a stink.
Though he kept his face expressionless, Jack smiled inside when he thought of how she’d leapt to his defense. In spite of her dirty clothes and tangled blond hair, she’d transformed into a person of stature. With gravitas equal to Lady Justice herself, Caitlyn had created a wall of obstacles. Using wild-eyed logic and aggressive questions, she’d backed the marshals into a corner.
With grim satisfaction, he was glad that he’d taken a moment before they got to the ranch to tell her how he felt about her. Life experience had shaken her determination, but she’d made a full recovery. They made a good team. With her mouth and his muscle, they could have done great things together.
He looked over at Patterson, who slouched in the swivel chair behind the desk. He’d been on his cell phone for the past fifteen minutes. His side of the conversation was a lame explanation of how he and Bryant had been attacked, lost their witness and had their colleague murdered by Rojas.
Patterson admitted, over and over, that they’d made a mistake in not calling for backup. His excuse was that he feared a showdown with Rojas would give the cartel gang a reason to commit wholesale murder in this peaceful Colorado mountain community.
While he talked on his phone, Patterson juggled the SIG Sauer P-226 that he’d confiscated along with all the other weapons Jack had taken from Rojas. The SIG had belonged to Perry. Watching Patterson play with that honorable man’s gun made Jack’s blood boil.
The tall Texan marshal with the hundred-mile stare sauntered across the den and stood in front of Jack. With the toe of his cowboy boot, he nudged Jack’s foot. “You’re kind of quiet.”
Brilliant observation, genius. Since they’d entered the den, Jack hadn’t said a word. He’d been too consumed with memories of the midnight assault on the safe house. His mind echoed with the blast of semiautomatic gunfire and Perry’s shout of warning. In the dark, he hadn’t been able to identify the men who came after them. And he couldn’t exactly recall how he’d gotten his head wound. But he’d seen Perry take a bullet and stagger back to his feet. With his last breath, he’d fought.
All of Patterson’s talk about “doing his job” turned Jack’s stomach. Patterson didn’t have a clue about the real responsibility of being a U.S. marshal. He was a coward. A traitor.
Bryant squatted down to Jack’s level. “We didn’t get much chance to talk when you were at the safe house. I’m low man on the totem pole, so my assignment was to patrol outdoors.”
Except for when Rojas showed up. Jack didn’t remember seeing Patterson or Bryant during the attack. Their plan had probably been to leave him alone and unguarded.
Bryant continued, “Is all the stuff they say about you true? About the legendary Nick Racine?”
There was that name again. Racine, Nick Racine. Rojas had shouted it out, distracting him. If that was his real name, he ought to remember, but he couldn’t make the connection. “What have you heard?”
“That you killed twelve men using nothing more than your belt buckle and your bare hands.”
Though Jack was sure that hadn’t happened, he nodded. If he impressed Bryant, he might convince the young man to take his side against Patterson. “What else?”
“You survived for a month in the desert with no food or water.”
That was legendary, all right. “I had a good teacher, a wise old man who lived in Arizona. I owe it to him to pass on this knowledge. You could learn.”
“Me?” Bryant shook his head. “I’ve never exactly been at the top of the class.”
“It’s not book learning. It’s instinct.”
“I got instincts.” His brow lowered as he concentrated. “Seems like a damn shame to kill you, but we can’t have you telling the truth to the Marshals Service.”
In a low voice, Jack said, “It wasn’t your fault. You were just following orders. It was Patterson who told Rojas the location of the safe house, wasn’t it?”
“That’s right. The old man arranged for the money, told me all we had to do was leave the house for an hour. Rojas was supposed to swoop in, grab you and take off. Slick and easy.”
“Except for Perry,” Jack said.
“Oh man, that was a big mistake. Rojas promised that Perry wasn’t going to get hurt.”
Yeah, sure, and then the Easter Bunny would leave them all pretty-colored eggs. Bryant was young, but he wasn’t naive enough to trust a man like Rojas. At some point, the marshal had made a deliberate decision to turn his head and look the other way. “What was supposed to happen to me?”
“Guess I didn’t think
that far ahead.”
Thinking wasn’t Bryant’s strong suit. “You can make up for your mistake. I’ll take care of it.”
“You’re trying to trick me. That’s part of the legend, too. You can change your identity like a shape-shifter.”
“I’m not lying.”
“I still don’t believe you. The way Patterson tells it, you’ve gone rogue. You know what that means? Being a rogue?”
Jack said nothing. The question was too ridiculous to answer. Though Bryant was a moron, he knew enough to follow orders from Patterson. A dangerous combination—stupidity and loyalty.
“One time,” Bryant said, “I saw a television show about rogue elephants in Africa. My gal likes to watch that educational stuff. Anyway, there was this big, old elephant with giant tusks. We got a forty-six-inch flatscreen, and I’m telling you, that elephant was big. You might even say he was legendary. Like you.”
“I’m an elephant?”
“A rogue,” Bryant said. “The safari guy said the only way to handle a rogue was to kill him before he killed you.”
I’m a dead man.
Chapter Thirteen
In the front room of the ranch house, Caitlyn positioned herself so she could keep an eye on the closed door to the den. Her mind raced as she tried to come up with a plan. Though she wanted to believe that the marshals wouldn’t dare hurt Jack while he was in their custody, she knew better. They couldn’t let him live. He had witnessed their treachery.
She could insist on accompanying them while they took Jack, but that might mean they’d kill her, too.
Looking down at the cell phone in her hand, she willed it to ring. She’d left a message for her former lover in Chicago, but she hadn’t talked to him in years and didn’t know if he was still employed at the newspaper. Her stateside contacts had dried up after she’d been stationed in the Middle East for so long. The only highly placed individuals she could call for a favor were in the military, and they couldn’t help with this problem. If Patterson got the go-ahead from his superior officer, there wasn’t much she could do to stop him from taking Jack.