Her mouth moved again and Colt growled a frustrated oath that he couldn’t make out what she was saying, forgetting that everyone else on the channel could hear it.
“Something wrong?” Beckstead’s voice sounded in his earpiece.
“She won’t give him the pouch until she sees her son,” the beer vendor said.
Colt had guessed as much. He might not be able to hear her from this distance, but he knew Maggie well enough by now to figure what she would do. Exactly what he would have done under the same circumstances.
“Any visual affirmative on the kid?”
A soft chorus of “no” answered Beckstead’s question.
“Wait a minute,” Colt said. He focused on the limousine door, opening with agonizing slowness. Then a little blond head peeked around. He would have run to his mother’s side, but Santori kept a restraining arm on his shoulder. “There. He’s out.”
“He look okay?”
“As far as I can tell.” Colt answered.
His gaze shifted again to Maggie. She reached one hand out as if to touch her son, then she lifted her fingers to her quivering mouth. Abruptly she straightened and pulled the pouch from behind her back and handed it to Damian. Only after he looked inside it did the bastard give a nod to Carlo, who released Nicky.
Maggie crouched and opened her arms and the boy ran into them, eagerly throwing his own little arms around his mother’s neck while she touched his back, his hair, his face.
A wave of poignant emotion crashed over him—relief and tenderness and a fierce joy, all wrapped into one.
“She’s got him,” he said through the thickness suddenly clogging his throat.
“Good. Good,” Beckstead replied. “Now on to phase two.”
Maggie was supposed to retreat to the medic office with Nicky to wait for Colt while the SAC and his reinforcements—a dozen agents and the Weber County Mounted Posse—would surround DeMarranville and apprehend him as soon as the limousine pulled away from the rodeo arena, where innocent people could be hurt if DeMarranville fought back.
Colt started down the bleacher stairs to meet her. He was halfway down when a low “uh-oh” sounded in his earpiece.
“What?” he growled. “What’s wrong?”
The male half of the amorous couple against the fence spoke. “Problems. Santori’s not letting her go alone. Damian just said he wants him to escort her back to her trailer.”
Colt shoved aside a man coming up the west side of the bleacher stairs and jostled his way to the edge for a better view.
He swore long and viciously when he caught her in his sights again. Maggie, with Nicky holding tight to her hand, was hurrying away from the arena, toward the dark, densely forested banks of the Ogden River on the edge of the rodeo grounds and the maze of pens there that held stock not being used for the night’s events.
His blood turned to ice when he focused in on Carlo Santori casually strolling along a few paces behind her. He knew damn well the hand Santori held at a stiff angle in front of him wasn’t holding a bouquet of flowers.
“What should we do? Take him down?” the beer vendor asked.
There was no way they could do that without putting Maggie and Nicky directly in the crossfire, exactly what she had been worried about.
“No,” he snapped, his mind spinning furiously. If he could get to the pens before them, he might be able to get the edge on Santori. It was a slim chance, but it was the only damn chance they had.
“Everybody stay put. I’m going to head them off.”
He raced down the stairs two at a time, barely missing a man carrying a trayful of drinks on his way up the bleachers and a woman with a baby and a diaper bag on her way down.
“McKendrick, wait for back up,” Beckstead shouted in his earpiece. “Don’t be a damn cowboy on this one.”
He reached the ground and started running through the crowd toward the river. “I am a damn cowboy. That’s why you wanted me on this case, right?”
“Be careful.”
He didn’t answer the command. “Ending audio communication,” he snapped, and yanked out the earpiece as he ran, tossing it to the ground. He couldn’t afford to be distracted by voices in his head, by Beckstead yelling commands in his ear. Not when lives were at stake—the lives of the two people he loved more than anything else in the world.
He swung around the pens, sending up a fierce prayer that he wasn’t too late, that he could be fast enough and smart enough to save them.
If he couldn’t, Carlo Santori might as well kill him, too.
