Bet me, you smug bastard. Marines wear utilities, not fatigues. And they don’t go to basic training. Boot camp, buddy. You’re a lying sonofabitch. Not good enough to be a Marine.
Alex released the wanna be, the interrogation over as far as he was concerned. “They’re ex-Army. Cowards. I know their type. So do you. I don’t know who they’re working for, but I’d recommend a firing squad.”
Taylor glimpsed the man in a Marine uniform. His grandfather. Crouched over an unconscious man in dress slacks and white shirt. The guy had his hands zip-tied behind his back. Had to be the reporter. The last rapist.
Harley and Mark burst through the bushes, damned near stumbling over Peter. Battle ready. Rifles locked and loaded.
An aircraft rumbled overhead on its way to the airfield. Good timing. It muffled the shot Luke fired from the blind above. Harley returned one shot. Luke pitched forward and landed with a thud not far from where Peter still knelt.
“Damn. You shot my uncle! Stop it!” Taylor commanded before things got anymore out of hand. And there he stopped, directly between his grandfather and his friends.
Gracie stood at his side, her bow taut and aimed at Mark while Mark still aimed at Peter. Taylor’s pistol jerked on Harley the second he’d zeroed down on Gracie. Could things get any worse?
“Drop your weapon!” Mark ordered. His dark eyes scrolled over Taylor, taking everything in and ending at the pistol in his hand. No doubt he’d caught Taylor’s less than top-notch condition, too. He glanced at Gracie, but immediately returned to Taylor. “Where have you been? What are you doing here?”
Taylor nodded curtly, trying to catch his breath. “Gracie, these are my friends, Mark Houston and Harley Mortimer. Guys, Gracie Fox.”
“Put your weapons down,” Mark ordered. “Now, Taylor. Don’t make me ask you again.”
“You first.”
“God, Taylor, stand down and do it now. We’ve been looking for you,” Harley said. “Are you okay? There was blood—“
“Peter White Hawk is my grandfather,” Taylor declared hoarsely. “You won’t kill him.”
Mark pulled rank. “Stand down, Junior Agent. This isn’t the way to help him, and you know it. Peter White Hawk is a wanted man. We’re taking him in.”
“No, you’re not—”
Taylor glimpsed the flash of a knife. With seconds to spare, he kicked the blade Peter hurled at Mark. Taylor’s pistol was now trained on his grandfather, the last man he wanted in his crosshairs, but damn. That knife could’ve killed Mark.
“Grandfather, no. How could you do that? These are my friends. They didn’t hurt Mary. They’re the good guys. Like us. Drop the gun.”
Peter glared up at him, his pistol once again trained on Mark. Damn, the man was quick. “I didn’t come here to hurt your friends, but I will finish my hunt. Let me go.”
Taylor didn’t lower his weapon. He couldn’t, not with so much at risk. “This isn’t the way to help Mary. I know you’re hurting. So are Luke and Matthew. So am I.”
“You don’t know our ways. You don’t know—”
“God Almighty! If your ways are noble and proud, then your way is my way. This blood hunt you’re on is nothing but revenge. It won’t set Mary free.”
Peter’s face had changed from that of a loving grandfather to a dark mask Taylor couldn’t penetrate.
Luke groaned. The other unconscious guy never made a sound. Another aircraft rumbled overhead. A guy only had to fire his weapon at the right moment and no one would be the wiser.
Mark and Harley seemed willing to wait while Taylor talked his grandfather down, so he tried again. “If Mom were here today, she’d tell you there’s a better way. If you won’t listen to me, listen to her.”
Gracie shifted her stance, planting her foot next to his boot. That single contact was nearly his undoing. I have so much to lose.
“You lost your little girls, Granpa. Well, I lost my mom, and, hell, everyone. I don’t want to lose you.”
Mark and Harley had drawn closer, but Peter still crouched near his final victim, his eyes proud, his weapon still on Mark. It couldn’t last. Mark would take the lead soon and end the standoff. Someone would die.
“Come on, Granpa. Let’s go fishing. Teach me where the biggest salmon lay in the coldest waters. I just found you. Don’t be so fast to give me away again.”
