Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  Wendy thought that she would lose her mind with fear. Michaelson was still holding a gun on her, Eric could be shot and killed any second, and Brad had disappeared somewhere.

  “McKenna took off on me, the stinking coward.” Eric spit into the grass. “He’s hiding here somewhere. Give me a chance—I can catch him.”

  Wendy winced as Michaelson raised the nose of the gun to her temple. “You’d better not be bluffing, boy.”

  “He’s got to be back here. Help me. We’ll get him.”

  Wendy sensed Michaelson’s hesitation. Then he lowered the gun and aimed it against her spine. “Walk, girl. Walk straight toward your Indian friend.” He turned back to the house. “Jenkins! Pedro! Come on—now!”

  He pushed Wendy forward. She started walking. As she moved ahead the grass was growing thicker and the ground was beginning to give way. The shack stood on the high part of the hammock. This was treacherous ground below. Her boots sank in the mud.

  As she came closer and closer to Eric, she stared into his eyes. Green and steady, they gave nothing away.

  Where the hell was Brad? she wondered.

  Michaelson was wondering the same thing. “This better not be a trap, Injun boy. If you make one false move, she’s dead. I’ll kill her slow. I’ll crack her spine and shatter her tailbone.”

  Wendy shivered. She could still feel the cold steel barrel of the gun.

  “No trap, I swear it,” Eric reassured. “That slime just lit out of here. He was willing to let Wendy get killed in his place. If I find him, I want him. I know how to make people die slowly, too.”

  Michaelson grunted. Wendy stared at Eric, praying for courage.

  The muck was growing deeper. Leif had taught her to avoid terrain like this. Too easily, the muck became quicksand. They shouldn’t be walking here. Any step could be a false step.

  “Come on, Wendy!” Eric called to her. “We’ve got to find that bastard! He split and ran out on us!”

  “Eric...?”

  She looked at him, begging for an answer. Ignoring her fear, he led her farther away.

  Michaelson shoved her in the back with the gun. “You heard him! Move. I want that G-man dead.”

  “Move, Wendy!” Eric persisted. She kept coming.

  Then she realized that there were no sounds coming from behind them. Michaelson had ordered Jenkins and Pedro to come along behind him. They hadn’t done so.

  Michaelson muttered something. As Wendy felt the suck and pull against her boots, she remembered that Michaelson was wearing fancy leather loafers.

  Struggling to lift her foot, she took another step. She stumbled, barely recovering before falling forward. She tried to pull her foot up again, but the suction was too strong. She sank deeper.

  Michaelson crashed into her and his gun slipped from his fingers. Beneath them, the ground gurgled. Wendy looked down, watching as Michaelson’s weapon was swallowed into the muck.

  He began to swear again. Even as the words came out of his mouth, the muck rose around them.

  It wasn’t rising, Wendy thought hysterically. They were sinking together.

  “Bastard!” Michaelson screamed out. Wendy realized that he was screaming at Eric, who continued to stare at him.

  The ground held on to them, tightly. Wendy realized that she’d sunk up to her thighs in the grasping muck. A scream rose in her throat.

  Just as she cried out, a terrible sound of agony exploded on the air. Michaelson twisted. Wendy realized that the bellow came from behind them, from the cabin.

  Michaelson wrapped his arms around her tightly. “She goes down with me! Bastards! She goes down with me!”

  Wendy cried out in pain and panic. His arms were choking her. He was bearing her down, down deeper and deeper into the relentless hold of the earth. He no longer held the gun, but he held her. And there was no escape.

  She cast back her head and screamed.

  * * *

  Inside the cabin, Brad heard Wendy’s scream.

  So far, things had gone like clockwork, smooth as ice. He and Eric had carefully pondered the plan, and though it hadn’t been foolproof, it had been the best they could do.

  But it had gone well. He had managed to walk straight toward the cabin, then disappear flat against a side wall. If Michaelson, Jenkins or Pedro had looked around, he would have been finished before he had ever begun.

  But they hadn’t.

