by Jade Powers
Wendy wished she’d brought bread to feed the ducks. It was such an incongruous thought to the conversation at hand. She was tired of all the doubts. She just wanted to act. She said, “If my staying here reveals John’s killer, I’m all for it.”
“What if the plan fails? We are here alone without backup.” Carson took her hand. It was an accident. He did it to convey his feelings for her without consciously thinking. Once he was holding her hand, he didn’t know what to do with it. She didn’t pull away, so he just squeezed her fingers and sighed.
With the summer sun warming her cheeks and holding hands with Carson, Wendy felt safe. Not just safe, but distanced from her own life. For the first time when she thought of the future, it didn’t seem like an empty pit.
Wendy glanced at Carson and allowed herself to feel the attraction. His brow was furrowed, and from the lines, it seemed to Wendy that Carson frequently worried. Today was no exception. She remembered his arms surrounding her, protecting her that night in the hotel. It was a shame she hadn’t gotten drunk enough to black out that night’s memories, because that single night had soothed one ache, only to uncover a deep desire and longing for Carson.
He held her hand gently in his as if it would break, as if giving her permission to pull away. They sat in silence while the pair of ducks paddled through the water. Wendy said, “This is the first time in a long time that I’ve been able to forget. Not completely, but somehow I feel distanced from everything. I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to go home yet. Even if we’re being used, I want to stay.”
Carson rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb. “I hope nothing comes of us staying here. I can’t feel comfortable about what is happening.”
“What worm feels happy on a hook?” Wendy asked. But she didn’t believe it. Not really. She felt perfectly safe in McFarland’s guest house. She expected that long before anyone could endanger her, McFarland would find the canker in his organization and root it out, and then maybe Wendy could have some peace.
CARSON PICKED UP THE phone on the first ring. All day long he’d been jumpy. Not that he believed himself to be psychic, but Carson had a sense about things. Drake and Sven trusted that sense. If Carson told them a mission felt wrong, they listened and adjusted until it felt right to him. One of his teams had called him their four leaf clover. It had turned into a running joke for awhile.
Now, Carson had the worst feeling that something was wrong. The grounds were quiet. The house was empty except for Wendy. There was no reason to feel so antsy. But he did. Carson always trusted his intuition.
He knew they were in danger. Just as he knew that the phone call meant trouble when he picked it up and said, “Carson.”
It was McFarland himself. He said, “Evacuate, Carson. Get out now.”
“What’s going on?” Carson wanted to reach through the phone and strangle General McFarland. Hopefully he would survive to give the general a dressing down fit for a grunt.
“It’s Jonas Bertrand. My second-in-command. He has a dozen men with him. He’s minutes out, and I haven’t been able to reach anyone to stop him. You don’t have time to argue. Take Wendy and go,” McFarland spoke in clipped tones that spooked Carson. He’d never heard the man so panicked before.
“Yes, sir.”
Carson hung up the phone and ran for Wendy’s room. She was napping, although sometimes that meant she was crying alone in her room. Those times that he could hear the sobs, it killed him to know that he couldn’t help. It was early afternoon. He pounded on the door. She answered with a book in hand. He said, “Wendy, grab your jacket and get dressed. We have to go now.”
They climbed into Carson’s truck. He urged Wendy to hurry. They left behind suitcases and personal items. Right now getting out was the most important thing. Before Wendy was even seat-belted, Carson put the truck in drive and floored it. When he hit the rise, he saw the convoy of trucks in the distance coming up the road.
“We are so fucked,” Carson spun the truck, bouncing over the rough grass at the side of the driveway to turn around, dust plastering the windshield as he drove into the cloud he had just created.
“What is it?” Wendy held onto the dash, practically flying when the truck bounded back onto the gravel road.
