Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  Wisps of blond hair had escaped Wendy’s neat ponytail. They played about the soft contours of her face as she squinted toward the small building.

  “Thank you,” he said quietly.

  Her hands were on her hips as she continued to survey him. “The phone is inside the office,” she said simply.

  They crossed a groomed lawn—regular grass that had actually known the touch of a lawn mower—and just ahead of them Brad could see a bright, whitewashed rectangle of a building that sported a few gas pumps outside.

  As they approached, an old man in overalls stepped out to meet them, staring curiously at Brad. He wiped grease from his bronzed and wizened hands, and his flesh wrinkled around a pair of light green eyes as he narrowed them upon the newcomer.

  “Hi, Mac.” Brad didn’t realize that he was holding his breath, worrying, until she spoke. “Mac, this is a friend of mine. Brad McKenna. Brad, Mac Gleason.” Mac arched a brow but reached forward to shake Brad’s hand.

  Brad reciprocated the gesture. “Hi, Mac.”

  The old man nodded, but kept staring at Brad. “You own that old Chevy that’s all torn up near the Alley?”

  “Uh—no, I don’t own it,” Brad said. That much was true. Some irate owner was probably making a claim with his or her insurance agent over the car right now.

  “Brad needs to use the phone,” Wendy said. “How’s my car doing?”

  “Car’s all ready to go when you are, Wendy. Local call, son?”

  “I—uh—I don’t know. Fort Lauderdale.” He started to fumble in his pockets, then he realized that they weren’t his pockets and that he didn’t have any money anyway.

  “I didn’t ask you for money, boy,” Mac said indignantly. “I just asked you where you was calling. You want Lauderdale, you dial a one first, ya hear?”

  Brad nodded. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

  “Up in the office. Take your time.”

  Brad turned and headed for the office. He wanted to look back, but he didn’t. He wondered if Wendy was whispering to the old man, sharing her suspicions that he was a murderer and a drug smuggler. Maybe the old man had a shotgun handy. Or maybe Brad would be greeted by a pair of pit bulls when he opened the office door. Here in the swamp, people were isolated, a breed apart, and they often had their own way of dealing with things.

  Don’t, Wendy, please don’t. Don’t betray me, he silently pleaded.

  The office was cool and air-conditioned inside. There was a desk with a blotter and an old swivel chair to the right of the door. Against the wall stood a Pepsi machine, another machine that dispensed chips and candy, and a large glass globe full of ice water. Brad poured himself a paper cup of the cold water, drank it down and peered out the window.

  Wendy was laughing at something the old man had said. Her hands were on her hips, her head was tossed back. When she glanced up at the shop and saw him, her laughter faded.

  Brad walked over to the desk and dialed the emergency number. Gary Henshaw answered first. Brad smiled, filling with warmth as he heard Gary scream out in relief that he was alive. “Where the hell are you, buddy? No, never mind, let me get the boss.”

  Two seconds later Brad was talking to L. Davis Purdy, the man in charge of their operations in south Florida—the Boss, as he was known with respect and affection by his men. Purdy was no pencil pusher. He’d worked the streets for years and had gradually risen through the ranks of the agency. There were few tricks he didn’t know. Michaelson was one of the toughest nuts Purdy had ever tried to crack.

  “You’re alive,” Purdy said. The words sounded matter-of-fact, even a little cold.

  “Yeah.” Brad leaned back in the chair.

  “Thank God.” Purdy meant it. “Jim is dead.”

  Brad closed his eyes. “I know. Michaelson got wind that we were both DEA.”

  “We figured that much out.” Purdy hesitated a moment. “Your town house was firebombed last night.”

  “What?” Brad sat up. His home here was gone? His collection of rare forty-fives, his stereo equipment, his lumpy old recliner, his college football jersey...little things that meant a lifetime. They were all gone.

  But he was still alive, he thought soberly. Jim wasn’t so fortunate.

  “We’re going to have to get you in under protective custody. Brad, you’re the only one who can put Michaelson away now. He wants you dead, and usually Michaelson gets what he wants.”