  And Michaelson’s temper had snapped, just as Brad had gambled that it would. Michaelson had dragged Wendy out. Then it had been hard to concentrate. Brad had reminded himself that their lives depended on his action during the next few minutes. Pressed flat against the cabin, he told himself that he was trained for this, that he needed to be cool and calculating.

  It was probably the hardest thing he would ever do.

  Watching Michaelson slam the gun against Wendy’s cheek, he’d turned and darted around the building, entering the cabin the very way that Michaelson had just exited it.

  Pedro and Jenkins had been standing at the window, staring out.

  Jenkins hadn’t realized that Brad was in the cabin until he’d already knocked Pedro out with the rifle butt.

  Jenkins was good with terrain, but he was too heavy to be a good fighter. He couldn’t move quickly enough. Brad grimly took him with a knee jab to his gut and a swing of the rifle butt against his chin.

  Pedro would be out for a long, long time. Although Brad was pretty sure that Jenkins had a broken jaw, he used his belt to tie up the man’s arms. Jenkins was dangerous, more dangerous when he was wounded. Just like an animal. Hell, they were animals.

  Brad was just finishing with Jenkins when he heard Wendy’s scream.

  His heart soaring to his throat, he burst out of the cabin and raced around the side.

  He could see Eric running. He was a burst of speed, racing toward the quicksand pool.

  And Brad saw why.

  Wendy had played it like a trouper. Eric had worried that she would sense the quicksand and panic. But she had played the stoic and kept walking. Michaelson had become disarmed, which was even better than they had hoped. They had figured they would have to bargain for the gun.

  But now they were going to have to bargain for Wendy’s life.

  Michaelson had her in as tight a grasp as the sucking earth. He was moving frantically, and with each movement, the two of them were sinking deeper.

  “Let her go!” Brad hardly recognized his own voice, nor could he feel his feet against the ground. “Let her go!” he screamed again. He needed to be logical; he needed to talk, to tell Michaelson to calm down, to stay still. “Let her go!” he thundered out the command again.

  Eric had already reached the black pool. He laid his body flat, reaching for Wendy’s hands.

  Brad thrashed into the mud. Instantly, he felt the pull of the muck, slithering over him, grabbing on to him. It was like an evil, living creature.

  He ignored it. Wendy was before him, but Michaelson’s arms were around her neck. The muck was up to her breasts.

  “Brad!” she whispered his name. She was white as ash, filthy and trembling. Michaelson’s hands were around her throat, bearing down on her. And still her eyes were beautifully silver. She was slipping away from the world, and still, her eyes were telling Brad that she loved him.

  He let out a yell, a sound that he’d never heard before. It was a cry of the wild, as harsh and merciless as the land.

  He caught on to Michaelson’s hands, wrenching them from their choking hold on Wendy.

  Michaelson wasn’t beat. “Bastard!” he hissed at Brad. “Fed bastard, you’ll go down with me.”

  Brad got off one good punch. Michaelson staggered in the muck, trying to aim back at him. Brad turned to shove Wendy toward Eric. She was slipping farther and
farther. The pool of black mud was rising to her chin. “Give me your hand!” he called to her, reaching into the endless blackness. His fingers curled around hers. He screamed out a curse and a prayer. With a horrible sound, the muck relinquished Wendy’s hand.

  Eric reached her; Brad was afraid that he would not be able to hold her, that the muck would be too slick and slippery.

  Eric’s fingers were a vise around Wendy’s wrists. He had her.

  Just in time. With peripheral vision, Brad saw Michaelson locking his fists to pound them down on him. He leaned to the side and Michaelson’s blow just grazed him. Brad was sinking deeper, he realized. The muck really did seem to be alive. Like a breathing, black demon, it swarmed over his body, caressing his flesh with a sure promise of death.

  “You’re going with me, cop,” Michaelson said. He started to laugh. Brad decided that the man was insane, but then, anyone who had ice in his veins instead of blood, the way Michaelson did, could not be completely sane.