With one eye on the small, dangerous-looking gun almost in her back and one eye on her son, Maggie clasped Nicky’s hand tightly and prayed harder than she’d ever done in her life.
She should have known DeMarranville wouldn’t just allow her to take her son and fade away back into the rodeo crowd once she gave him what he wanted. She should have known the minute she looked into that merciless face that he wasn’t the kind to play by rules of honor.
If she had been thinking at all, she would have realized that after he had what he wanted, she and her son would be completely expendable to him. But once the exchange had been made—once Nicky was safe with her once again—she had been so weak with relief she hadn’t paid attention to the warning screech of her instincts until DeMarranville had instructed Carlo to escort them back to their trailer.
She had demurred and had told them they were fine, that she could find her own way, but the devil had insisted.
“What kind of gentlemen would we be if we let you wander through a raucous crowd like this alone—a defenseless woman and a small child?” he had asked, his voice tainted with that mocking edge. “No, Carlo, see Dr. Prescott and our young guest to their lodgings.”
Alarm shot through her like hot oil at the look exchanged between the two men. Suddenly she knew that the man with the dead eyes who had killed Michael wouldn’t be escorting them back to their trailer, but somewhere far more ominous.
Away from the hard glare of the floodlights in the arena, he had produced that sleek, shiny gun, the same one, probably, that had killed Michael, and urged her toward the dark forest of trees near the river with that deadly smirk.
She knew what he intended, that he wanted them away from the crowd for it. She wanted to weep and beg him for her child’s life, but she knew she would find no clemency here, and so she had obeyed, searching her mind frantically for a way to escape.
They would get no help from the undercover agents Colt had insisted on, she realized that, too. They were too far away now to do anything.
“I want to see Colt,” Nicky said now, a tired whine in his voice. “Where is he?”
Her eyes flashed to the crowd. Had he seen her leave with Santori? Was he watching her now going to her death?
“I don’t know, sweetheart,” she whispered.
“I missed you, Mommy.”
Her heart lurched at the quiet words. She squeezed his fingers, wishing she had even a moment to gather him close, to bury her face in his hair and inhale his sleepy-little-boy scent. “I missed you too, Nicky.”
“Don’t make me go with them again, please, Mommy?”
“I won’t.” Her voice broke on the words, but she battled for control. “I promise.” She would get him out of this. No matter what she had to do, she would protect her son.
The air had reached dew point and the grass was wet and slick beneath the thin canvas of her sneakers. It smelled of animals and, incongruously, the sticky-sweet scent of cotton candy.
The rodeo-goers suddenly sent up an excited cheer at something happening inside the arena and Santori paused and turned at the sound for just an instant. She should do something now. Think! Before she could come up with a plan, though, he resumed walking.
They were almost past the pens. She could hear the gurgle of the river mingled with the lowing of cattle and the occasional high whinny of a nearby bronco.
This was it. She was running out of time. If they were going to
survive, she was going to have to come up with something fast. She could rush him, she supposed, try to take the gun away from him. She dismissed the thought instantly. Not only did he outweigh her by probably sixty pounds, but she was fairly certain Michael wasn’t the first man he’d ever killed. He wouldn’t be deterred by such a foolish attempt.
It would be suicidal. On the other hand, she was going to die anyway, and if it would give Nicky time to slip away from his father’s killer, she had to try.
Just as they passed the last row of pens, she braced her muscles and opened her mouth to order Nicky to run when she heard a flurry of movement behind her, then rough, menacing words. “Move and you die.”
She stopped abruptly, her hand tightening on Nicky’s, then she realized Santori had stopped as well, that the harshly spoken words hadn’t come from him.
“You know the drill, Carlo. Hands up.”
That drawl! She recognized it. Finally daring to breathe, she swiveled to look behind her. In the dim moonlight she saw Colt standing so close to Santori, they had both merged into one dark shadow.
He must have slipped through the darkness, she realized, and come around the pen. Relief flooded through her, so intense her knees threatened to give out.
“Okay,” Colt said, when Santori obeyed, “now, real nice and easy, drop your weapon.”
