Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  “We’re not going anywhere or doing anything,” Brad murmured. He paused. “But I told you this morning, Wendy. I don’t think that this is safe for you anymore.”

  She didn’t believe them. She was convinced that Eric intended to take Brad deep into the swamps, deep into all the villages to meet with his friends, Seminoles, Miccosukees and the whites who made their homes out there. Michaelson was hunting him, and Wendy realized that Brad was growing tired of it. He was ready to hunt Michaelson instead.

  “Well, maybe leaving here is the best thing for you,” Wendy said softly. Then she went back to her bedroom and snatched her purse and the airboat keys that sat on her dresser.

  Brad was in the hallway when she emerged. He still looked angry, but not as angry as she was becoming.

  “Get out of my way.”

  “Wendy, you have to understand. We have to talk.”

  “Talk? No, I don’t think so. I don’t want to talk, Brad. I want to get out of here. I want to go talk to some store clerks and salespeople—maybe a bartender or two. Someone who doesn’t make a living at violence!”

  “Wendy, I told you—”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, you never draw your gun. I found you with a bullet hole in your forehead. That’s what it was, right, Brad? A bullet hole. And you’re ready to leave, right?” Tears were as hot as molten lead behind her eyelids, and she was afraid that she would shortly grow hysterical and throw her arms around his legs and tell him that she couldn’t bear it, she couldn’t let him go anywhere, she couldn’t let him go away and get himself killed. She was in love with him.

  But she was the fool; she was the one losing control. Brad could handle this. He had warned her that he couldn’t love her. He had warned that he had to leave.

  “Wendy—”

  “No!” She shoved past him. “Eric will take you to the gas station. I’m sure that he and Mac will see that you make your phone call—and that you’re able to get wherever you want to go.”

  The tears were about to spill over. Blindly, she spun around. “Goodbye, Brad.”

  Not wanting to break down in front of him, Wendy ran out of the house to her airboat. Eric would understand, she thought. Eric would see that Brad got wherever he wanted to go.

  She doubled over, listening to the drone of the motor, barely seeing the grasses that dipped and swayed as she passed them, barely aware of the wind that dried her tears.

  He had been safe. He had been safe at her house—surely, no one would have found him there. But he couldn’t stay put, he just didn’t have the patience to keep hiding out.

  He was gone. He was out of her life. She had claimed that she had gotten all that she wanted, and he was gone now.

  No, he wasn’t gone—not when she could close her eyes and feel him with her still. The subtle scent of him lingered against her skin. She could imagine his touch in each lilting breeze. She could remember his laughter, his tenderness, his raging passions.

  She would never forget his golden eyes and his soft words. There had been so very much between them.

  But no amount of passion could deny the disparity between their chosen lives. He wasn’t a killer. She knew that. She understood his job. And she understood that he could have no room for her in his life, while she couldn’t bear to live with a man in his profession.

  She scarcely knew him, she tried to tell herself.

  But it didn’t matter. Imagining a future without him now seemed as cold and austere as an arctic plain.

  10

  L. Davis Purdy had been silent on his end of the phone for so long that Brad began to think that they had been disconnected. When he answered at last, he chose his words carefully.

  “What do you know?” he asked Brad.

  “What do I know—for fact? Very little. Except that I have a—a friend—” He paused, looking out the window. Eric Hawk was leaning against the building, listening to old Mac go on while he waited for Brad to finish the call. Eric wore a low-brimmed hat, jeans, a denim shirt and cowboy boots. His jet hair fell over the collar of the shirt, but even with the brim of the hat covering his eyes, there was an air of quiet confidence about the man. Yeah, Brad decided. If Eric Hawk had said that something was going on, then it was going on. Hawk would make a good partner. More so than many men Brad had worked with, he felt as if he could trust the Indian with his life.

  He cleared his throat and continued. “I have a friend who knows this place like the back of his hand. He says that the deal is going down in the swamp, and I believe him. Michaelson is out here. He’s waiting for the next drop, and it’s going to happen here. I’m sure he’s still looking for me, too, but money means more to him than revenge.”