“McFarland’s back-up bait worked. He called the warning, but it’s too late. Damn it. I know they saw us.” Carson floored the truck, the tires spitting gravel as he flew back down the driveway, ignoring the gravel turnabout in front of the house and driving straight for the barn. He parked behind the barn, his eyes watching the mirror as he quickly parked on the side, the truck hidden from the road, but that cloud of dirt wouldn’t settle fast enough. They’d know he and Wendy had been on that road.
“Come on. I saw a dirt bike. We’ll have to make a run for it,” Carson stuffed his keys into his pocket and threw himself out of the truck. At least Wendy was taking this seriously. She was right behind him, slamming the door shut and running with him to the barn.
The side door to the barn was unlocked. Grateful for small mercies, Carson held the door open for Wendy. The barn was dark and smelled of dust and grease. This particular barn hadn’t been used to hold animals for years. McFarland used it for his toys.
“Do you know how to ride?” Carson grabbed one of the bikes and pushed it to barn door. He’d have to unlock the swinging door at the back and push it open. If anyone out there wanted him dead, it wouldn’t be too hard to make that happen. Not if they were scoping the barn with a sharp shooter from a few miles out. But if they wanted to stage an accident, they’d try something else.
Wendy didn’t take her eyes off that bike. She trembled at the idea of riding. She said, “No. Carson, I don’t want to do this. Let’s hide in the barn. They’ll think we left. Everything will be fine.”
“Bertrand’s men are coming for us. This bike is our best chance of getting away.” Carson strapped on a helmet and then handed Wendy the other helmet as if it had already been decided. She pulled it over her head while he opened the barn door and maneuvered the bike into the open.
Carson swung onto the bike and looked back once at Wendy. He expected her to climb on behind him. The parallels to John’s death had not escaped her. With a sigh, she stepped up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. Hoarse from raw emotion, she said, “Don’t wreck.”
Carson heard the trembling in her voice. He said, “I’ll do my best.”
He negotiated the bike out of the barn. With a roar, he shot off across the small dirt road that led away from the barn, grateful for the days he’d spent exploring the area. A cloud of dust rose behind them. Wendy wanted to look over her shoulder but didn’t dare unbalance the bike. They were traveling faster than they should have been on a primitive road.
After a ten minute drive, Carson took the turn-off to the horse track. The track edged McFarland’s property. On the side was an old barn filled with Hay. He pulled in next to the barn. “Wendy, I want you hide in here. I’m going to lead them away.”
That sounded like a great plan to Wendy. Some people had a sense of freedom and adventure on the back of a bike. Wendy only felt terror.
“Be careful,” Wendy said. She dismounted and ran for the barn.
Carson didn’t wait for her to go inside before continuing on his way. He sped along the side of the track to the horse trail. It was wide enough for the bike, but not a truck. The trail was a few feet wide and in another few miles would run next to the river and back toward the main road. He fully expected one of the teams to be holding at the bridge. He would lead them further down the trail and away from Wendy.
The miles flew with little incident. A few times Carson second-guessed his plan. The caravan he’d seen would have reached the house by now. They would see it abandoned and start to look further. He could have stayed behind with Wendy or she could have kept riding. He wasn’t exactly leading anyone further away as there didn’t seem to be anyone chasing him.
When he turned down the trail toward
the river, Carson was grateful for the precautions he’d taken. Three jeeps blocked the road. Men with binoculars stood at the bridge, watching. Carson saw one of them point at him.
He poured on the gas, bumping his way down the trail and hoping that he stayed on the bike. The guys on the bridge weren’t pulling out weapons. That was a plus, but they were certainly interested in him. When he passed to the left, he thought he’d escaped, but he heard the sound of pair of motorbikes. Looking over his shoulder, Carson realized that two men had joined him on the trail.
Chapter 8
CARSON BARRELED DOWN the path, following the winding turns on the river. The bumps lifted him but he was having more fun than he’d had in ages. Not that he wasn’t in a dangerous position, but the combination of a fast bike and a primitive trail made for a heady experience.
