Danger in Deer Ridge (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  Elizabeth sat beside Dylan. “The wind is sure noisy, isn’t it? I’ll bet it woke you up.”

  “Did my Grinch go to heaven?” Dylan asked. Tears glistened in his eyes. “With my mommy and daddy? I want to go there, too.”

  “Oh, slugger, no. Your Grinch is helping people, and he’ll come back.” She prayed she wasn’t making a promise that couldn’t be kept.

  “I can’t sleep,” Dylan said. He sniffled and wiped his nose on his pajama sleeve. Elizabeth would have brought him a tissue but didn’t want to leave him.

  “Would you like me to read you a story?” Elizabeth asked.

  “How about we sing?” Will said. “We can sing louder than the wind, right, Dylan?” He bellowed out the opening lyrics of “High Hopes.”

  Dylan joined in, his voice trembling at first, but his singing grew stronger by the time the ant had carried off the rubber tree plant. Elizabeth did her best with Grinch’s solo sections, and the boys didn’t seem to mind. They’d reached the start of the final verse when Grinch’s deep voice added a layer of harmony to the melody.

  Relief swamped her.

  Still singing, Grinch hovered in the doorway. Dylan’s eyes widened, and a huge grin split his face. Elizabeth felt one form on her own face as well. She expected Dylan to leap out of bed, but he stayed put and didn’t stop singing. The joy in his voice was unmistakable as they reached the end of the song. Grinch took his customary place on the edge of Dylan’s bed. Without missing a beat, they began from the top. This time, when they reached the final notes, Dylan threw his arms around Grinch.

  “You came back.”

  Grinch winced, but didn’t pull away. “I told you I would.”

  “Did you help a lot of people?” Dylan asked. “You smell like smoke. Did you have a campfire?”

  “Yes, I did,” Grinch said. “And it’s late. Time for lights out.”

  “One more song?” Dylan glanced at Elizabeth, then back at Grinch. “Please? She tried, but she’s not too good at it.”

  Elizabeth laughed, tousled Dylan’s hair and kissed Will. “You’re right. Sleep well, you two.”

  She flipped the light off, pausing to watch Grinch lay Dylan down and stroke his hair. She imagined those hands on her head, stroking her hair. Pushing them aside, she crept out of the room. Soft strains of “Fly Me to the Moon” followed her downstairs.

  And why was she going downstairs instead of to bed? Because she wanted to know what happened.

  Liar. You want to be with him. If only to make sure he’s really all right.

  If the boys hadn’t noticed the weariness in his eyes, and the obvious pain he’d tried to hide, she certainly had. She went to the fridge for a beer, but changed her mind and poured two brandies instead. She reclaimed her seat, the lamp on the end table turned to the lowest setting, swirling her snifter. Closing her eyes, she listened for his footfalls on the stairs.

  The smell of smoke preceded him. He stepped into the room, and she motioned to the second snifter waiting on his desk.

  “I should clean up,” he said. “Dylan’s right. I reek of smoke.”

  “After you tell me what happened.”

  * * * * *

  Grinch took a generous sip of his brandy, letting the liquid mellow on his tongue before swallowing. The heat it sent through him was entirely different from the heat he’d dealt with on the mountain. “One of the missing kids made his way back to the Visitor Center,” he began. “All he could tell us was the trail his family had been headed for when they’d started out. He had a broken arm, but managed to cover the distance alone. Must have been three miles, and some rugged terrain.”

  “So you airlifted him to the hospital?”

  “Not right away. The winds were too strong—no way to fly. And we had to find the rest of the missing family. All the campers had been ordered off the mountain, and so were any volunteers not trained in rescue operations, or without firefighting training. By now, the fire was jumping breaks, and the trail the kid mentioned was being hit from almost every direction. And since the family hadn’t left from the Visitor Center, nobody could be sure of the route they took—or if they even made it as far as the trail. The kid couldn’t remember any notable landmarks or anything that would give us a hint as to where they actually were.”

  “I can relate,” Elizabeth said. “I couldn’t tell one rock or tree from another.”

  Grinch labored to his feet and refilled his snifter. Elizabeth had barely touched hers, and shook off his offer of more.