  “I’m not a cop,” Brad said. “I’m DEA.” Unfortunately, Brad realized, it was a moot point under these circumstances.

  “Brad!” Wendy screamed his name. Twisting around, he could see that Eric had pulled her free. She was covered in the black muck, but she was free.

  And he was nearly up to his throat.

  “Brad! Take my hand!” Wendy cried. Those beautiful silver eyes of hers were on him. Her hair was covered in muck, but her eyes were pure.

  “No, Wendy—”

  “Take her hand!” Eric yelled. Brad realized the grip that Eric had around Wendy’s legs. His heart pounded. No, he thought. Wendy, go. Wendy, you’re safe. Run out of here, I dragged you into this.

  “Brad!” she screeched.

  “Dammit! I know what I’m doing!” Eric said.

  Brad realized that he was suddenly exhausted. He could barely lift his arms. It required a supreme effort to move.

  “Brad!”

  Her cry gave him strength. He reached out, and her fingers curled around him. He could feel the tremendous effort that she and Eric put forth. He closed his eyes. He was the rope in a tug-of-war. The earth wanted him.

  Then it began to give. Staring at Wendy’s mud-covered fingers on his arms, he realized slowly that they were overcoming the pull of the muck. He was easing out of it.

  There was a long, mournful sound. The muck seemed to cry out.

  Then it bubbled and gurgled, and suddenly, he was free.

  He landed on top of Wendy and Eric. Although they were all covered in mud, they began to laugh.

  “Bastard! You lousy bas—”

  Michaelson never finished the last word. His head disappeared with a sickening whoosh of suction.

  It was almost me, Brad thought. It had almost been Wendy.

  “Oh, God!” Wendy whispered.

  He kissed her. She tasted like mud. When he released her, she was still laughing.

  Then his spine tingled with awareness. A strange shadow had fallen over them.

  Wendy’s eyes widened as she felt the sudden constriction in Brad’s muscles. She looked up and saw a stranger staring down at the three of them. Tall and lean with silver hair, he was a striking man. His eyes were blue, and they looked as if they could be hard. But there was warmth in them now—warmth and amusement.

  “Purdy!” Brad said, astonished. “Sir!”

  L. Davis Purdy stared down at the three of them, his hands on his hips. “McKenna, I run my ass ragged, I drag that distinguished older gentleman—” he paused, backing away slightly. Wendy saw that Willie was just behind him “—around the swamp, and what do I find? You—mud wrestling with his granddaughter.”

  “McKenna, you do get the hard assignments.” A younger man stood at Purdy’s side. He was shorter than Purdy, but lean and rip-cord hard. He had red hair and freckles, and he grinned at Brad and winked at Wendy.

  “Gary,” Brad said.

  “What is this?” Eric demanded.

  “Eric, Wendy—meet Mr. L. Davis Purdy. And Gary Henshaw.”

  Wendy automatically reached out a hand, then realized that she was covered in mud and still lying on the ground.

  Purdy laughed, clutched her hand and helped her to her feet. “Mrs. Hawk, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And Eric.” Eric jumped to his feet by his own power then. Wendy offered Purdy a wavery smile, then she turned and ran to Willie, who hugged her fiercely.

  “How did you get here?” Brad began, then he gazed at Willie, and the old Indian nodded to him gravely.

  “Your friend from the garage, Mac, got us out to Mrs. Hawk’s home, where we found the senior Mr. Hawk. He brought us out here.” Purdy’s pleasant smile faded for a moment. He inclined his head toward the quicksand pool. “Michaelson?”

  Brad nodded to his boss.

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” Purdy murmured. Then a smile curved the corners of his mouth. “You are a mess.”

  “Yeah? Well, where were you when we were becoming a mess?”

  Gary laughed. “We checked out the shack. It looks like Pedro is waking up, but I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

  “Oh?” Brad said.

  “There was this great big cat standing over him. I was ready to shoot the thing, but Mr. Hawk assured me that the panther was a trusted and loyal pet.”

  “Baby!” Brad said.

