Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  He’s no saint, but neither is she...

  Brad McKenna is a DEA agent running from lethal enemies, each painful step drawing him deeper into the tangled Everglades. But he can’t run forever, and when he is shot and left for dead, the last thing he expects is to wake up facing a silver-eyed angel.

  Wendy Hawk is no angel, but when she finds Brad wounded and unconscious, she acts instinctively to save him. Wendy is cautious by nature, and her reclusive existence is rocked by the intrusion of this rugged, hunted man. In the anonymity of darkness and unanswered questions, Brad and Wendy are drawn together—because now killers want both of them dead.

  FREE BONUS STORY INCLUDED IN THIS VOLUME!

  Standoff at Mustang Ridge by USA TODAY by Delores Fossen

  When deputy sheriff Royce McCall responds to a break-in at his family’s cabin, he doesn’t expect the intruder to be the beautiful Sophie Conway! Sophie becomes a killer’s target, and Royce vows to protect her. But when the memories of their one-night stand become clearer, so does the fact that Sophie is keeping secrets...

  Praise for New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham

  “An incredible storyteller.”

  —Los Angeles Daily News

  “Intricate, fast-paced, and intense.”

  —Library Journal, starred review, on Flawless

  “Graham is a master at world building and her latest is a thrilling, dark, and deadly tale of romantic suspense.”

  —Booklist, starred review, on Haunted Destiny

  Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Delores Fossen

  “Fossen has both hands on the throttle and no brake in sight in a story that has the force of a runaway train steaming down the tracks toward the climax.”

  —RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars, on Standoff at Mustang Ridge

  “Clear off space on your keeper shelf, Fossen has arrived.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lori Wilde

  New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author Heather Graham has written more than a hundred novels. She’s a winner of the RWA Lifetime Achievement Award and the Silver Bullet Award. She is an active member of International Thriller Writers and Mystery Writers of America. For more information, check out her websites: theoriginalheathergraham.com and eheathergraham.com. You can also find Heather on Facebook and on Twitter, @heathergraham.

  USA TODAY bestselling author Delores Fossen has sold over seventy novels with millions of copies of her books in print worldwide. She’s received the Booksellers’ Best Award, the RT Reviewers’ Choice Award and was a finalist for the prestigious RITA® Award. In addition, she’s had nearly one hundred short stories and articles published in national magazines. You can contact the author through her webpage at deloresfossen.com.

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  HEATHER GRAHAM

  Angel of Mercy

  Table of Contents

  Angel of Mercy by Heather Graham

  Standoff at Mustang Ridge by Delores Fossen

  Angel of Mercy

  Heather Graham

  Also by Heather Graham

  Harlequin Intrigue

  Law and Disorder

  Shadows in the Night

  MIRA Books

  Krewe of Hunters

  Dark Rites

  Dying Breath

  Darkest Journey

  Deadly Fate

  Haunted Destiny

  The Hidden

  The Forgotten

  The Silenced

  New York Confidential

  A Perfect Obsession

  Flawless

  Visit the Author Profile page at Harlequin.com for more titles.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  1

  The car fishtailed and spun crazily. Brad compressed his lips in silence to bring the Chevy under control again. If he went off either side of the two-lane road, he would crash straight into swampland, into the endless “river of grass,” a hot and humid, godforsaken hell on earth. He was heading west on Alligator Alley—a road that offered a weary traveler just about nothing at all except for the miles and miles of mud and muck and saw grass, the occasional cry of a bird and the silent, unblinking stares of an abundance of reptiles.

  No phones here. No fast-food stands, no gas stations. Just miles and miles of nothing but the Florida Everglades.

  Brad hated swamps.

  Not that it mattered much now.

  He straightened the car and quickly looked into the rearview mirror. Michaelson was still after him. Glancing ahead, Brad noted that steam was pouring from the old Chevy’s front. Hell, he hadn’t even managed to steal a decent automobile. And now here he was in the middle of nowhere, the object of a hot pursuit, cruising in an old rattletrap of a car that was about to die on him.

  Sweat beaded along his brow. Without the car, what would he do? He hadn’t seen a call box for miles and miles. There was only the narrow, two-lane road, stretching through this eternity of swamp. He wouldn’t stand a chance on foot. He’d be a sitting duck. They’d shoot him down in a matter of seconds.

  Something popped and whizzed in the engine and a cloud of steam billowed out, obscuring Brad’s view of the road. He squinted; there seemed to be some kind of a dirt road up ahead, to the left heading southward. Another glance in the rearview mirror told him that Michaelson was almost on him. He had to take the chance.

  With a sudden, vicious swing, Brad veered to the left. The wheels bucked as the car bolted and groaned. It was a road—of sorts. Saw grass slapped against the body and windows as the car plunged along. Brad could hear the eternal drone of the insects, even above the groan of the Chevy’s overheated motor.