  He sat, exhaustion burrowing into his bones. “From that point on, it was all about the fire. I don’t know how many of us there were—we must have had half the state’s firefighters out there—but every time we’d get one fire under control, three more would spring up. The winds were impossible. It was like trying to empty the ocean with a thimble.” His voice roughened, and not from eating smoke.

  “You … did you find them?”

  He nodded, hearing the woman’s screams, seeing her try to protect her husband from the wall of flames descending on them. He’d been on that detail, lucky to get out with only superficial burns. “She and her husband are in a hospital burn unit down in the Springs. The grandfather and the older boy were smart enough to dig into a ravine.” He shook his head. “Too bad they weren’t smart enough not to go off on their own.”

  Grinch put down his drink. Cleared his throat. Scraped his hand along his jaw. “Two firefighters died. All I could think of was Dylan. I knew I’d get out for him. But by the time the wind let up enough so I could shuttle everyone to the hospital in the Springs, it was too late to call. I figured you’d have everything under control, and they’d be asleep. And then it was all about getting back.” He made his way to where she sat. “I didn’t thank you for jumping in to watch Dylan. You and Logan probably had plans.”

  “Logan?” Her head tilted, her eyebrows bunched. “Plans?”

  “I saw you two together at Danny’s the other day. And he was at your house. You seemed to … have something going.”

  She laughed. “He’s landscaping the grounds of my—Grace’s—house. Any plans we had were plans for what to plant where. Grace has a soft spot for people trying to start over, it seems. She’s trying to get his business afloat.”

  Something loosened in Grinch’s chest. He took her hand, relieved that she didn’t jerk away. “Lizzie. Is there … do you think … could we … I mean, I’d like to see you.”

  “See me?” Her eyebrows lifted and her lips twitched. “What does that mean?”

  “I was thinking along the lines of seeing where things lead. I know … I know it’s not easy readjusting after … I mean, when my wife left … and that wasn’t anything like what happened to you … I understand it takes time.” His heart pounded. He released her hand, not wanting her to feel the way it was going all clammy. Damn, why didn’t he have a fraction of Dalton’s gift of gab? He sounded like a blithering idiot to his own ears. What must she be thinking?

  She swirled her brandy. “I have to be honest.”

  “I’d expect no less.” He braced himself for her rejection.

  She sipped her drink, then set the glass down. “I spent an endless day trying to keep things normal for the boys, but the whole time I wondered where you were, what you were doing, if you were hurt, or even alive. I won’t even think about the way you and your Blackthorne team march around with guns.” She ducked her head, then raised it and held his gaze. “I care about you. A lot. But I’m not sure I can deal with your kind of life. I ran from one man. I don’t want to risk losing another one.” She frowned. “And don’t take this the wrong way, but I’m not sure Dylan is ready for a father who disappears and might not come back.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m quitting.”

  “Quitting?”

  “I’m already on indefinite leave from Blackthorne. I put that on hold when Dylan came back into my life. And the firefighting—I don’t normally do that. I’m a pilot. I can’t say I wouldn’t pitch in on
a rescue in an emergency, but I’m looking at options. Today, being on that mountain, in between moments of sheer terror, I decided the world needs another good flight instructor.” He grinned. “I mean, why not let them learn from the best, right?”

  Her eyes widened. “No more guns?”

  He wouldn’t swear to it, but he thought he detected a hint of relief mixed with a modicum of excitement in her tone. “No more guns.” He eyed her, waiting. Hoping. Barely breathing. Blood pounded in his ears until he didn’t think he’d hear an answer if she gave one.

  She rose from her chair, and his heart rammed against his ribcage. Was she leaving? But instead of moving toward the door, she came toward him. Took his hands. Met his eyes. And then she leaned forward, and kissed him. Gently, tentatively at first. Fighting for control, he held back. This had to be her move. When her tongue sought his, passion hotter than any forest fire fueled his response. He succumbed. Pulled her closer, deepened the kiss. He might not have Dalton’s gift of gab, but there was more than one way to communicate. Without breaking the kiss, he settled her onto his lap. Showed her what his words couldn’t.

  When she broke the kiss, her breathing was ragged. “All right. You can see me. In fact, for starters, why don’t you see me up to bed.”

