by Kim McMahill
Grace gasped, lamenting the first glitch in her hastily hatched plan. She scrambled to gather up the ammo as another series of shots sprayed more glass and splinters of wood through the kitchen. Blue squealed and retreated under the kitchen table, shaking, the earlier bravado vanishing. Aussie became more frantic, his barking reaching a pitch higher than she had ever heard from the usually placid dog.
“So much for an organized resistance,” she cursed. “At least I don’t have to open the door now to take a shot.”
Grace poked the barrel of her shotgun out the broken window, and being careful to expose as little of her body as possible, she fired both barrels in the direction of the man who had been doing all the talking. She couldn’t tell if her shots hit anything, but her target dove to the ground, giving her a moment to reload.
When she dared another glance, all four men were scrambling to get into the big white vehicle they had arrived in. She doubted they were planning to leave without the data, so she feared they intended to ram the front door, or at least use the vehicle to get closer to the house.
Taking advantage of the brief lull, she grabbed Aussie’s collar and encouraged Blue to follow. She led the dogs to the garage, getting them out of harm’s way if her first theory materialized. A streak of blood followed Blue as he limped behind at her command, whimpering, tail tucked between his legs. She didn’t have time to check the dog for injuries and prayed none were serious.
After securing the dogs, she hazarded a peek out the window and spied the vehicle backing up out of the driveway and into the lane, lining itself up with the front door.
Maybe they were leaving.
No sooner had the hopeful thought edged into her mind, when they stopped. The vehicle idled for a moment before it started forward, slowly gaining speed as the tires spun on the snow-packed surface.
Grace scanned the area around her, looking for the safest place to brace for the impact and where she might have an opportunity to put her two shells to good use when the occupants arrived. Deciding on the stairwell, she hazarded one last glance out the broken window and froze.
Lights raced toward the scene from the direction of the river. A snowmobile flew by in front of the rig, strafing the vehicle with harmless handgun fire, but creating enough of a distraction to make the driver brake, stopping all forward momentum. The two back doors flew open, and men with guns braced for the next pass of the lone snowmobile.
Grace held her breath as she watched the headlights make a sweeping turn and come to a stop facing the direction of the vehicle. Has Sheriff Harris finally arrived? But if so, where are his deputies? Maybe it was Logan, but how would he have gotten a machine on such short notice, and why did he stop?
After several moments, the sled began to gather speed, racing toward the waiting vehicle. As the machine neared, the men standing outside the rig opened fire. The sled weaved and swerved close to the idle vehicle, and a tiny spark flew through the dark night, appearing to land on the Suburban’s hood.
The scene unfolded as if in slow motion. Grace watched the front two doors fly open, men piling out of the rig, and all four occupants running in opposite directions. The sky lit up as an eardrum-shattering explosion lifted the large vehicle slightly and engulfed it in flames, the percussion catapulting the running men into the air and shaking the remaining intact windows of the house.
Grace stared in disbelief, her ears ringing, her mind whirling, struggling to grasp what had happened. The haze made her slow to react as the snowmobile flew onto the porch and the driver dove off, rolling toward the door, the machine speeding on, riderless.
Fists pounding on the wood, a familiar voice yelling her name, and a shoulder slamming into the door broke through the fog. Grace feared the door was about to give as she fumbled to unfasten the lock. A man pushed through, knocking her out of the way. Grace regained her balance, slammed the door shut, and threw herself into the arms of the gasping man.
Chapter Forty
Sheriff Harris wasn’t sure what he was witnessing up ahead, but he didn’t like it one bit.
He and his deputies had passed the snowplow fifteen minutes ago and learned that Logan had left in a panic, yet he saw no sign of his deputy’s flashing lights or his rig. Instead, the turnoff to the Talbot Ranch swarmed with the smaller headlights of multiple snowmobiles, and a faint glow emanated from the other side of the rise which dropped down to the ranch house.
He eased his vehicle off the road and waited for the two officers following in another truck to pull in behind him. The snowmobiles stopped circling, and their riders killed the motors and headlights. Three riders dismounted and slowly walked toward Harris’s rig. Not knowing the riders’ identities, he pulled his weapon and motioned for his deputies to spread out, take cover, and wait for his order.
The three men stopped, slowly pulled their helmets off, and raised their hands high in the air, exposing their identities in the light cast by the sheriff’s vehicle headlights.
“Stand down!” Harris ordered his men. He recognized the drivers. Holstering his gun, he stepped forward.
“Matthews, I told you to stay away from here. You were just to watch and report,” Sheriff Harris scolded.
“Haven’t been anywhere near the house. I can’t really see anything there from my place, but when I spotted this rig blocking the road when Carlson pulled up, I brought him my snow machine and took his truck home. I rounded up Bob and his son to help me bring over enough sleds so you’d have transportation when you arrived.”
“What else do you know?”
“Not much. One vehicle went in ahead of this truck here that’s blocking the lane. I heard a few gunshots and a loud explosion just before you pulled off the road. Carlson has about a fifteen-minute head start on you.”