  “Doesn’t sound good at all,” Brad said gruffly.

  “You know the ropes. You’re lucky to be alive now. Where the hell are you that he hasn’t gotten wind of you? I’m trying to bring him in, but you know the man, and you know the system. He’s as slippery as an eel, and his kind of money can buy all kinds of favors.”

  “I’m in the swamp.”

  “The swamp? You’re out in the Glades?”

  “Yes. I don’t really know exactly where. That’s probably why he hasn’t found me.” Brad hesitated, sitting forward. “Come to think of it, at the moment, this is a fine place to be.” He started at a sudden sound.

  He was slipping, he realized, slipping badly, letting down his guard.

  Wendy Hawk entered the office. She sat at the edge of the desk and stared at him expectantly.

  “Purdy, will you talk to someone for me?” Brad said. “That picture that came out over the news last night almost did me in.”

  “We sent that out before your home was hit,” Purdy explained. “Who do you want me to talk to?”

  “A concerned civilian who kept me alive last night,” Brad said dryly, watching Wendy as he spoke. “Now she’s afraid she was aiding a hardened criminal. Say something, will you?”

  “She?” Purdy murmured.

  Brad gritted his teeth. In the background he could hear Gary repeating the word, then embroidering upon it. “She? Leave it to Brad. Even in the damn swamps he can find himself a woman.”

  “Tell Gary to put a lid on it,” Brad said with annoyance. “I’m putting on Mrs. Hawk.”

  He thrust the receiver to Wendy. Curiously, she took it. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Hawk? My name is Purdy, ma’am, and I’m with the DEA. I understand that you helped one of my men last night, and I’m exceedingly grateful. Brad tells me that you saw the news. I’m sorry about that. We had to take all precautions.”

  Wendy was silent. Brad, listening in as best he could, realized then that there was still no definite proof of his innocence. He could have called anyone, and the voice on the other end of the phone could be spinning lies as easily as he had.

  He groaned softly, slumping back in the chair. Well, she’d believe him when they sent out a car for him.

  No. Abruptly, he sat back up. No, the agency couldn’t send anyone near here. That would put Wendy in danger. She was safe here in her swamp, because no one would think to come here.

  Unless they followed someone in, someone coming for him.

  He jerked the phone out of her hands.

  “Boss—”

  “We’ll get a couple of cars out there with our best—”

  “No! No, listen to me. I’m going to get out of here by myself.”

  “Brad—” He could almost imagine Purdy frowning. His brow would be furrowed, and his sharp blue eyes would be squinting.

  “Really, Purdy, this plan is safer. I’m calling from a gas station with an old man, and I’ve been staying at Mrs. Hawk’s home. And, Boss, I mean, I am deep in the marshes. There’s no way that Michaelson can stumble on me here. It’s just impossible. This place is a watery jungle. You need a map to go from tree to tree. If I get myself out, then Michaelson won’t think to go after anyone who might have helped me. I’ll start wending my way out this morning.”

  Wendy watched him, her eyes widening. She didn’t know how or why she believed in
this man, she just did. For all she knew, he could have phoned the Florida State Penitentiary; the man giving her the assurances could have been working on a chain gang.

  But she trusted him. She was relying on instinct again.

  Her heart was beating just a little too fast; her breath was coming just a bit too quickly.

  Perhaps she should simply wash her hands of the man, then and there. She owed him nothing.

  But before she even knew what she meant to do, she leaned forward and gently caught Brad’s hand. “Maybe you should stay here.”

  “What?” Startled, he stared at her.

  She hesitated, wet her lips, then elaborated. “Some guy is looking for you, right? This Michaelson character. Maybe you’re as safe as you can possibly be right here.”

  “Wendy,” Brad said softly, staring into the soft mystery of her silver eyes. “This guy is tracking me down to kill me. I am the only one who can testify against him.”

  She nodded. “I know. But you just said that he can’t possibly find you here.”