  (The End)

  Also from Terry Odell: Book 1 in the Blackthorne, Inc. series

  WHEN DANGER CALLS

  Copyright © 2010 by Terry Odell

  * * * * *

  Chapter 1

  Some cakewalk. A routine mission turned into a straight-to-video movie. To Ryan Harper, it smelled rotten—even more rotten than the garbage piled in the alleyway they'd trekked through to get here.

  Senses on alert, Ryan cast a furtive glance over his shoulder. He waited beside Alvarez while the wizened man unlocked the warehouse door. Alvarez clicked on a light. Two feral cats yowled and hissed, then bolted outside.

  Ryan stepped into the hot, stuffy room. Grime covered the sealed windows, and the ammonia stench of cat piss filled his nostrils. Why didn't any of his assignments include rooms with air conditioning? Instead, they sent him to a deserted neighborhood in Panama—one the jungle desperately wanted to reclaim. "Where are the files, Señor Alvarez?"

  "Here," Alvarez said around the cigar stub that seemed permanently clamped between his teeth. He closed the door behind them. "I show you everything. You have the money?"

  "After I see the files."

  Outside, a generator hummed. Three cats peered warily around upended tables and a maze of cardboard cartons. Avoiding broken glass, rubber tubing, and other assorted debris, he followed Alvarez across the room. A rusty gas stove stood at the far end next to a small refrigerator, and a Formica-topped table. In a blur, the cats disappeared behind the stove. Opposite, two file cabinets flanked a beat-up wooden desk, and a cracked vinyl armchair. Like an alien presence, a flat-screen computer monitor sat atop the desk.

  "One moment." When Alvarez reached under the desk, Ryan grabbed for his weapon. A button clicked and a hard drive whirred. Ryan exhaled. Maybe this was a cakewalk after all.

  The door slammed against the wall. Flash-bang grenades hit the floor. "Get down!" he shouted at Alvarez, who still fumbled with the computer. Covering his ears and squeezing his eyes shut Ryan scrambled for cover behind the desk as the room filled with brilliant light and an ear-splitting report.

  Deaf and half-blind from the blast, Ryan pointed his Glock near the doorway. Gunfire sprayed the room. Alvarez gasped. Blood flowed from his chest. He turned and pressed a metal tube into Ryan's hand. The ringing in his ears muffled the man's words, but Ryan watched his lips. "Importante." Alvarez clawed his way to the desktop. The computer exploded. Ryan’s body slammed backward. Alvarez sagged to the floor, half his face blown off.

  Shit. First Colombia, and now this. Ryan jammed the tube into a pocket of his cargo pants. Blinking to clear his vision, he turned to engage his assailants. Three of them---one of him. Some fucking cakewalk.

  The desk and file cabinets provided cover, giving Ryan the advantage. He fired. Two shots to the body, one to the head. Repeat as needed. Two men down.

  The third guy, built like a grizzly, bared his teeth in a malicious grin. "You are mine, señor."

  "Sorry. You're not my type." Ryan pulled the trigger twice. His assailant fell backward, his weapon firing in a broad arc. A searing pain ripped through Ryan's shoulder. His arm jerked and his gun clattered to the floor, skittering between the file cabinets behind him. He fumbled for the knife strapped to his ankle. Blood, hot and sticky, ran down his arm, and his fingers slipped on the knife's hilt. He duck-walked backward for the file cabinets to retrieve his Glock.

  He groped for the pistol. The man on the floor struggled to his feet. Body armor. Crap. Ryan's gun hand was all but useless. The angle sucked. Holding the Glock in his off hand, he took a head shot. The man twitched, swinging his arm. He went down.

  Ryan's satisfaction shriveled when the grenade rolled across the room, stopping under the stove.

  "Fuck." Ryan burst through the door and dove for cover. He grimaced with pain from landing on his knee as the warehouse exploded in flames.

  Dazed, he moved into the jungle. When he didn't check in on schedule, an extraction team would rendezvous according to plan—three days from now. No sweat. Couldn't be any worse than survival training hell.

  It was. In survival training, no one shot you, and then infected you with some nasty jungle bug. His meager rations were useless—he could barely keep water down. His knee looked more like a melon than a joint. His shoulder screamed and his teeth chattered despite the jungle heat. Hiding by day, traveling by night, Ryan reached the extraction point and waited. He wouldn't be left behind. He only hoped he'd be alive when the chopper showed up.