  The car pitched into mud. Brad wrenched hard against the steering wheel. In growing desperation he tried to floor the gas pedal, hoping to bounce out of the mire. The wheels spun; the Chevy remained stuck in the mire.

  Brad slammed out of the car. Black mud oozed over his leather shoes and knit socks, soaking his trousers up to his calves.

  He paused, listening.

  He could hear the motor of the approaching car—Michaelson’s car. Following.

  There was a sharp retort in the air. Gunfire. A bullet whizzed by Brad’s ear. The sharp retort sounded again. Another bullet. Closer. Whish. Nearly nicking his ear, making a sick, plopping sound as it embedded itself in the swamp.

  Brad turned and ran. His gun was back at the site of the drop-off, along with Taggart’s body. Damn, he couldn’t even go down fighting. There were three of them with Magnums and sawed-off shotguns, and there was him, without even a nail file.

  What a bloody stupid way to go down. Running, unarmed, in an infested, insect-laden, swarming, sullen, putrid swamp.

  The mud sucked at his feet with every step he took. He hadn’t gone twenty paces before he had lost both shoes. Running was agony. There was nowhere to run to, anyway. Nothing but saw grass and rattlers, coral snakes and gators, water moccasins and mosquitoes...and swamp. Every time he put his foot down, he wonde
red what he would land on next.

  Another bullet zinged by, close to his face. He felt the air rush against his chin. He was dimly aware that night was coming. The song of the insects was growing louder; the horizon had turned red, bloodred. Turning around to look behind him, he could see nothing but grass, tall grass, like needles, raking against his hands, raking against his cheeks. Saw grass. River of grass...that was what the Indians called this place, this Everglades. And it was. An endless river of grass, for as far as the eye could see.

  Another bullet whined and whizzed by in a deadly, speeding whisper. Brad inhaled sharply and felt a stab of pain. His lungs were bursting, his hands were cut and bleeding, but he kept on running, always running. Suddenly he sank, plunging into a canal. Kicking and thrashing, he came up, sputtered and staggered onto higher land. He turned, resting his hands on his kneecaps, struggling for breath. All he could see was the grass. Were they still following him?

  “Think we hit him?”

  He heard the faint voice. Probably Suarez—he was the bloodthirsty one.

  Someone snickered. “Does it matter? If we did not get him, Old Tom Gator will.”

  There was a spate of raucous laughter, then Michaelson, who never laughed, never even twisted his lip in the facsimile of a smile, spoke quietly.

  “Keep still. Listen. See if we cannot lodge a bullet in his brain. I do not like leaving fate to Old Tom Gator.”

  Brad groaned inwardly and straightened, inhaling again for all he was worth to run once more.

  The landscape had turned red, the setting sun casting a crimson pall over the flat swamp waters and the few trees straggled out upon the distant hammocks. Red...it was the color that seemed to fill his lungs as he gasped against the humid air, struggling to breathe. It was the color of the saw grass, the color of the single egret that perched in a distant tree, balanced upon one leg.

  Rat-a-tat. Bullets flew by him again.

  Then he felt a pain, sharp and piercing, stinging his temple. Instinctively, he reached up to touch his head, then stared at his fingers.

  Red. It was the color of the night. It was the color of blood—his blood, seeping over his fingers.

  He had to keep going. The hum of the insects seemed louder as he staggered along. He could hear no whispers from behind him, no laughter, no words. He gazed up at the sky and saw that the sun was falling. A coolness was descending. The breeze picked up.

  Chills shot through him.

  Red would not be the color of night. It would be black here—pitch-black. Florida Power and Light did not call upon the snakes and the reptiles and the birds and the wild orchids. Night would descend, and with it would come a blackness like ebony, sleek and impenetrable.

  In truth, the horizon was still streaked with pinks and golds and burning reds. Yet Brad could no longer see them. His mind was sinking into the ebony darkness, just as his body was slipping into the oozing muck. All sounds around him were fading to a soft, lilting drone.

  He was losing consciousness. He couldn’t allow himself that luxury; he knew that. If he fell here, he would not survive the night. He would drown in the mire, become easy prey for the predators of the swamp, provide endless fuel for the bloodsuckers.

  He could not fall.

  But he couldn’t go any farther. Besides, there was nowhere to go. Staggering, he paused. Everything blurred before his eyes.

  He heard a humming sound. More bugs. Hell, he’d never seen or heard so many damned insects in his life. They were coming after him now; a herd of them, flying, floating together, in mass.

  They were almost upon him. The noise suddenly cut off. Brad pitched forward, certain that he was crashing straight into the horde of insects.

  But he fell against something hard. And he was dimly aware that something soft touched him.

  Then the red landscape was completely enswamped by the ebony darkness.

  * * *

  Wendy screamed at first sight of the man. For several frozen seconds, after she had squinted against the mirage and cut the motor on her airboat, she simply stared at him.

  He resembled the creature from the Black Lagoon. He was an apparition, a giant pile of black mud, rising before her.