  What was the matter with her? she wondered desperately. She didn’t want him here! This man made her feel dazed and irrational. But she wasn’t afraid of him. Even when he had held her, when he had pinned her beneath him, she hadn’t been afraid. She had been aware—painfully aware—of his build, of his warmth, of his strength. She was captivated by the man, and it had been okay because he was leaving, but now...

  Now she was sitting here, suggesting that he stay.

  Why?

  Her heart seemed to skip a beat, slamming mercilessly against her chest. It was foolish, it was all so foolish. But suddenly all that she could remember was the sight of blood, all the blood that had once spilled over Leif’s chest. She could hear her own scream, echoing against the corridors of her heart.

  Her memories ruled her now. She couldn’t let the same thing happen to Brad. The swamp was her refuge; she knew it well, backward and forward, and it was a good hiding place. The Indians had discovered it years ago, but few men had charted it since. The Everglades could shield a man. The swamp was a tough and rugged mistress, but when her secrets were learned and respected, she could embrace and protect a man, an ideal—an entire people.

  Conflicting emotions flickered across his face. He set his jaw in a hardened twist. “Wendy, I can’t just hide here with you. Running is my forte—my job.”

  “No one has a job that says he has to get killed foolishly!” Wendy snapped. “Do you think you’ll make it out of this wilderness in one piece? Don’t be a fool. The law doesn’t want heroics. The law needs you alive—”

  “But I can look after myself—”

  “I imagine that might be true in the big city,” Wendy interrupted coolly. “Were you trained to elude a gang of murderers in the Everglades?” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  “Brad! Brad!” Purdy was calling him, in an aggravated voice.

  Still watching Wendy’s eyes, Brad spoke into the receiver again. “I’m here—”

  No matter what happened, Brad was due for some painful inactivity. Suppose he did make it out of the swamp? He would have to hide out in a safe house. He’d be locked up with a group of agents guarding him day and night. Brad would be in seclusion until they managed to catch Michaelson.

  He groaned, holding the phone away.

  Wendy snatched it from him. “Mr. Purdy, can you prove to me that Brad is innocent?”

  “I can release the details to the news media,” Purdy told her. He cleared his throat impatiently. “Will you please ask Mr. McKenna to remember that he works for me—and put him back on the line. He’s going to be on a forced hiatus for even longer than he thinks if he doesn’t stick with me this time.”

  Wendy smiled. Brad noticed that she had the smallest little dimple in the center of her chin. He took the phone back from her. “I’ve got an idea, Boss. It will keep me safe, and her safe, too. I’m going to lie low right here.”

  “What?” Purdy was screeching.

  Brad moved the receiver away from his ear while Purdy went on and on about the lack of control in the situation. Brad was miles from civilization; there was no help nearby.

  “That’s right,” Brad said quietly. “I am miles from anywhere. No one knows where the hideout is, and no one can squeal. Boss, think about it.”

  Purdy changed his tactics. “You’re going to stay out in the swamp for a good week or more?”

  Brad laughed. “Can’t you boys do any better than that? Come on—I’ll supply the proof. All you home militia have to do is rope in the target!”

  Purdy swore. But then he paused. Brad knew Purdy. The Boss was always willing to throw “standard procedure” out the window if another solution seemed to be better.

  “All right, McKenna. Now you listen to me for a minute, and listen good. You might be right. Michaelson is a smuggler and a killer, but he sure isn’t any Daniel Boone. Sitting tight could be your best move. But remember, he’ll have men on both ends of the Alley, and I’m willing to bet he gets some air coverage of the swamp, too. I want you to check in if you see anything, and I don’t want you making a single move without my approval. Got it?”

  Brad’s muscles tightened. He hated the swamp. What the hell was he doing?

  He inhaled. He was trying to live the dream. He wanted to go back to the house and lie in the bed, and so help him, he wanted to make love to the woman. He wanted to touch and taste her flesh, to explore the breasts that were so firm and full in his dream. He wanted to see her mercury eyes above him as passion filled them. He wanted to kiss her, to drown in her...

  Purdy was still talking, but Brad couldn’t hear him anymore. He stared up at Wendy, and he wondered if his own features had gone as ashen as hers. What was she thinking now? Was she regretting her impetuous offer? It was a mistake. He didn’t know how to sit still; he hated to sit still. What the hell was he going to do in the swamp for all those hours?