Santori complied and she heard a whisper of noise as Colt kicked the gun under the wooden fence of the nearest pen, far enough that it couldn’t be retrieved without climbing over.
“Doc, you okay?”
Her gaze sharpened on the gun Colt had shoved into Santori’s ear. “I’m all right. A little shaky.”
“Hi, Colt!” Nicky chirped. He would have launched himself at his hero but Maggie held tight to his hand.
“Hey, partner,” Colt said.
He took his gaze off Santori for only an instant, just long enough to give Nicky a reassuring grin, but it was enough for the killer to shove an elbow into his gut. She heard Colt’s breath leave him in a whoosh and saw him instinctively step back a pace.
Without blinking those cold, empty eyes, Santori grabbed her, yanking her in front of him, away from her son. She felt brutal fingers digging into her arm then, worse, the cold, sharp metal of a knife at her throat.
Santori’s mouth curled into a deadly smirk. “Move and she dies.” He parodied Colt’s earlier’s words. “Then again, you might as well move, FBI. She’s going to die either way.”
“Mommy!” Nicky cried out. She watched, agonized, as he tried to get at her, but Colt wouldn’t let him and shoved the boy behind him.
“Let her go, Santori,” he growled, his jaw tight. “Let her go and maybe I won’t kill you.”
DeMarranville’s hired gun just bared his teeth in a smile that didn’t come close to reaching his dead eyes. “Big talk, FBI.” He gave Maggie a shake that rattled her teeth. “You’re the doctor. Tell your boyfriend here what would happen if I made a nice, neat cut right here.” He pressed the blade against her carotid artery.
She met his gaze, making no attempt to hide her hatred. “I’ll bleed to death.”
“Exactly. You must have been first in your class.” He sneered at Colt. “If you don’t want the kid here to watch his mama bleed to death like a stuck pig, I suggest you drop your weapon. Real nice and easy,” he added, in that same mocking voice.
“Don’t do it, Colt,” she said. “It doesn’t matter. Just take Nicky and get out of here.” She knew Carlo Santori would take Colt’s gun and kill them all. She didn’t want to die, but she would if it would save them.
“Shut up,” Carlo said, giving her another hard shake. “Drop it, McKendrick.”
After another moment’s indecision, Colt glanced at Nicky out of the corner of his gaze. He must have decided Carlo wouldn’t do away with his one advantage—her—while Colt was still holding the gun.
“Nick,” he said urgently, “I need you to run as fast as you can and find your Grandma Peg or Cheyenne over at the rodeo, all right? Don’t come back, just stay there until I come get you. Hurry.”
“No!”
“Yes. You have to. I’ll take care of your mama, I promise.”
With one last scared look at her, Nicky obeyed, slipping through the damp grass as he ran. She closed her eyes and said a silent prayer of gratitude. At least Nicky would be safe.
Carlo hissed between his teeth and pressed the knife harder against her throat. “Why did you do that?” He asked Colt. For the first time, she heard emotion in his voice—fury. An instant later she felt a hot prick against her skin and knew he must have drawn blood.
Colt’s gaze focused on the burning spot and something wild and furious flared in his eyes. “You wanted my weapon. Here you go.” He pushed a lever on the gun—the safety, she assumed—and dropped the handgun into the grass.
Maggie drew in a sharp breath as she watched it fall. He had to know that the moment Santori picked up the gun, he would kill Colt. Why would he do such a crazy, suicidal thing?
In that single instant she realized the truth, the truth she had known all along. Colt was nothing like Michael. Even though they had both lied to her, everything Colt had done had been for her own good. He had only been trying to protect her, to watch over her. That’s all he had ever done. Even now, he was willing to put his life on the line for hers.
“Good,” Santori said. “Now slide it over here.”
“Let her go first.”
“And have you pick up your Glock and kill me as soon as I do? What do you take me for, FBI? Slide your weapon over here first, and then I’ll let the doctor go.”
After a tense moment Colt nudged the gun with his foot and sent it scooting slowly across the five or six feet that separated them.
