by Irene Hannon
“Yeah.” Somehow, shooting at paper targets held zero appeal this morning. Necessary, though, if he wanted to keep his skills sharp. “I’ll be back by three.”
“Don’t rush on my account. I have Tally to keep me company.” She bent down to pat the golden-haired stray she’d rescued a couple of years ago.
“A poor substitute for a handsome husband . . . but at least I don’t have to be jealous.” He winked and gave Tally a rub under the chin himself. “See you later.”
She stood in the driveway, waving, until he disappeared around the curve of the drive. Only then did he activate his cell.
Once he emerged onto the two-lane country road, he scrolled through email and text messages. Nothing urgent. He could deal with all of them later. But he did have three new voicemails.
The first one was an auto reminder about an upcoming department meeting already on his calendar. He erased it.
The next two, however—both from a concerned Dana—set off alarm bells.
Finn appeared to be MIA.
And shots were being fired on her property.
Unless he’d misread his brother’s neighbor during their brief introduction, she wasn’t the type to push the panic button without cause.
He tapped in her number, keeping tabs on the traffic as he drove.
The call rolled to voicemail.
Dana hadn’t waited at the lake for him to respond—and unless she went back down there, she wouldn’t have cell coverage. Who knew when they’d connect?
But if she was sufficiently worried to call and ask him to send the highway patrol, he wasn’t about to defer rounding up the troops until they touched base.
Within five minutes, he’d been put through to someone with authority at the highway patrol, learned Dana had already called—and discovered that her request was in a queue to be dealt with ASAP.
He got her bumped to the top of the list. Fast.
His next call was to Lance.
“Hey . . . I know you’re anxious for us to buy you lunch, but you didn’t have to remind me. It’s on my calendar.” Lance’s yawn came over the line.
Mac hung a fast right onto the main road and accelerated. “Lunch may not happen.” He gave Lance a quick download. “I’m southbound as we speak. Do you want me to swing by and pick you up?”
“I’ll be ready in five.” Lance’s grim tone matched his own mood.
Ending the call, he increased his speed again. But even if he kept his foot pressed to the floor during the entire drive, their optimal ETA was an hour and twenty minutes.
Too long.
Because a boatload of bad stuff could happen in far less time than that.
This wasn’t how it was supposed to play out.
He wasn’t supposed to die before Leah.
Roger leaned his head back and gripped the wound in his arm, watching Phelps jiggle the gun he’d managed to grab after it had discharged during their scuffle.
A gun that was now trained on both him and McGregor as they sat side by side, backs propped against adjacent oak trees in the small clearing.
Beads of sweat trickled down his temples as his lungs parsed out meager breaths—but his condition had nothing to do with the superficial wound in his arm.
It was due to the crushing pain in his chest.
He was having a heart attack.
All the signs pointed to it—and during his many years responding to emergencies, he’d seen plenty of them.
One other fact was also clear.
He was going to die if he didn’t get medical assistance fast.
And the odds of that happening were slim to none.
The pressure in his chest increased, and he let out a soft moan. What would happen to Leah once the truth was revealed about the source of the funds that had paid off her bills at Woodside Gardens?
Wayne marched over, his features twisted with fear . . . anger . . . desperation. Who knew? “Stop with the groaning! If you’re trying to get sympathy, it’s not working.”
“He needs medical attention, Phelps.”
As McGregor spoke, Roger dipped into his waning reserves of energy and twisted his head toward the other man. Their gazes met—and in the man’s razor-sharp eyes, he glimpsed understanding. McGregor was smart enough—or experienced enough—to know a simple flesh wound shouldn’t produce the kind of symptoms he was experiencing.
“Yeah, well, too bad.” Phelps’s chest heaved, and sweat beaded on his brow too.
For very different reasons.
McGregor clasped his hands loosely around his upraised knee. “You have to know you’re not going to get away with this, Phelps.”
“Shut up!” His finger twitched on the trigger. “I need to think.”
As Dana’s neighbor regarded the gun, Burnett managed to wheeze two words his direction. “I’m . . . sorry.”
“I said, shut up!” Phelps stomped closer, swinging the gun back and forth between his two captives.
McGregor didn’t respond—because he was afraid of setting Phelps off, or because he didn’t believe the Beaumont chief of police truly felt remorse?
Perhaps both.
After all, why should he think the apology was legit? There was no reason to trust a law enforcement officer who’d drifted to the dark side.
Moisture clouded his vision, and Roger closed his eyes. Everything had gone so wrong with the plan that had seemed simple, straightforward, and safe in the beginning. The only person who was supposed to have been at risk was him.
Now, McGregor’s life was at stake too.
And what about Dana?
A cold chill swept through him. If anything happened to the man beside him, she wouldn’t rest until she got answers. And if Wayne had been willing to go to extremes to keep her from discovering a meth lab, he’d be twice as ruthless about eliminating anyone who tried to connect him to murder.
Lord, how could this disintegrate into such a colossal mess? And what am I supposed to do now?
The desperate question poured from his soul, startling him. How long had it been since he’d turned to God for guidance—or help?