  Brad vaguely heard Purdy warn him to investigate, but not to make any moves without checking in. Somberly reminding Brad of his partner’s death, Purdy admonished him to be careful. Brad clenched his teeth in anguish, reliving that moment. But then as Purdy’s voice went on about procedure, Brad’s mind wandered.

  He had meant to leave today, to go back to the city, to do it by the book, live under constant guard until they could do something about Michaelson. He’d meant to leave Wendy, to get out of her life. To leave her safe and alone. To leave her, before...

  Before they fell in love.

  She had told him to go ahead and leave. When she’d stormed out of the house, she hadn’t even looked back. She wouldn’t expect him to be there. Maybe he shouldn’t be there, maybe he should stay with Eric. But he wasn’t leaving. Purdy had agreed that Brad was better off staying in the swamp—especially since his agents were getting closer to Michaelson.

  Brad had to talk to Wendy; he had to see her again. They couldn’t just leave things the way they had.

  He realized that Purdy had finished his lecture, and that he was hanging up. Just in time, Brad made the proper response. Promising to stay in touch, he hung up the phone.

  He left the office and came upon Mac and Eric still involved in conversation. “Can’t tell me these guys are all here for gator season,” Mac insisted. He spat on the ground. “No sirree, I know the hunters when they come. I know the office boys who dress up in khaki and shoot up beer cans and sit around in their skivvies, and I know when I see a horde of people comin’ through here that don’t belong. They just don’t look right. They look like they’re still wearing suits, no matter how they try to dress like hunters.”

  Brad winced. He was sure that half the guys who looked so ridiculous in khaki or denim were either FBI or his own associates from the DEA office. But all the telltale signs were evident. The swamp was crawling with men—bad guys and good guys. Brad hoped to God he would know the difference when he came across someone.

  “Well, if anyone asks, remember—you’ve never seen this man,” Eric instructed Mac.

  The old man grinned at Brad. “I’ve seen the news, Eric. I know when to keep quiet.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mac.”

  “Nothing to thank me for.” He looked at Eric again. “You going to be out on the swamp today?”

  “Yeah, I thought maybe we should check out a few of the canals.”

  “You want me to fill up the cooler?”

  Eric laughed. “Sure. Fill her up with some cool brews, and some mullet, if you’ve got any. And throw in some snacks—cheese balls, corn chips—whatever you’ve got handy.”

  Mac loaded the airboat with supplies from his limited stock of grocery items. When they stepped back into the airboat, Eric suggested that Brad pilot the vehicle. Within a few minutes, Brad had more or less mastered the craft, and he loved it. Eric grinned tolerantly as Brad let out a whoop and raced pell-mell across the open water.

  When Eric warned him that they were coming into a narrower channel, Brad cut the speed and Eric took over.

  They spent the morning traversing a myriad of hammocks. They c
ame upon a few isolated Indian villages and a few deserted shacks that weekend hunters had built but didn’t really own because the state had taken over the land. Although they didn’t run into any hunters, they did discover one shack that had been recently inhabited by someone who smoked expensive cigars and drank high-grade brandy.

  Setting an empty bottle back on the rough table, Eric arched a brow. “Michaelson?”

  Brad nodded slowly. “Maybe. Though I can’t see Michaelson coming this deep into the swamp. He’s a city boy all the way. He likes his conveniences—brushes his teeth with mineral water. But it might be a couple of his boys, copying his habits.”

  “We’ll wait it out a while, see if they come back,” Eric said.

  They waited on the airboat, hidden behind a pine hammock a few yards from the rustic cabin. Eric broke out the beer and a bag of potato chips. After casting fishing lines into the water, they both leaned back.

  Brad took a long look at Eric. “Thanks. I realize I’m taking up a lot of your time.”

  Eric shrugged. “I don’t live a nine-to-five life. I use my time when and where I think it’s important.”