She couldn’t just watch him die. She had stood by and done nothing while Michael was killed, but she refused to the same thing while Santori killed Colt. Not this time. She loved him too much.
If she could provide a diversion, it might give Colt enough time to step forward and beat Santori to the gun.
Santori returned the knife to the sheath under his suit coat then stepped away from her to reach down for the handgun. Here was her chance, possibly her only one.
When he was bent over and slightly off balance, she took a deep breath, drawing on the last reserve of courage inside her, and shoved against him with all her strength, sending both of them careening into the wooden slats of the fence.
He must not have had a steady hold on the weapon. At the surprise attack, it slipped out of his hand and went spiraling into the air, falling not far from Santori’s own weapon inside the pen.
“Bitch. You stupid bitch.” He pushed her away and drew back his fist. She had less than an instant to prepare, when the world exploded into jagged shards of agony.
She reeled and fell, clutching the cheek he had struck. He pulled his fist back, prepared to hit her again, but before the fist could connect, Colt was on him. He shoved him away and back against the fence, pummeling him over and over, fury in his eyes.
The wood fence groaned and shuddered with the impact of each punch, but after a moment of shocked stillness, Santori began to fight back. He brought his hands up to deflect Colt’s blows, then started returning the punches with lethal force.
Maggie scrambled to her feet, her bruised face forgotten, and watched helplessly while the two men pounded each other. Their grunts and curses filled the air, and the constant shaking of the fence, as first one man was shoved against it than the next, seemed to be riling the animals inside the warren of pens. Loud, anxious whinnies sounded from the broncs, and the cattle joined in with upset snorts.
After several moments of tussling, Colt seemed to be getting the upper hand. With one powerful heave, he shoved Santori facedown to the ground and thrust a knee in his back, yanking one arm behind his back while he reached for a set of handcuffs she now saw dangled from one of his belt loops. “You’re under arrest,” he panted out, “for the murder of Michael Prescott and t
he attempted murder of Maggie and Nicholas Prescott.”
Even with his cheek pressed against the grass and a knee in his back, Santori’s eyes held no expression as Colt started to handcuff one hand. It was eerie, she thought, looking into those dead eyes. Then to her horror, she realized Santori was reaching with the other hand for the knife at his side.
“Colt,” she yelled. “The knife.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when Santori grunted and swung the knife at Colt’s stomach. At the last instant, Colt stumbled back, avoiding the blade, but his movement also freed Santori from the knee hold. The handcuffs swung from one hand as Michael’s killer lunged for the FBI agent with the knife.
“Maggie, get the hell out of here while you can,” Colt growled.
Not a chance. She wasn’t going to leave him here alone, even if she couldn’t do anything but watch. The two men moved in a savage ballet, one parrying, the other backing away, then to her horror, Colt reached in to try to grab the weapon away.
The two wrestled for a few moments, then she heard a low, muffled groan and both men froze. Who had been stabbed? She couldn’t tell amid the tangle of arms and legs. Finally, with excruciating slowness, they separated. Santori backed away, leaving Colt clutching his rib cage, where a crimson stain began to soak the blue cotton of his shirt
“Colt!” she screamed.
He looked at her, his eyes glazed with pain. “Get out of here,” he growled again.
“Stupid FBI bastard,” Santori muttered, shoving Colt to the ground, then she heard an ominous crack as he viciously stomped a boot hard on his left temple.
Santori straightened his jacket, sent her that mocking smirk and began to climb the wooden fence into the pen to retrieve the handguns inside.
She saw him go, but barely registered it, concerned only for Colt. Rushing to his side, she felt for a pulse. It was there, weaker than normal, but still there. Santori’s violent kick must have knocked him out. He didn’t even move when she yanked at his shirt, sending buttons popping off in her rush to examine the stab wound.
She probed at the gaping hole, then saw his eyes flutter open. They were disoriented at first, then they focused on something behind her.
The Wrangler and the Runaway Mom Page 21