Since before he’d found the gold, that much he knew.
But now, as his strength ebbed, he reopened the conversation.
Lord, I’ve made a lot of mistakes. You know I wanted to honor my promise to Leah to provide for her. You know I would never have used a dime of the money from that gold for myself. I thought I could control the situation, make certain no one got hurt, but instead I got tangled in a web of deceit that’s literally sucking the life out of me. Please forgive me. Please watch over Leah after I’m gone. And in the little time I have left, please give me a chance to help those I’ve wronged.
“Hey.” The toe of a shoe nudged his leg. “You still with us, old man?” Wayne’s voice seemed to come from far away as he struggled to open his eyelids. “Yeah. I see you are.”
He stared up at the gun-toting man. “Get right . . . with God . . . Wayne.”
The man’s jaw dropped. Then he gave a harsh laugh. “You’re kidding, right? Let me tell you . . . after God took away my job and my girl and stranded me in this dump of a town, he should get right with me.”
“The chief has a point.” McGregor sounded relaxed and composed, as if they were all having a chat around mugs of coffee at the Walleye. “It’s not too late to have second thoughts. Yeah, you made meth, but as far as I know, you haven’t killed anyone—yet. Once you cross that line, though, there’s no going back.”
“There’s no going back now. I’m this close”—Wayne spread his thumb and index finger an inch apart—“from having what I need to ditch this place and start over.”
“So what are you going to do about us?”
He stalked over to McGregor, almost within lunging distance . . . but not quite.
“I’m thinking about it. But if you don’t shut up, you’re going to end up with another gag stuffed in that smart mouth of yours.”
He backed off, gun aimed their dire
ction, and Roger once again rolled his head toward McGregor, willing the man to read what was in his mind.
I’ll help you overpower him in any way I can.
For several beats, Dana’s neighbor studied him. Then, as if he’d gotten the message, he gave a slight nod. Slowly reached down to scratch his leg. And when the sudden flutter of a bird in the trees distracted Wayne for a second, he slid his pants leg up to reveal a hunting knife tucked in his boot.
Wayne’s, based on the carving in the handle.
McGregor must have wrestled it from him during their skirmish in the lab.
Unfortunately, Wayne could realize at any moment that it was missing.
Meaning this needed to wrap up soon—for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was his failing heart.
McGregor let his pants leg slide back down as Wayne swung toward them, but he didn’t break eye contact.
The pressure in his chest increased, and Roger swallowed past the pain, struggling to breathe. He had no idea how he could help McGregor when the man made his move, but he’d do whatever he could.
Warmth seeped down his arm, and after a slight nod of his own, he dropped his chin. The bullet wound continued to bleed, the dark stain on his dark green shirt widening with each minute that passed.
If he had the physical strength, he’d take the initiative. Rush Wayne, take another bullet, to buy McGregor a window to pull out the knife and have a fighting chance against the man. Wayne couldn’t deal with both of them at once.
But sooner or later, he was going to recognize that vulnerability and tie them up.
McGregor had to know that too.
So unless he was way off base, the man sitting next to him wasn’t going to wait much longer to implement whatever plan he was undoubtedly concocting to flip this situation on its head.
23
Dana slowed her pace, carefully picking through the underbrush as she swiveled her head back and forth, listening for any sound or movement that suggested the shooter was nearby. She had to be getting close—but it was difficult to keep her bearings with the thick vegetation obscuring the lake and the sun at its high-noon apex.
High noon.
If she wasn’t scared out of her mind, the irony of the timing would be amusing.
But with the rifle in her hands and the very real possibility of a shootout looming ahead, nothing about this situation held the remotest trace of humor.
She stopped to peer into the dense underbrush and do a slow, three-sixty rotation.
Nothing.
The woods were as quiet as they’d been the day she and Finn—
“Shut up!”
At the muted, barked command somewhere to her left, she jerked. Fumbled the gun. Managed to grab it before it crashed to the ground.
After giving her heart a few seconds to regain its rhythm, she crept toward the voice. She couldn’t identify the person, but the emotion was clear.
Anger.
And anger could prompt people to make bad choices.
Her palms grew damp—and her hands began to shake.
Steady, Dana. You can do this. Just remember what Pops taught you about the woods. Approach quietly. Observe. And don’t forget what he said during those target practice sessions with the soda cans—always take the safety off before firing.
The showdown was about to begin.
Finn watched as Phelps strode over to the moaning chief. The man’s nostrils flared as he pointed the gun at Burnett’s chest. “I said, shut up!”
“He’s dying, Phelps.”
“That’s a lie.” Their captor’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “I barely nicked his arm.”
“He’s having a heart attack.” Finn let that sink in for a minute. “A simple flesh wound wouldn’t turn his skin gray or make him sweat like that or glaze his eyes or disrupt his breathing.”
Phelps backed up and inspected the semiconscious Burnett, twin crevices denting his brow. “I’ve known him my whole life. He’s never had heart problems.”
