“Look, Mom, Miranda’s description of the detective at the scene doesn’t jive,” Grant stated. “I can’t confirm her story until we get tests back.”
Really? Miranda clutched the railing, her jaw clamped tight.
He swung a set of car keys. “I gotta go. I’ll keep you and dad posted. Say what? Who’s at your door? Mom!” he shouted.
Tires crunched on gravel from Grant’s driveway.
He turned toward the other window, spotted her, and grabbed her arm. “You’re going in hiding.” He pulled her to the mudroom closet.
“What’s going on?”
“Something happened at my folks’ house.”
He yanked open the door. A rusty rat trap hung on a hook at the back wall. A clump of fur stuck to the hammer bar.
“Eww,” she said.
“Quiet!” he hissed. He shoved it aside and pressed his finger into a round fissure. The door swung inward.
A window shattered in the front of the house.
“Was that Venom’s black sedan?”
“Don’t move until I tell you.” His face turned deadly pale.
“What about you?”
He pushed her in. “I’ll be fine.”
The door shut behind her. A low light illuminated a space the size of a small bathroom.
Three walls contained mounted, long-barreled rifles. Most gleamed, and all had labels like the paintings in a museum.
She spun around, facing the door. A monitor on the lock showed nine o’clock.
Her eyes rested on a tag marked, “Winchester” hanging by a thinner gun. She leaned closer and read, “Martially Marked First Model Henry Rifle with Civil War Provenance.” She stepped to the next one labeled, “Winchester 1876 Northwest Mounted Police SRC.” A shadow box hung beside it, containing handcuffs and several medals. The one closest to the door appeared brand new. “Winchester 1895 SRC chambered in 30-06.” Same handwriting. Grant’s?
She plopped onto the floor facing the monitor, and watched ninety minutes tick by. Sweat formed on her brow. The muzzle of a gun featuring Annie Oakley engraved on the stock caught her eye.
What would Annie do? She rubbed her temples.
Annie would venture out. Her finger trembled as she pulled the latch and cracked the door.
Voices. Nearby.
Blood thrummed in her ears. She slipped into the narrow outer closet, maneuvering her shoulders to avoid the rat trap. An empty hook caught her sweater sleeve.
The hidden door swung shut from behind.
Pitch black surrounded her.
“I can do this all night, Morley.” Venom taunted.
Miranda’s hand bumped a broom handle.
She grabbed it, her nails sinking into wood.
“Where is she?” he shouted.
“I told you,” Grant said. “I found a mule. No rider. He’s in the barn.”
“I don’t tolerate liars, Mr. Big Shot Agent.” Venom’s voice faded as he moved away.
Grant muttered something.
“You’ll cooperate,” Venom said from nearby.
Miranda swallowed hard, then put her ear against the door.
“Your ma and pa won’t—”
She couldn’t hear the rest. The space closed in on her, dark and airless.
“One of you stays on watch at the upstairs window!” Venom yelled. “Skankster, get outside and feed the animals. Give them water.”
“Yeah, boss,” said hoarse male voices from inches away.
She flattened herself to the back wall.
“The plant girl’s one thing. Wastin’ the geezers and him’s another,” whispered a whiny voice.
Something bumped her door. Would they search for a coat? She clenched the broom.
“Rather be chillin’ in the cabin by the creek watchin’ the geezers,” the first one grunted.
She held her breath as steps receded.
“Swap in four hours!” Venom hollered. “Move it.”
A door slammed shut, and her foot jerked into a dustpan. She froze.
Dull thumps came from farther away, each followed by a groan.
“How’s it sitting, Morley? Tell me or the old folks get the same,” Venom challenged.
Waves of nausea roiled in her stomach.
She cracked open the door to scan the mudroom.
No keys. No one in the kitchen.
Through the window in the back door, Grant’s barn stood out against swirling white.
She slipped outside and crept alongside the wall to the back corner of the house. A cold breeze hit her cheeks.
The barn sat fifty feet away, not visible from the living room.
She took off.
“Don’t want a bath, huh?” A growling male voice came from the open barn door.
Water splashed onto wood.
She swerved to the corner, crept to the door, and peered in.
“Let’s see you kick at me again.” A big man poked a pitchfork at Red, trapped in a stall. “You ugly bugger, I’ll give you a reason to squawk.”
The creep jabbed, and Red dodged sideways.
Red bugled a panicked bray.
Fury boiled inside her, igniting to rage.
Tools hung inside the door.
She grabbed a shovel and swung at the lowlife’s head.
The blow thumped with the hollow sound of a fist striking a ripe watermelon.
“Uggh.” He dropped to his knees and glared at her. “Bitch.” His body crumpled to the ground.
“You’re hitting,” she whacked him in the chest using the flat side of the shovel, “a defenseless animal, asshole.”
He rolled into fetal position.
“You’ll wish you were dead by the time I’m done.” She struck three more blows to his shoulders while his groans grew weaker.
Her arm shook.
She staggered to the door of Red’s stall. “It’s okay now.”
Binder twine dangled from the latch.
She hog-tied the guy’s legs and arms behind him and tightened the twine.