  It was hot and humid as a summer day in Hades. Brad swallowed down half a can of beer, then shook his head. “Still, I appreciate what you’re doing.”

  “Sure thing.”

  As the strange silence of the swamp surrounded them, Brad realized that it wasn’t silent at all. He could hear the buzz of insects, the chirp of birds and the rustling sound of the breeze. When he heard a grunting noise, he knew it was the sound of a distant gator.

  “She’s right, you know,” he said.

  “Wendy?” Eric grinned.

  “Yeah. I have no right dragging you into this.”

  Eric swore. “Look, I’m here because I want to be, all right? This is my land those bastards are screwing up. My territory. I’ll deal with Wendy.”

  Brad nodded, enthralled by the sight of a long-legged crane that stepped delicately over a patch of marshland. He finished his beer, and Eric tossed him another.

  Brad nodded at Eric. “Wendy told me what happened. To her husband—and your wife. I’m sorry.”

  Eric’s muscles tightened as he swallowed. “Thanks. It was a long time ago. I guess we’ve dealt with it differently, Wendy and I. I spent months alone, then I went wild. Eventually, I settled down, finding peace in this land, getting support from my family. Wendy has just stayed home—alone.” He hesitated. “I wanted to find those guys myself. I wanted to bring them out here and kill them my way.” He looked across the water. “I did find the one guy in the end. I managed to turn him over to the cops. Then I knew that I could go on. Wendy, well, Wendy never had the same satisfaction, but she goes on. I think you’ve been good for her. Damned good for her.” He shrugged, managing to smile again. “So, I may have a bit of an argument on my hands. But, come to think of it, you’re going to have more to explain to Wendy than I will.”

  Brad looked back at Eric. “I—I don’t know if I should even go back there.”

  Eric appeared amused. “She doesn’t bite. Or does she? Whoops, wait a minute, none of my business.”

  “You sure about that?” Brad grinned.

  “About what?”

  “It being none of your business.”

  “All right. It is my business. But only in the sense that I care about her happiness.”

  “So what do you think I should do?”

  Eric shrugged. “What do you want to do?”

  “You heard her this morning,” Brad said huskily. “I don’t think that she wants me around.”

  “I’m willing to bet that she’ll open that door for you if you go back to her.”

  “She thinks I’m a killer.”

  “She knows you aren’t a killer. She’s scared, and in defense she’s lashing out with accusations. She has a right to be scared. She’s been hurt before. She’s had her heart and soul severed. Tolerate her.”

  Brad laughed. It was so much more than a matter of tolerating a nervous streak! “I don’t know, I have no promises for her.”

  “No one really has promises these days. I think you owe each other more of your time. While you’ve got it, you owe it to one another.”

  “Maybe.”

  Eric grinned suddenly. “Grandfather has a great saying for any dilemma. He says that life is a river, and we chart out that river with our hearts, our minds and our souls. When it matters most, he says, the heart should be the guide. The mind is made of logic, the soul is saddled with pride. Only the heart has no logic, and only the heart can bypass pride. You’re welcome to come back home with me tonight. Or else I’ll take you back to Wendy’s. You decide. Just let me know.”

  “Yeah, I will,” Brad answered, though it was only a pretense that he needed to make a decision. They both knew where Brad was going for the night.

  “Hey!” Eric cried suddenly.

  “What?” Brad set down his beer can.

  “I’ve got a bite on my line!”

  “Oh,” Brad said in relief. Then he laughed. “Oh.”

  Eric looked up at him, realizing that Brad had thought someone was near them, stalking them. He grimaced. “Sorry.” Then his line plunged, and he rose to battle it out with the fish. But it was too late. The fish had cleverly slipped off the hook.

  “You made me lose him,” Eric complained.

  “I made you lose him?” Brad protested.

  Amid an easy chorus of laughter Brad took out two new cans of beer, and they settled down to wait again.

  Dusk came, illuminating the canals in shades of gold and red and mauve. The white cranes on the water seemed to be bathed in pink. Then darkness fell, nearly complete.