As the miles passed, Carson realized that his two trackers had disappeared. They must have turned back to search closer to home. If they were hunting down a middle-aged woman, Carson certainly didn’t fit the bill. They must have gotten a good look at him and stopped following.
The path turned close to the river and Carson was giving thought to finding a turn-out when he hit a rock at a bad angle above the river. The bounce jarred him sideways and the wheel hit the embankment wrong. He slid sideways. The slide turned into a plunge as he fell into the river.
The water was fast moving and full of rocks. Carson hit hard, his arm bearing the weight of the fall. The cold water shocked his system. Sucking in a breath, Carson struggled to stand.
The bike was wrecked. Carson wouldn’t be able to ride it back. He pulled it up, biting down on the scream that came from putting pressure on his broken arm. It wouldn’t do for anyone to find the bike on this side of the river. Using his legs to support the bike, Carson slowly crossed the river, dumping the bike there. He would recover it for McFarland when the whole fleeing from enemies thing was done, not that the bike would be worth much now that it was trashed.
The current was strong, but Carson managed to trudge back across the rocks to the spot where he fell. The worst part was trying to walk up the embankment with a broken arm. He would take a step only to slide back because he couldn’t use his right arm which was on his dominant side, to pull himself up.
Carson waded along the side of the river with a mind to scramble up the bank where the rocks were more stable. Unfortunately his scrambling skills were still stymied by the broken arm.
“Crap.” Carson said, as he slid back once more in his efforts to climb the small cliff that separated the river from the path. Finally, Carson stopped fighting the embankment. He would just have to walk the river. It was full of slippery rocks, but eventually he found a gradual slope that he could climb injured.
The barn was a good long walk from the river. Carson returned to the bike trail. He was scared for Wendy. It they abandoned the chase for him, it might be because they found better prey. Carson walked until the sun crossed the sky and still walked. His shoes sloshed. He was damned uncomfortable and about as cold and miserable as a person could be. His only thought was that he had to get to Wendy. He had to hope that things turned out better for her.
WENDY HATED BEING LEFT behind, but not as much as she hated riding when she wasn’t in control. She spent an hour in the barn, waiting for Carson. Waiting didn’t seem like a great option, not when she was a short few miles from a house descended on by a bunch of people trained in the military who very well had orders to kill her on sight.
She climbed up the ladder to the loft and watched from the opening. For a long time nothing happened. Then Wendy watched as a pickup bounced along one of the roads. It could have been anyone.
When another boring hour passed, Wendy decided she’d had enough of waiting for Carson. She had seen the dirt bike trail he’d taken. She had three options, stay put, try the trail, or risk returning to the house. Wendy was far too impatient to stay put.
She jogged the first few miles, checking over her shoulder to see if anyone was following. Had she not seen the convoy of cars coming up the driveway, Wendy might have decided nothing was happening and return to the house. The whole world seemed quiet.
Wendy knew better. She couldn’t feel good about walking down a path in plain sight of a dozen ranches...but not the McFarland ranch, which gave her hope. By now McFarland should have wrested control of the troops sent to kill her. That was his plan. Better to trust her survival instincts than a guy who spent his life lying.
For a short while, the path ran downhill, leaving the meadows and running under a copse of trees. Someone had cleared the undergrowth to protect riders. She had plans to stop at a nearby house and call for a taxi or the police. What she didn’t plan was running into a chilled man with a broken arm. As he walked, Carson shivered in wet clothes, covered in mud and still squishing as he walked.
“Carson! What happened to you?”
His face was pale with a pained expression. He blinked twice, startled. He said, “Wendy? What are you doing here?”
“I can’t spend my life hiding in a barn. We need to get help.”
When Carson heard the whirring blades of an approaching helicopter, he reached out for Wendy. “We need to get deeper into the trees.”
They walked off path and into the woods. The shade from the trees cooled the air and sent another shiver through Carson. He looked wretched with his hair wet, his clothes muddy and torn, and water dripping everywhere
Wendy scanned the tiny patches of blue above the tree, looking for the cause of the sound. She said, “Surely the helicopter is not meant for us.”