“You’re lucky I’m injured.” She shoved a dirty rag in his mouth and kicked his limp body to roll it away from the stall.
Red’s front legs shuddered.
“Good boy.” She stepped to him and skimmed her fingers over both sides of his sweaty body. “He better not have wounded you.”
No blood.
She leaned against his neck. “We’ve got to find a cop, or Doc Kyle.”
The mule nuzzled her shoulder.
She looked at the heavy Western saddles, and then lifted the sweater to expose her throbbing side.
Dark red stained the white bandage.
“Crap, Red. I must’ve busted a stitch.” She removed the sheepskin-lined cinch from the nearby saddle and wrapped it around her torso, then fastened it with twine.
Her eyes darted from the thug to the empty stalls. A pile of dirty straw blocked the one closest to the outside door.
She bridled Red, looped a rope around his chest, and tied the end to the creep. “Okay, Red. Drag him a little further to the end.”
A few pitchforks of manure later, and she’d buried him. “How’s it feel to be helpless?” She kicked the last lump of dung near his nose.
“Somehow, we’ll find Emma Springs.” She eased the back door open and positioned a bucket to stand on.
The tree line and freedom sat fifty yards from the rear of the barn.
She climbed on. The reins shook in her hands.
Warmth radiated from Red as she pressed her calves into his sides and leaned forward. “Go home.”
Red’s ears twitched back and forth.
She steered him out of the b
arn and gave him free rein. “Home, Red. Oats.”
The big mule gathered into a lope, and moved them through the open area, skirting the edge of Grant’s pond.
Snowflakes pelted her face.
Red slowed to enter the woods and she turned to look back.
Light shone from Grant’s living room. Would she see him alive again?
A tear rolled down her cold cheek. “Walk on.”
Red wound between trees, his hooves plodding on soft leaves. Light shone through a gap in the tree line ahead.
Hope touched her heart. She patted his shoulder. “A road. You did it.”
They set off, his canter rhythmic while he carried her alongside the highway.
Snow stuck to her eyelashes. Her fingers went numb. She leaned forward. “Faster, Red,” she urged.
He galloped up a hill. In the distance, cars moved through a town on the edge of a lake.
Relief shot through her. “Emma Springs. Good job.” They trotted through a four-way stop, toward a row of old wooden storefronts. “We need Kyle’s Jeep or a police car.”
But where? No officers in sight. She slowed Red to a walk, scanning a cul de sac.
Nobody.
In the next block, a sign swung in front of a white Craftsman style home. “Dr. Kyle Werner, M.D. Family Practice”
“Whoa.” They stopped at the sidewalk. “You’re my miracle mule.”
Big Red’s sides heaved while he puffed clouds of cold air.
She grabbed his mane and slid off, then trudged up Kyle’s porch steps.
Two knocks, no answer.
She huffed on her red fingers and rapped again.
Kyle threw open the door. “Miranda, what’re you doing here?” He rubbed a towel across wet hair and peered over her shoulder. “You rode the mule?”
“Grant’s being held at his house by the killers. I think they kidnapped his folks. I need help—they’ll kill them all.” Everything went dark. She grabbed the door. “Red ran here. He needs cooling.”
His hand shot around her waist. “Okay, let’s get you inside, and I’ll call for help.”
“Give me a blanket for Red.”
Kyle pulled out his cell. “I’ll cover Red if you come inside. Right now. The temperature’s dropped, and you’ve got to be frozen without a coat.” He propelled her to a chair by his fireplace. “I’ve got the number for a colleague of Grant’s who’s in the bureau. Stay put.”
“There’s got to be a Sheriff or State Patrol nearby. If you wait, they’ll all die because of me.”
Kyle pushed his arm into his coat. “No, they won’t. Sit.” He stepped outside.
She turned to the picture window.
Kyle spoke into his cell while draping Red in a Navajo blanket. He led him off.
His gas fireplace threw off muted flames. Her fingers covered her heart, and she pressed into the knitted stitches Grant’s mom must have created. A tremor shook her body.
Kyle returned and stood by the fire, flexing his fingers. “I spoke to Jesse, head of an HRT. They’ll arrive in a couple hours.”
“That’s too long. What’s an HRT?”
“Hostage rescue team. Extraction involving professional hit-men requires FBI experts. Did you hear plans or a time line?” He perched on a nearby chair.
She shoved her shaking hands under her thighs. “His parents are being held somewhere else. Venom mentioned offing the geezers if Grant didn’t coop—” she choked back a sob.
He squeezed her shoulder. “Armed, trained professionals are enroute.”
“Same as Venom.” She pushed off the armrest and stood. “Maybe he’d trade me for releasing Grant and his folks.”
Kyle pressed her into the chair. “Nope, you’ve all seen the bad guys.”
“Oh.”
He smoothed his damp hair. “First, we assess the situation, then formulate a plan and organize equipment and appropriate personnel.”
“We’ll need armed marksmen.” A chilling dread of carnage weighted her chest.
“Whatever it takes. Grant mentored Jesse.” Kyle put a blanket over her shoulders. “Let’s plan how to transport them to Grant’s house.”