  “I don’t think that anyone is coming back here today,” Eric said.

  Brad shook his head. He could barely see Eric in the darkness, but his eyes were starting to adjust to it. “They’ve got something going here, though, I’m sure. Maybe every third day or so. How the hell did they ever find this place?”

  “Airboat. There are shacks all over the Glades. Somebody found it to be a convenient spot. Maybe they’re gone for good, maybe they’ll come back. We can check it out again tomorrow.”

  Brad nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Quit that, will you?” Eric charged him. “I told you—this is my territory your man Michaelson is messing with.” Eric started the boat motor, and they began to sluice through the canals, the headlight on the airboat their only illumination except for the stars above. There was barely a sliver of a moon that night.

  Although he still hadn’t said anything to Eric, Brad realized that they were heading for Wendy’s house.

  But as they came upon Wendy’s, Eric quickly cut the motor. The house was too empty; it was too dark.

  “We’ll go around to the marshy side where there’s more saw grass to hide us,” Eric whispered.

  As Eric secured the airboat, Brad stepped off into deep muck that pulled at his borrowed shoes. He hurried through the marsh until he reached dry land. Eric joined him shortly, moving more easily in his high boots.

  “She isn’t here!” Brad said tensely.

  “Well, maybe—”

  “It doesn’t take that long to go shopping!” Brad insisted. Fear clawed at his throat and ravaged his gut. What if Wendy’s cabin wasn’t hidden deep enough in the swamp? If someone had been biding time in an old wooden shack, couldn’t they have also discovered Wendy’s handsome home with all the modern conveniences?

  He tried to swallow down his fear for her; he tried to think professionally and rationally.

  “I’m sure,” Eric said very quietly, “that she just hasn’t come home yet. She might have gone out to the village. And she might have visited some friends in town. There are any number of things that she could be doing.”

&n
bsp; Sure, Brad thought. Any number of things. All he knew was that she wasn’t nearby, where he could touch her and see her and know that she was safe. “Let’s check it out,” he said softly.

  By instinct, they nodded at one another and stealthily crept around the house in opposite directions, Brad going left, and Eric moving to the right.

  Although Brad’s instincts told him that there was no one there, he couldn’t control the pounding of his heart, the naked fear that Michaelson might have snatched Wendy.

  At last he reached the back of the house. He sensed movement, then heard a birdcall. Despite his tension, he smiled. It was Eric. It was a damned good birdcall; a week ago he would have thought that it was real. One week in the swamp had sharpened his senses.

  He stepped out around the back. Eric joined him.

  “Nothing?” Brad asked him.

  Eric shook his head. “Nothing. I don’t think anyone has been here since we left earlier today. But come on, we’ll check the house.”

  “Think we really ought to break in?”

  “No.” Eric grinned. “I have a key.”

  When they surveyed the house, Brad quickly saw that nothing had been touched since they had left that morning. He expelled a long sigh and sank onto the sofa.

  “What if Michaelson grabbed her?” he said out loud. “What if he somehow figured out that she was sheltering me, and he grabbed her out in the swamp?”

  “Come on, Brad, she’s a big girl. She was upset. Probably wanted to talk to Grandfather, or maybe a friend, as I said.” He grinned. “Ordinarily, she would have talked to me, but hell, it looks like I’ve joined the enemy. That meant she had to find someone else. She’s all right. I’m sure of it.”

  Was he so sure? Brad wondered. Despite his words, Eric was pacing, too.

  Then they both froze.

  There had been no sound of a motor, no sudden flash of headlights.

  But someone was outside now, moving around the house in secrecy and stealth.

  They looked at one another and rose quickly. Silently, they headed for the front door. Brad opened it cautiously, then both men paused to look out. There was nothing there. The lawn was covered in a soft glow of light from the house, but the edge of the yard was surrounded by shadow. The high pines to the right seemed like a dark forest where a million demons could dwell—a million Michaelsons.