Peter’s eyes flashed. “I didn’t give you away, Baby Bear! I had no choice. We White Hawks were—nothing.”
Gracie must’ve surrendered her bow. Mark took hold of Taylor’s elbow, but he couldn’t chance lowering his pistol, not until Peter dropped his. “But you’re everything to me. You’re all I’ve got left.”
At last. Peter lowered then dropped his weapon. In one quick motion, Taylor surrendered his to Mark and knelt, locked in Peter’s arms. “We can find a better way. I know we can.”
Peter pushed back and peered into Taylor’s face. “I see my Martha right now. She’d be proud of you if she were still alive.”
“She is proud. She’s with me. Every day now. I can feel her again.” Taylor placed his hand to the center of his grandfather’s chest. “She’s here, too.”
“Taylor,” Mark said. “Come on. Let me take it from here.”
Taylor pushed off the ground and stepped aside with Gracie. The White Hawk tragedy was nearly over. Her bow and the quiver of arrows rested against a nearby tree. Mark attended to Luke while Harley cuffed Grandfather’s hands behind his back and disarmed him of two more pistols, a bow, another sheathed hunting knife and a quiver that contained a single decorated arrow.
He lifted a shard of green glass from the quiver. “Hey, Mark. Look at this.”
Taylor came to his grandfather’s defense. “You don’t understand. He only marked the reporters’ bodies after they were dead. He didn’t torture them. These tokens will identify them in the afterlife for the crimes they committed in this life.”
“But he did kill them,” Mark said firmly. “He is the Chronicle Killer.”
“I am,” Grandfather declared. “I would’ve killed this one also if not for my brave grandson.”
Consequences. Damn. As relentless as revenge.
Harley had his cell phone to his ear. “Boss. You’ll never believe this, but we’ve caught—”
“You’ve caught nothing.” A silver-haired man materialized out of the undergrowth, his handgun pressed to the side of Harley’s head. “Drop the phone. Guns, too. Now.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Drop your weapons or I waste him right here and now.”
Harley dropped his phone and lifted his hands. He shrugged at Mark like he didn’t know the guy holding a gun to his head.
Taylor angled Gracie away from the stranger. Protecting her.
She froze. But those eyes. Cold. Deadly. A chill raced up her spine. She’d seen them before. Somewhere.
Mark dropped his pistol. Then Taylor. They had no choice, not with Harley in danger. Peter sat cuffed on the ground. The man he’d restrained had yet to wake up. He moaned. Nothing more. Luke lay face down a few feet from Peter, unconscious and bleeding.
“All of you. On your knees. Where I can see you.”
Taylor secured her under his arm and she meant to stay there. He and his friends were special operators. Without weapons at the moment, but still. They’d find a way to save the day. That’s what guys like them did.
“Not you,” the stranger barked. “Gracie Fox. You’re with me. Get over here.”
He knows me? I’m with him? Goosebumps lifted the hairs on her neck.
“No.” Taylor still shielded her from the guy’s view. “She stays with us.”
“That really how you want to play this, Armstrong? You think I don’t know you’re related to that piece of shit?” He nodded at Peter.
He knows Taylor? Gracie didn’t want to leave Taylor’s side, but it might buy a minute or two of time. “That’s okay,” she said, trying to be brave. “I’ll go.”
The darkness was ba
ck in his eye. His jaw clenched tight like his grandfather’s. “Be ready for anything,” was all he said before he relinquished her hand.
She lifted her head, determined to put on a brave front. Her heart pounded at each step away from Taylor, but if this stranger needed to think he’d won, so be it. She’d play along. For now. It might give Taylor and his friends time to come up with an escape plan.
The creep shoved Harley to his knees the second she drew near. He pulled her up to his face. “Now this is where it gets interesting. Take the zip-ties from my back pocket and cuff your friends. Don’t get any smart ideas, or I’ll blow White Hawk’s head off. You understand?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then do it. Your boyfriend first. Hands behind his back.” Steele shifted behind Peter, his weapon trained on his head. “Don’t for one second think I won’t.”
Shaking, she did as he demanded. An aircraft lumbered over the top of the pine trees, the noise offering a chance to speak to Taylor. “I’m sorry,” she whispered as she closed the plastic tie loosely around his already raw wrists. “Who is he?”