  “Honestly.” Purdy looked at Gary and shook his head. “Leave the boy alone in the woods for a week, and he goes right to hell. Mud wrestling. And he thinks a hundred-and-fifty-pound panther is a pussycat. Hell. What’s this man coming to?”

  Brad glanced at Eric, and both men laughed. Purdy started walking back toward the shack. “We’ve got a few things to pick up at the shack. McKenna, you need a bath. Let’s get moving here, shall we?”

  He wasn’t going to get any time alone with Wendy, Brad saw that quickly. From that moment on, they weren’t even together.

  Purdy ordered Gary to stay with the Hawks and help them in any way possible. He wanted Wendy and Eric to come back with them for statements, but he intended to let them go home first to bathe and change.

  He wanted Brad to come with him immediately. It seemed there would be an informal interrogation with Charlie Jenkins and Pedro.

  Before they parted, Brad noticed Wendy watching him. He saw the silver light in her eyes, glistening like tears, a shadow of sadness.

  His heart plummeted and hammered. She considered it over, he realized. Right then and there, it was over.

  He wanted to scream out her name, to push everyone aside and race to her. If he could hold her tightly enough, he could tell her that they were stronger than life’s obstacles, that they could make it together.

  He never had the chance to say a word. She stared at him a final second, and then she turned away.

  “Brad, let’s go,” Purdy admonished him impatiently.

  From then on, the day became a blur of rapid-fire activity. Purdy conducted questioning in the shack. Neither Pedro nor Jenkins put up much of a fight. Purdy wanted to know about the plane, and they were willing to answer questions, not that they could provide much help. Michaelson knew that the small cargo plane carrying his shipment had crashed somewhere in the vast swampland almost two days ago. They assumed the pilot was dead—there’d been no radio contact. Jenkins drew pictures on the ground, showing them where he thought the plane was. Then he begged for a doctor to set his jaw.

  Purdy nodded to one of his men, a medic. The young man came over to Jenkins, gave him a pain pill and wrapped his jaw tightly. “There will be a chopper out here soon to rush you down to Jackson,” Purdy assured Jenkins.

  Purdy had barely spoken before the helicopter could be heard hovering above them. Since it couldn’t land in the swamp, Jenkins was sent up first in a basket rigging, then Pedro followed. Brad stood o
n the ground and watched them go, rising into the sky. They would both heal. They would probably get stiff prison terms. Along with whatever else the D.A.’s office charged them with, kidnapping was sure to be a part of the prosecution.

  Purdy set up a task force to search the swamp for the plane. He radioed in for air assistance, then he surveyed Brad from head to toe. Taking in the drying muck, he smiled.

  “Well, it’s over for you, McKenna.”

  Over, God, he hated that word. It couldn’t be over. Even if she had turned away from him, it couldn’t be over.

  “Let’s go back in,” Purdy said. “I told you, you need a bath. Badly.”

  “Sir, I’ve come to know something about this place. I might be helpful in searching for the downed plane.”

  “Brad! It’s over. You’ve done your job. And I need you back at the office to file reports and give your statements to the D.A. Let’s move.”

  Brad exhaled and started walking. “I don’t even have a lousy home to go to for a bath! My clothes are gone...my record collection is gone. I’m just damned grateful that I didn’t have a German shepherd!”

  Purdy slapped him on the back. “I rented an apartment for you—right on the water. The boys and I put together for a few outfits, and if I’m not mistaken, your insurance check is on the kitchen counter. But I need those statements and paperwork from you this week, so come on.”

  * * *

  There wasn’t anything wrong with the apartment Purdy had rented for him. And Purdy and Gary and some of the others had gone out and bought him some things, so he was able to take a shower and dress in a clean suit. There was even some stoneware in the cabinets, a few groceries and a kettle, so he was able to brew himself some instant coffee before heading into the office to start the endless paperwork.

  There was nothing wrong with any of it. He had to admit that the apartment was even nicer than the one that Michaelson had blasted. The guys knew his taste fairly well, so the clothes were fine.

  But the apartment seemed empty—empty as hell.