“He does now.” Finn clasped his hands around his knee again, positioning his fingers within touching distance of the knife. He couldn’t wait much longer for a window of opportunity. Phelps was becoming more agitated by the minute . . . and agitation could prompt a person to do crazy things.
Like pull a trigger.
He had to lure the man close and pray for a distraction of some kind. A second or two, that’s all he’d need to take him down.
“Hey . . .” Panic flitted across Phelps’s face as he felt around on his belt. “Where’s my knife?”
Finn stiffened.
Unless some sort of miracle occurred, he was hosed.
“You have it, don’t you?” Phelps’s eye twitched.
The chief turned his head—and it was clear from his grim demeanor he realized this was the do-or-die moment.
It was also clear, in the silent communication that passed between them, that he’d do what he could to help.
Unfortunately, he was in no condition to assist at this stage.
Finn swallowed. Whatever happened next was up to him . . . and God.
When he didn’t respond to Phelps’s question, the man edged closer.
Perfect.
“Stand up.” He motioned with Burnett’s pistol.
Finn eyed the gun. One slight bit of pressure, a bullet was going to blow a hole in his chest.
He stood.
“Strip.”
At the unexpected command, he blinked. “What?”
“Strip. Down to your skivvies. Now. And do it fast.”
The man was smarter than he’d thought. Watching as his prisoner shed his clothes would allow him to keep his distance and verify whether a weapon was concealed anywhere.
Not so perfect.
So . . . how to play this? Hand over the knife Phelps was going to discover anyway, or take off his clothes as slow as possible and buy himself another couple of minutes that probably wouldn’t make much difference?
Better to stall. A brief delay might not help—but it couldn’t hurt.
He pulled out the tail of the Oxford shirt he’d planned to wear to lunch with Mac and Lance and worked the front buttons loose, drawing out the task as long as he dared before turning his attention to the ones at the cuffs.
“I said do it fast!” Again, Phelps waved the gun.
Ignoring that directive, Finn finished the job at his own pace and shrugged out of the shirt, leaving only his tee covering his torso.
He needed Phelps closer.
As if on cue, the chief began to wheeze and clutch his chest.
Phelps didn’t spare the man more than a quick glance. Far too short to risk a lunging tackle. But maybe he could draw Phelps in by using what he assumed was a ploy by the chief.
“Do you have any water?”
Phelps frowned at him. “What?”
“Water. For the chief. If you won’t get him medical help, at least ease his suffering.” And then he played his trump card, praying Hazel’s assessment of Phelps’s relationship with his father was accurate. “If your dad was around, what do you think he’d say about all this?”
A spasm of pain tightened Phelps’s features. “You shut up about my daddy!”
“I heard he was a good man.”
“Better than you . . . or him!” He waved the pistol at Burnett, eyes blazing.
“If that’s true, I bet he’d want you to give the chief a drink of water.”
Several tense beats ticked by as they held a staring match.
In the end, however, Phelps backed away, toward his pile of supplies.
Yes!
Finn maintained an impassive expression, but every muscle in his body tightened, preparing to spring into action. There wasn’t much chance Phelps would come close enough to hand the water to Burnett—though that would be ideal. More likely he’d toss a bottle their direction.
And that scenario could work too . . . especially after he glanced at the chief and the man opened his fist to revea
l a rock, then tipped his head toward the trees. It was too small to cause any damage . . . but it would create a great distraction if lobbed into the woods.
All he had to do was lunge for the bottle after Phelps tossed it, blocking the man’s view of the chief. Fumble with the container to give Burnett a window. And wait for their captor to react to the noise in the woods from the thrown rock.
Once he had the guy on the ground, this would be over fast. That brief scuffle in the lab had told him all he needed to know about the man’s physical condition. Despite a sore leg and the mother of all headaches, he could take him in a heartbeat.
Gun trained on his prisoners, Phelps dug through his backpack with his free hand.
Finn took several long, slow breaths, praying he and the chief were on the same page.
But whether they were or weren’t, this was going to end in less than a minute—for better or worse.
As she watched from her concealed position while the guy she assumed was Phelps rummaged through his backpack, Dana took the safety off Pops’s rifle—and made a decision.
If she and Finn got out of this alive, she was moving to Atlanta.
ASAP.
Lollygagging—to use one of Mags’s favorite words—was foolish when your heart already knew the best course. Only the fear of making a mistake had held her back from agreeing at once to his suggestion.
That fear, however, was nothing compared to the terror now coursing through her veins.
Heart banging against her rib cage, she looked back at Finn. He was standing beside the chief, his posture relaxed, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his jeans.
But that laid-back stance was an act.
He was gearing up for an attack. She could sense it, even if Phelps couldn’t. They might be new friends, but there was a powerful, intuitive connection between them.
Another reason to follow him to Atlanta.
And another reason not to delay making her move. She’d been here long enough to get the gist of the situation—and to know it was volatile. No matter what Finn was planning, Phelps had the gun . . . a huge advantage. Burnett already seemed to be wounded, based on that dark stain on his sleeve, and she doubted a man who’d fired at a police chief would hesitate to pull the trigger on a civilian.