“I don’t know, but get away from him,” Taylor cautioned under his breath, his eyes on the guy in charge. “Go. Run into the trees. Now.”
“I can’t. He’ll kill Peter.”
BLAM! The stranger fired a shot. “Gracie Fox. You’re taking too damned long.”
She yelped, scared to death he’d followed through with his threat. Hurrying, she secured Harley’s wrists behind his back, too.
“Don’t worry, darlin’,” he whispered out of the corner of his mouth. “We’ll get you out of this.”
“How?” She barely had time to ask before—
BLAM! Another shot rent the air, scattering her wits.
“I said hurry!”
She did, moving to Mark with her heart in her throat. He winked. These guys were on their knees in a line, lined up for execution and offering her comfort? She clung to his bound wrists, her eyes brimmed with tears he couldn’t see. Would any of them survive the day?
“It’s not over ’til it’s over,” he whispered.
She hurried back to the stranger, feeling like a traitor.
The creep pulled her into his hip, smoothing one hand over her trembling head, the hot gun barrel now under her chin. “Good girl. You’ll get used to me in time. I promise,” he purred.
Never. She turned her face from him, shivering at his damp, cold hands.
“You’re Arnold Steele,” Mark declared. “You own Covert Countermeasures. You and Charles Oakes are in this together.”
Steele? Mrs. Steele’s son? The guy who wants to marry me? He’s real?
She cringed. No wonder he looked familiar. Large-boned. Cadaver thin. Sharp facial features. Same sunken eyes and black brows. Only younger. Creepier. God, he even smells like her.
“Why White Hawk and Webster?” Mark asked. “What’s this about?”
Steele turned to Taylor. “It’s all about the debasement, wouldn’t you agree, Armstrong? The violation of the pure? The rape of the virgins?”
Gracie’s last ounce of strength fled. God. He knew about Mary. But why ask Taylor that question? He didn’t know about his aunt until the last couple of days. It didn’t make sense, unless—
Peter struggled to his knees. “You were there.”
Steele twisted Gracie’s arm to face Peter. “Sit! Or this girl dies!”
Peter sank to the ground.
“You think I was there? Prove it, White Hawk. Prove I was at Manny’s like you tried to prove my incompetence in Iraq. Prove it like you and your lying friend, Stewart, testified at my court martial.” His clamp on Gracie’s arm tightened. “Until then, shut up and stay where you belong. Beneath me. In the dirt.”
Court martial? So this guy is mad at Peter and Taylor’s boss? She looked to Taylor. That’s what this was about. Hurting Taylor and her to get back at Peter.
“I can see it now, the front-page story about how a wild Indian murdered three of Stewart’s finest. How he gagged and bound his victims, cut their tongues and—” Steele stopped short. “Did you bring anything to gag these stupid friends, Gracie? A green linen napkin maybe?”
Bile climbed up her throat. Poor Mary. She’d suffered, but this guy made it sound like sport. He seemed intent on impressing everyone with what he knew. Icy dread shivered over her shoulders. She’d never stood so close to pure evil before.
He didn’t wait for an answer. His fingernails dug into her bicep. With every step he took, Steele dragged her along with him. She had no choice but to keep up as he strutted between Peter and the men on their knees.
“Here I thought I had the perfect plan. Phony guards. Fake inspection. Hell, I had enough people inside this brig to steal Webster right out from under Stewart’s arrogant nose, but no. You always were the sneaky bastard, White Hawk. You beat me to it. Damned near got away with it, too.”
Peter had assumed the cross-legged position, his eyes fixed to Taylor. The two seemed linked. Taylor nodded, just once. Harley too had a far off stare. What were these guys up to?
Steele stalked to the unconscious guy at Peter’s feet and kicked his face. He leaned over as if he were awake. “And you. You could’ve filmed the whole damned escapade and sent the clip to her father.” He aimed his weapon at the guy, while his tone pitched higher. “You had the opportunity of a lifetime. You could’ve made him understand how small he is in the white man’s world. Made him suffer. But, no. You couldn’t see beyond the end of your re-sculpted nose, can you?”
“Like you?” Mark asked, drawing Steele’s attention off Webster.