Sheriff Harris snatched the helmet from Don Matthews’s outstretched hand and ordered his four officers to gather their gear and get ready to ride. He hoped he wasn’t too late. If anyone could keep Moss’s niece alive against the odds, it was Carlson. He knew his newest deputy had had a rough time on the border, but he had confidence in his ability or he never would have hired him.
“Matthews, take the last truck back to your ranch and stay there until we call or come for you. No matter what you see or hear, don’t come back,” Harris ordered.
The three ranchers nodded and left without argument as they watched the officers don bulletproof vests and strap on an arsenal of weapons.
“You four double up on those two sleds. Swing around the sides so you can approach the ranch house from opposite directions, since we don’t know where they’re positioned. Radio me when you’re in place, and give me a status update. If it doesn’t look like I’m riding into an ambush, I’ll head straight at them. We don’t know how many we’re dealing with for sure, but we’re thinking at least six, seven if you count Hausner, so be sharp. The FBI wants us to take them alive if possible, but don’t risk any lives to make it happen. Go.”
The sheriff mounted his machine, waiting impatiently for his deputies to get moving and peel off in opposite directions. He hated riding into situations like this. The scenario had “catastrophe” written all over it. Despite being a western sheriff, shootouts were rare, and he had no desire to be part of one.
There didn’t seem to be a lot of options at the moment. He had no idea what they were up against, exactly how many suspects awaited them, or how well-armed they were. He had no way to know if Grace and Logan were still alive or where they were holed up. Add a blocked road, a black night, and crappy weather to the mix, and conditions were ripe for disaster.
Chapter Forty-One
Lights from an approaching ambulance forced Devyn and Nick to pull over to the side of the narrow road heading up the mountain pass. She hoped the ambulance was returning after responding to the wreck to which Deputy Carlson had been dispatched, and that emergency services weren’t already cleaning up the carnage of a shootout.
She hadn’t heard from Gage in several hours, but her
colleagues at the Salt Lake FBI office had made substantial progress on other fronts. Jonah Hausner’s apartment came up empty as suspected. Dr. Stephen Clark had turned up near Winnemucca, Nevada, unharmed but shaken up, and apparently not very popular with the two agents who picked him up. According to the agent she spoke to back at the office during the brief time she had cell reception at the top of the pass, Dr. Clark had put up an admirable, if not comical, fight, but was currently en route home to Salt Lake.
Devyn had a fellow FBI agent watch and tail the local police officer who had investigated the Kathleen Parker accident. After he witnessed the investigating officer attempt to buy a new car by putting down five thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills, the agent had another talk with the officer, and the man finally caved and confessed to submitting a bogus accident report. He claimed the money had been left in a bus station locker, and the key to the locker had been left under his doormat at home with instructions on completing the report.
If the report he filed held up under scrutiny, and the case remained classified an accident, the payoff would double. He claimed to have had no contact with the person who left the money, and he had no idea who he or she was.
Unfortunately, Devyn conceded it was more than likely the officer really didn’t know where the money had come from. If he was stupid enough to falsify an accident report, and then throw around large sums of cash almost immediately, especially after being contacted by a sheriff and the FBI, no professional criminal would have trusted him with his or her identity.
The agent had retrieved the instruction sheet from the officer, and the lab was analyzing it for any clue as to the author’s identity or where it originated. She doubted they would find prints or other evidence on the typewritten paper, but stranger things had happened. Some of the technology used by the agency was amazing.
“Are we having fun yet?” Nick asked, interrupting Devyn’s thoughts.
“Yeah, right. How much longer?” she demanded.
“I’m guessing maybe another hour, but if these roads deteriorate any more, could be longer.”
“Not knowing what’s going on up there is driving me insane.”
“Your fidgeting is driving me crazy, so make yourself useful and pour me a cup of coffee.”
Devyn was wound so tight and her mind was so focused on the possibility of finally getting some answers, she didn’t even bristle at Nick’s demand. She fished for the thermos behind his seat and poured them each a cup of coffee.
“All we need is a crumb of information to get the FBI to officially investigate the three other related cases,” she pondered aloud.
“Don’t get your hopes up. If we’re dealing with a sophisticated crime ring, these are probably just hired guns who won’t know anything.”
Devyn knew he was right. Successful professional criminals were very good at putting a myriad of layers between themselves and those doing their dirty work. So far, this was the closest she had gotten to anyone who might be able to verify her theory something was desperately sick in the legal drug world.
“Speed it up a little. What are you, an LOM?”
“LOM?”
“Yes, you’re driving like a little old man, moseying on down to the local diner to have coffee with a group of his cronies first thing in the morning.”
The look Nick gave her told Devyn she had pushed her partner far enough. His nerves were probably strung pretty tight after so many hours of driving on slick roads, and she wasn’t helping. She acknowledged she could be a bit bossy and impatient. She had gone through a partner every six months until she got paired with Nick. Somehow he knew how to “handle” her, as their colleagues often joked. She hated that term. Just because she liked to get things done, didn’t make her high maintenance or in need of a “handler.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded as Nick slowed the vehicle and edged toward the side of the road.