“If they would spend the money to send five trucks to the house, they would send a helicopter. General McFarland’s name carries a lot of weight. Even if he’s not the culprit here, someone planned a raid in his name. Let’s not give them anything,” Carson stumbled nearly falling, but Wendy used her body to stop his fall.
Wendy let Carson lean on her. She asked, “Where are you hurt?”
“My arm is broken, and there’s a bit of bruising on my side. I’m fine,” Carson disentangled himself from Wendy as if to prove the point. It just made his walk unstable. He moved deeper into the shadows.
“We need to get you to a hospital,” Wendy said.
The helicopter buzzed the trees. Wendy peered up, trying to see it through the foliage. “Do you think they know we’re here?”
“No. At least not exactly here. I’m sure they expect us to be in the area, but right now they’re just searching. I have an idea if you’re up for it.” Carson actually shuddered, his teeth clenched while he spoke. His jeans dripped and Wendy didn’t understand how he could be wandering around dripping wet like that. It must be miserable.
Wendy said, “If it involves getting you to a place that’s warm and dry, I’m all for it.”
“There’s a tree house a quarter mile back. Not just a kids’ one. It looks like a father helped construct it. It has a ladder down the side and a sturdy platform, protected on all sides. We could hide there until nightfall.”
“Won’t they spread out and come looking for us?” Wendy asked. The plan had a lot of flaws, but then she took off to New York lacking any good judgment and jumped right on board when McFarland wanted to shuffle them off to his safe house, so she had very little to complain about.
“They don’t know where we went or where to look. Even if they do, we’re safer staying put right now then risking the road.” Carson wiped his forehead, but it just made his hair wet. He looked ready to faint.
“Okay. Let’s check out this tree house. It might be a suitable hiding place for a while.” What Wendy was really thinking was that maybe she could get Carson settled there while she went for help. Although it wasn’t that far in terms of distance, by the time they arrived, Wendy and Carson were worn out.
Carson leaned on Wendy the whole way. Her jacket was wet where she held him up, and she was starting to feel damp herself. They stood at the bottom of the tree staring up the ladder. Wendy sighed. It wasn
’t that she hated climbing. She’d been a tom boy as a girl. It was that Carson’s broken arm and squishy shoes didn’t exactly make for easy movement. She feared he would nearly reach the top and then fall. At that point the decision to go for help would move from choice to necessity.
Carson grabbed a rung just above his head. “You’d better wait here until I reach the top, then follow.”
Which was exactly what Wendy intended. But the minute Carson said as much she wanted to disagree. She had to bite her lip to keep from arguing. Instead she said, “Be careful.”
The tree was one of those ancient gnarly trees whose girth had enlivened many a child’s natural fantasies. It was a crazy thing to do, hide in a tree house, but then, this had been the year for crazy. Once Carson was safely up, Wendy climbed. The tree house was tiny. Worse, the water dripping from Carson’s clothes had already formed a puddle.
“You need a hospital,” Wendy said, still standing on the ladder. She looked down over her shoulder. It wasn’t a terrible way down. Wedging her shoes tight against the last wooden rung hammered into the tree, Wendy reached into the tree house and untied Carson’s shoes. She removed them one by one, aided by Carson who lifted his foot and helped with his good arm.
It was probably a good thing that Wendy had been married before. She wasn’t as squeamish of such a thing as a man’s socks, even as wet and swampy and covered in mud as Carson’s.
“I can do that,” Carson said. He held his broken arm gingerly in his hand. His jeans were wet. The bottom of his t-shirt was dripping. All in all, he looked supremely miserable.
Wendy felt a pang of loneliness or maybe it was desire. She couldn’t tell these days. Her emotions were confused. Pushing her feelings down, she carefully tugged on the first sock, unrolling it off Carson’s foot. She said, “It’s almost done. You need to take off your jeans.”