Steele stalked over to Mark. “That’s what I don’t understand. You three sharpshooters have been apprehended without a single shot, and yet Mayor Gaskin asked you to protect Webster? You? Why not me? My company’s better. Hell, I’m better than Stewart.”
“No, you’re not.”
That’s all it took. Steele charged Mark and pistol-whipped him, laying his cheek open. Gracie pulled away, determined to help the man who’d been kind to her, but Steele jerked her viciously against him.
She held her breath. This was it. He meant to kill her next, right there in front of everyone. And no one would know. Not with the aircraft in the air. All that noise.
“Stewart will do it, won’t he?” Steele headed for the reporter again, his voice ramping higher with every step. “He’ll protect this pig if it’s the last thing he does. Why not just—”
BLAM! Steele fired.
Gracie screamed. Oh, my God! He did it!
She pressed her hands to her ears, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Webster. Steele had shot him. Point blank. The reporter’s body jerked. His hands and arms twitched. Bloody brain matter splattered the grassy earth beyond his head.
The smell. The sight.
She sought Taylor. Anger drilled her with a message she couldn’t read, not as scared as she was. He kept glancing at her feet, but her mind had filled with the murder she’d just witnessed. She kept seeing it. Who’s next?
Taylor’s lips clenched together. His gaze dropped to her feet again, but her brain buzzed with shock. Nobody move. This crazy guy might kill you next, Taylor. Or Peter. Be still.
Steele jerked her to stand in front of him, her back pressed against his chest, his pistol at her jaw. “Hurry. We don’t have much time. Show them what you’ve got. Take it all off. Shirt first.”
The contents of her stomach lifted up her throat at what he intended for her.
“Leave her alone,” Taylor roared, one knee off the ground again.
Steele jabbed the gun against her head. “Ready to watch her die?”
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t hurt him. Kill me first. Not him. Please.” The plea came so easily to her lips. From her heart. The only thing she had left to give Taylor was her life for his. He’d suffered enough.
Taylor settled, but his chest heaved. A red splotch blossomed through his shirt again. She had to keep him safe, and if dying was
the only way...
Steele pressed his nose into her cheek. “Oh, no. You’re the only one who gets out alive.” He fingered the top button of her blouse. Then the second. And Gracie truly wanted to die. The creep meant his line about debasement. He had no intention of killing her. Not yet.
Out of the blue, Harley sagged into Taylor’s arm, his eyes bright with tears. “You hurt my dogs, you bastard.”
Taylor looked as surprised as Gracie, but Steele only snickered. “I’m going to do a lot more than hurt your dogs, Mortimer. Don’t forget who’s in charge here.” He brought the pistol to rest in the hollow of her cheek. “Let me prove it. Take your shirt off, Miss Fox.”
“No!” Taylor roared. “Let her be, damn you.”
Steele rubbed his chin against Gracie’s cheek. “Don’t listen to him. He can’t save you anymore. No one can.”
She unbuttoned her third button. Mary’s poor face flashed into her mind. A single word followed. Rape. Would Steele do that to her? In front of Peter? In front of Taylor? She couldn’t swallow. Yes. He would.
Taylor jerked to one knee again. “Damn you! I won’t let you hurt her.”
“Kneel or I shoot her brains out,” Steele shouted, his pistol in Gracie’s cheek again.
Taylor knelt, but the second he did, Harley leaned into him again. Apparently she wasn’t the only one falling apart. Taylor seemed to be holding him up with his shoulder, and Gracie wished she were anywhere but in this insane man’s arms.
Steele’s breath caught. The gun trembled in his hand. He flexed his fingers on her bicep, squeezing and releasing. God, was he getting himself worked up? Was he—
She choked on the sudden rush of stomach acid up her throat. Yes. He was. Humiliating her excited him.
“Now finish it,” he ordered her, his voice raspy and low. “It’s not like you’re putting on a strip show. Not yet.”
Gracie undid the final button, but couldn’t bring herself to undress any further. She let her hands drop to her side. If he wanted the shirt off, he’d have to take it. All thoughts of heroism fled. She’d never stood naked in front of a man before. Not shirtless either. Not with the hope that Taylor would one day return.
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