“You obviously need something to do with all that nervous energy, so you can drive the rest of the way,” Nick replied, not letting on he wasn’t comfortable letting Devyn behind the wheel. Antsy people in a hurry at night didn’t mesh well with snow-packed roads, but his nerves were fried from driving and watching her squirm.
“Fine, at least maybe we’ll get there by morning.” She hated driving on icy roads, but it was either take over the wheel or apologize to Nick for being a pain in the rear and beg him to continue on. Apologizing was something she only did on very rare occasions, and she certainly never begged.
As Devyn got out of the vehicle to switch sides, she instantly regretted her smart mouth. She could barely keep her footing as she slid around the front of the vehicle, diving into the driver’s side before taking a spill.
“Wake me when we get there,” Nick stated as he reclined in the seat and closed his eyes.
I’d smack him for being a jerk to me if I didn’t deserve it, Devyn thought as she cautiously pulled back onto the road. Glancing over at Nick, she could see the faint smile on his lips. He was infuriating, but darn it, she did love him like a brother.
She would never admit this to him or anyone else, but he did know how to handle her.
Chapter Forty-Two
Logan’s expression was grim, but his arms felt so solid and strong wrapped around her that for the first time since Jonah’s kidnappers pulled up, she believed there was a slim possibility of survival. Grace nearly cried with relief.
“They killed Jonah. Just shot him point blank while I stood by and did nothing to save him. I feel so horrible,” Grace sobbed. “He was begging me for help. I suspected a trap, and I was trying to buy time. I knew you would come for me, but I feared I wouldn’t be able to stay alive until you arrived if I didn’t stall.”
“Don’t feel guilty. His life was over the minute he got into a vehicle with those men. I doubt these are the type of guys who leave witnesses. There was nothing you could have done to save him. Taking the bait wouldn’t have helped anyone, including Jonah,” Logan replied, stroking her hair and placing his lips to her forehead.
Grace nodded, but didn’t attempt to leave his arms.
“I was so scared I’d be too late,” he whispered, holding her tighter to convince himself she was truly unharmed.
Forcing herself to let go, Grace stepped back enough to look Logan over to make sure he hadn’t been shot when he drove through the shower of gunfire to toss his package at the vehicle. Scanning him from head to toe, she saw no visible wounds, though it was difficult to tell through all his winter clothes.
“What happened out there?” she asked, now satisfied he wasn’t injured.
“I needed to create a distraction in order to reach the house. This little present was courtesy of your uncle. I made a few quick enhancements to increase its effectiveness, which clearly did the trick. Apparently beaver dams have been turning his pastures into wetlands, and he needed a means to keep the streams flowing undeterred. Though the quantity of deterrent he possessed makes me think I may need to have a little talk with him when he gets home.”
Grace didn’t ask for further explanation and hoped Logan would exercise some selective memory when, and if, they got out of this situation alive. Gathering her composure, she knelt down and frantically gathered the rest of the ammunition which had scattered across the floor when the window was shot out.
“Hurry, none of the men took a direct hit. They’ll recover from the blast and come at us with guns blazing at any minute. Hopefully, we can hold them off until reinforcements arrive. You aim out the broken window, and I’ll crack the door open. Don’t shoot while I’m shooting. We want to avoid reloading at the same time. Try to take good shots and fire just enough to keep them pushed back. We don’t know how far away the sheriff is, and I don’t have a lot of ammo, and I suspect you don’t have much either.”
She nodded and finished picking up the shotgun shells. Standing with her back against the wall, she reloaded her weapon, thankful the ranch house was constructed of ten-inch logs but wishing the
door were thicker. It and the windows were definitely weak spots.
Grace doubted the men possessed weapons powerful enough to penetrate the sturdy structure. So as long as she and Logan had the protection of the house, stayed away from the vulnerable points, and didn’t run out of ammunition, there was a chance they could survive until help arrived, even with being outnumbered.
Grace clutched the shotgun in front of her chest and took deep breaths to steady her nerves. No noise could be heard from the dogs in the garage. Grace hoped they were okay, but she didn’t have the luxury to leave her post to go check on them. The sounds from the burning vehicle had faded.
The silence felt ominous.
“Can you see anything?” she asked.
“One’s still facedown in the snow, and the others have taken cover. The huge guy is behind the shed, and two others are in the shadows of your uncle’s pickup, including the guy in the tight black coat and hat, who appears to be the ringleader.”
Grace didn’t like what she was hearing. Moss’s truck was parked close to the house. Too close for comfort. From the shed, it would be possible to move from tree to tree and edge around the back of the house while keeping out of range of their weapons. The snow was thigh deep in the backyard. It was a hindrance, but not an insurmountable barrier.
Shots rang out from the men protected by Moss’s truck. When Logan returned fire at the closest man, Grace watched the movement of the others.
“I’ve lost sight of the guy behind the shed and the ringleader. The man on the ground is gone, too. I don’t know w-where he went,” Grace reported.
“Not good. I bet they’re spreading out around the house. Any room with a window is vulnerable.”
The house was two-story and had a relatively small footprint, but it still had half a dozen windows on the sides and back of the house, as well as a set of sliding glass doors off the living room. Grace feared the unobstructed views of the mountains she loved would now be the portal to her demise.