  Except to lust after his silver-eyed angel of mercy.

  He swore softly and rubbed his temple. “Hey, Boss—”

  “Not a move, Brad, unless you talk to me. They’ve run a trace on the phone number, so we’ve got your coordinates. I’m going to get my men out there to nail Michaelson. You do your bit—stay alive, huh?”

  There was a dull buzz. Purdy had hung up on him.

  He didn’t put the receiver down right away. He swallowed, staring at Wendy. She was still so damned white. At last, Brad exhaled, slamming the receiver down. “You look as if you had just invited the Indians in for a scalping. I can see that you still don’t believe in me. Maybe you should have kept your mouth shut.”

  She hopped off the desk and her hands rode her hips. “Ingrate!”

  “Finished with the phone, son?” Mac, the old-timer grease monkey interrupted them.

  Brad shook his head, and a slow smile came to his lips. Mac was perfect for the place. His hair and beard were clean but shaggy, his manner abrupt but well-meaning. It was evident that Mac was Brad’s friend as long as Wendy vouched for him. And it was equally evident that the old man would defend her come hell or high water. “Yes, I’m finished all right,” Brad said.

  Mac nodded serenely. “Wendy, you want to take your car now? Or did you just come to use the phone? Is he going to drive the car while you take the airboat?”

  “Uh—we just needed to use the phone.”

  Mac nodded. “Maybe someone will get a chance to drop it off later.” He walked over to the old percolator on the counter and poured himself some coffee, not taking his eyes from Brad. “Coffee?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Mac poured him a cup. The brew was hot and strong. Brad had just taken a sip out of a stoneware mug when Mac said casually, “You got anything to do with those men running around in the big black sedan?”

  He nearly spit c
offee all over the floor. Instead, he swallowed and glanced from Wendy to Mac.

  Mac smiled, enjoying Brad’s reaction. “Yep, those boys were here wanting some gas last night. Can’t rightly say I liked the looks of them, myself. They asked about the Chevy, and for some dark reason, I told ’em I’d never seen the thing. They were really looking for a man—a buddy of theirs they said they’d lost in the swamp. I told them that most things that get lost in the swamp stay lost. Why, I reckon, too, that if they come back, I ought to tell them that it’s true—if they’re still looking for a man, they oughta count on the fact that he’s lost, deep in the darkness of the Glades, huh?”

  Brad reached out and shook Mac’s hand. “Thanks,” he said gruffly. “Thanks. It’s—it’s really important. I don’t know how I can prove it to you, but I’m really a decent man. And those guys are looking to stir up trouble.”

  “A man don’t need things proved to him,” Mac said. “And there’s all kinds of good guys and bad guys in this world. Instinct, boy, that’s what counts.”

  He nodded to the two of them and walked outside. When the door closed, Wendy glanced briefly at Brad, then hurried out after Mac. Through the dusty window, Brad watched Wendy give the old man a fierce hug and a kiss on his weathered cheek.

  They were old friends, good friends. Brad felt a sudden stab of envy. The old man knew Wendy Hawk well. He knew the details of her life. He probably had shared her past, had listened to her dreams of the future. And Brad didn’t really know her at all. He knew only that he wanted her, that she intrigued him, haunted him.

  Perhaps he ought to be hiding out from her instead of from Michaelson. Michaelson wanted his life. Wendy Hawk would steal his heart and his soul.

  He followed her out. She waved goodbye to Mac, then climbed onto the airboat. For a moment the breeze rustled by, and they sized one another up silently. Then she walked past him and released the tie line.

  The engine came to life; its powerful roar filled the air. Birds squawked and flew before them.

  Wendy stared straight ahead.

  Brad sighed and settled down on the boat. They were going home, to her home, together. The die had been cast. He watched as the sun danced along the golden highlights of her hair. Light, light, ethereal gold. As he studied the bronze of her shoulders and the feminine line of her body, he remembered holding her.