  She was accustomed to alligators and snakes and any number of slimy beings, but gigantic mud creatures were not indigenous to the Florida Everglades.

  It didn’t take her long to realize the figure was that of a man. A tall one, nicely built. Heavily built, she decided, grunting as she tried to drag him onto the airboat. Once she had him there, she paused again, panting for breath, trying to discern the place and extent of his injury. She checked his pulse first. Fortunately, he was still alive.

  She slipped a hand into the water of the canal and tried to clean away some of the mud from his face. Against his temple she found the wound—a small gouge, still bleeding. What had he done? Tripped and fallen against something? She shook her head, and a rueful, somewhat contemptuous smile curved her lips. City slicker. It was written all over the man. Beneath the mud she could see a fashionably cut three-piece suit, silk tie and cotton shirt. No shoes at all—probably lost in the muck somewhere. She sighed, shaking her head again. When would these people learn? A swamp was a place to be respected. It was not welcoming to the unwary. And now, what to do with him?

  She sat back on her heels, lost in the dilemma. He wasn’t seriously injured, so he probably didn’t need to be in a hospital. She had no idea where he had come from, so she couldn’t really return him anywhere.

  She couldn’t leave the fool lying in the swamp. It would be tantamount to murder.

  Wendy sighed. Maybe he should be in a hospital, but even so, she’d have to take him home first and call Fort Lauderdale for an ambulance or conveyance of some sort. Since her car was up in the garage, she couldn’t take him too far herself.

  “Well, sir, would you like to come home for dinner?” she murmured to her prone form, then she laughed with dry amusement. It was the first time she had ever asked a man to dinner. Well, except for Leif, and that had been different. They had never exactly asked each other to do anything; tacit consent had always seemed to rule between them.

  Putting aside memories of Leif, Wendy settled the mud creature onto the boat, then started the motor and headed into the swampland. She turned on the lights; it was growing dark, and night fell quickly in the swamp.

  Two miles inland, she came upon a high hammock and switched off the motor. She docked the boat, then stared at the huddled form again, trying to determine once more what to do. She was beginning to worry because he didn’t show signs of coming to. Concussion? Maybe. She needed to clean him up, then she could give his condition a more professional assessment.

  After a moment of hesitation, she decided to leave him while she went inside for a stretcher. He was simply too big for her to move without one.

  Her house was little more than a cabin, but it was self-sufficient, and she had made it home. A generator provided electricity, and though she bought most of her drinking water, she had a purification system, too. The house itself was a square frame structure with two bedrooms, a living room and a big, eat-in kitchen. Her furniture was Early American, and her windows were dressed in earth-toned gingham drapes. It was possible to sit in the house and imagine that next-door neighbors could be found twenty yards away instead of twenty miles.

  Wendy hurried through to the second bedroom and dug beneath the bed for the canvas stretcher. She had no problem carrying the stretcher out to the airboat; it was not so easy getting the man onto it. He was not only tall and very well muscled, he was unconscious, and therefore deadweight. Grunting and panting and working up a sweat, she at last managed to pull him onto the canvas.

  His clothing was going to have to go before she brought him in. Not all of it, but she could strip him down to his briefs. Although Wendy lived in the swamp, she
tried to keep mud out of her house. She wondered briefly what would happen if he regained consciousness while she was stripping him of his clothing, then shrugged. If he came to, he could damn well help her, and he’d better do so pleasantly. He could have been dead by then without her.

  His socks peeled off easily. His suit coat proved to be a problem. She could not lift his shoulders high enough to pull the jacket away.

  Wearing thin, Wendy sat back panting. Realizing that his wardrobe was ruined, she decided to cut his clothes away.

  Wendy scampered back into the house in search of scissors. In the kitchen, she decided to bring out a bucket of soapy water and a washcloth. Once she had determined a plan, she set about it with a certain energy and will. Although she was handling a complete stranger, it was a little bit late to be reticent about the situation.

  She hurried back outside and began cutting away his clothing with a vengeance. She rid him of his jacket, vest, tie and shirt and gently washed away all the muck and mud on his face and his shoulders. She sat back then, studying him and experiencing a shaft of acute discomfort as she did so.

  She had thought his complexion was darker; it had only been an illusion created by the swamp muck clinging to his sandy-colored skin. His hair was a tawny color, the type that lightened in sunlight and grew darker in winter. He had a nice-looking face, a ruggedly handsome, masculine face. His nose was long and straight, his brow was high, and his well-defined cheekbones rose above a hard, square jaw. Even in repose, he had a determined look. She wondered how old he was, then guessed that he was between thirty and forty.

  He’d been heavy and difficult to lift because he was composed of muscle, sinewed and taut. He was bronzed, as if he spent time in the sun, and he was hard, as if he spent time working with his body. Yes, it was a nice body.

  Wendy recoiled quickly from touching him. She gave herself a furious shake, refusing to believe that she could be thinking this way about a stranger’s body.