  The appointed time came and went. He fought to stay conscious. Ten minutes. Another five. He could hold on for one more. And one after that. The world faded in and out. Then from above, the welcome whup-whup of a helicopter sounded. Praying he wasn't suffering from fever-induced hallucinations, he crawled out of his hiding place to the tiny clearing. He squinted into the darkness at the hovering helo and flashed his light in the prearranged pattern. He'd never make it up a rope ladder. He had to.

  The ladder dropped. A body scrambled down. Someone—a face he should recognize despite the camo paint—put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Your limo's here, Harper." Someone lifted him onto a stretcher. "Relax and enjoy the ride."

  A burst of fire shot through his shoulder as someone ripped his shirt open, then a sting in his arm.

  And then nothing.

  *****

  "Enter."

  It was a command, not an invitation.

  Ryan propped his cane against the outside of the jamb. He steeled himself and opened the door.

  Squaring his shoulders, he did his damnedest not to favor his injured knee when he stepped into Horace Blackthorne's private office. The sleek, modern public reception areas downstairs contrasted with this room, a time-warp from the fifties. The old-fashioned Venetian blinds were lowered against the late afternoon sun, blocking the view of the distant Golden Gate Bridge. Ryan squinted into the glare sneaking through the cracks. Although his boss didn't smoke, the office always smelled of pipe tobacco. He cleared his throat, surprised at its dryness.

  "You asked to see me, sir?"

  Blackthorne looked up from the sheet of paper he'd been reading. No pleasantries, not that Ryan expected any. When the man didn't gesture toward one of the two utilitarian chairs fronting the steel desk, Ryan held himself erect, squelching the urge to grab the back of one for support. He waited while the man placed the paper into a file folder, gave it a tap, then set it in the wire basket on the corner of the desk.

  Blackthorne removed his half-frame reading glasses, snapped them into a leather case, and slipped them inside his jacket pocket. He pushed away from his desk and levered himself to his full height.

  At six-three, Ryan usually looked down on people,
but he adjusted his gaze upward to lock eyes with his superior. Blackthorne disguised his emotions well, but over the last ten years Ryan learned to eke out the subtlest signals. A shift in the eyes, the twitch of a jaw muscle, a minuscule shoulder shrug—these were flashing neon signs. Today, the man stood stock-still, like the bronze statue of General Whatshisname in front of City Hall back home.

  Ryan waited out the silence, his eyes moving up Blackthorne's furrowed brow to the salt-and-pepper hair, neatly parted, still thick. He resisted the urge to run his fingers through his own hair, hanging in unruly tendrils over his collar.

  "You met Alvarez." A statement, not a question. "Where are the files?" Blackthorne leaned forward. His gaze bored into Ryan's. Did he detect a glint of eagerness in his boss' eyes?

  Uncertainty spread outward from Ryan's middle like ripples on a pond. Two weeks in the hospital kept him out of the loop, but not so far he didn't know about the rumors---all blaming him for the screw-ups. That a leak existed at Blackthorne, Inc., and he was suspect number one.

  He balled his fists, keeping his hands away from the flash drive in his pocket. The intel. Mr. Alvarez's list of stolen artworks. Nothing worth killing for. But a sleazebag like Alvarez might be dealing in more than smuggled art. Was there a connection between Alvarez and the failed Forcada mission in Colombia? Ryan had to find the leak, and he'd do whatever it took to prove his innocence, even if it meant investigating Horace Blackthorne himself.

  He kept his gaze steady. "The grenade destroyed the computer, sir. Along with the entire building."

  Blackthorne hesitated. Cleared his throat. Nodded, the barest twitch of his chin. "Finish your rehab, take some extra leave."

  "I'm fine, sir. Give me the weekend. I'll be ready for a new assignment on Monday."

  "Two fouled missions. You're no good to me, the firm, or yourself now. I read your medical reports. I spoke with your doctors. We're not negotiating, Harper. Six weeks personal leave while you finish your rehab, plus any vacation time you've accrued, if you need it. Three months on security detail, and then we'll discuss your future as a field agent."