“Without being seen, and if we’re not too late.”
He timed the pulse in her neck. “You need to relax. Venom needs to find you. Remember?”
“He’ll kill Grant when he realizes he won’t talk. No more deaths. I can’t—”
“Shh. Shh. Red’s sure got good instincts.” His voice slowed to soothing. “Luckily the call for my baby delivery came early. Otherwise, I’d be at their home sponging off a newborn.”
“How can you raise a baby in a world erupting in violence?” She turned to Kyle. “Maybe it’s just me. I’m the bad luck.”
“Grant thinks otherwise. I need those brains he admires. Delivering a rescue team’s our challenge.”
“Right.” Miranda’s stomach let out a low growl. “Sorry. No breakfast while waiting in his gun locker.”
“I’ll get food going and check your side.”
“I’m fine. Grant’s the one whose life hangs by a frickin’ thread.”
“Take a seat in the sun room.” He ushered her into a bump-out. “Sunrise Lake and Emma Springs—my favorite view.”
Miranda sank into a chair.
“Trey and Kat Langley’s ranch isn’t far from the main road.” He motioned to the right. “Red probably stomped the route all summer.”
Her eyes shifted to where he pointed.
Shops began in the next block of the road she’d been on. “Emma Springs could be an ad for an enticing version of Americana, until I led killers to town.”
“I’d bet you don’t have these in Seattle.” Kyle held out an open gray carton, exposing various sizes and colors of eggs. “From a client. She leaves the chicken poop intact to save me from salmonella. I’ll wash them and scramble a batch.”
“I know you’re ignoring my negativity. Venom will torture the Morleys to find me.” Her voice rose to an unfamiliar pitch.
“Grant’s tough. You can’t help me if you’re running on fumes.”
An ornate clock topped by merry-go-round horses chimed from a shelf over the stove.
She tapped her fingernail on a glass-topped wicker table. “That’s me. Wound too tight. I’m sorry, and you’re right. I need food to think straight.”
“Exactly. While the pan heats, I’ll check your stitches.” He pulled a chair next to her. “The Craftsman across the street’s my dad’s. He’s the town lawyer.”
“My friend Corrin wants to be a lawyer. I think she gave Grant an earful when he insisted she stay away from her apartment.”
“I would’ve paid to witness that. Not much bothers him.”
“Except bringing hitmen to Emma Springs. Chalk up another deadly choice by Miranda Witless Whitley.”
“Grant’s glad you sought his help.”
“Until it involved his parents.” She lifted her sweater. “How many agents are coming?”
“Four to six. Whoa, you broke out a couple stitches.” Kyle secured two butterfly bandages, then went to the kitchen. “Gotta admit, first time I’ve seen a girth used for a truss.” He poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of her.
Outside Kyle’s home stretched a calm expanse of water. At Grant’s, Venom would be leaning over him the same way he’d stood over Ike.
She pinched her nose. “Four to six guys need to approach a house in the middle of a meadow.”
“Not ordinary guys. SWAT trained experts. They’ll breeze in.”
“Doesn’t the hero always die in the shootout after the posse shows up?”
“Jesse won’t let that happen.”
Heat from the ceramic mug didn’t penetrate past her
fingers. “Grant must be tied up. Venom’s a ruthless killer and has a gunman stationed in an upstairs window.”
Metal clanged as a pickup rolled past the house pulling a stock trailer. Two stubby horned bulls swayed side to side.
She watched the rig until it turned a corner. “Wait. A horse trailer would hold them.”
“If it wouldn’t raise suspicion. They’ll shoot if they smell a trap,” Kyle said.
“We’ll put Big Red in the back and hide the agents up front in the storage area. We can pretend we’re bringing him to Grant. I’ll unload Red while they climb out.”
“You’d be in full view. Too dangerous.” Kyle set down a plate of food.
“No one at the house spotted me, or I’d be dead.” She stabbed a bite of steaming eggs.
“No can do. Grant won’t forgive me if you’re involved.”
“That pony’s left the corral.” Her mouth methodically chewed and swallowed. “Look. My actions endangered Grant and his parents. Let me help rescue them. I’ll wear a hat and glasses. Red trusts me.” Tears wet the corners of her eyes.
“Miranda, Venom started this. Jesse may agree to utilize a horse trailer, so I’ll borrow one.”
He flipped through cards on an old style Rolodex. “We’ll need to get Grant out of his house.”
She massaged the crook in her nose. “Something broken. Or, tell Grant your tire’s flat. Ask him to come out and help.”
“They’d see the tire. Maybe mechanical trouble? My Jeep’s always got an engine light on. That could bring him outside.”
“If he can walk.”
“Think positive.” He sat opposite her, and dialed. “Morning, this is Doctor Werner. Can I borrow your horse trailer today?”
He gave a thumbs up. “That’d be great. Thanks.” He replaced the receiver and attempted a smile. “Trailer delivery scheduled. He worried he hadn’t swept out the manure.”
She dropped her fork. “Kyle, I hog-tied a guy and buried him under a pile of manure in Grant’s barn. If they’ve found him, they’ll know I left.”
The Hitman's Mistake Page 17