by Rebecca York
“No. He’s staying tight-lipped about the person’s identity. You’re keeping tabs on him. Have you seen him with anyone in town who could give us a lead?”
“No.”
Someone banged on the outhouse door. “You fall in or something?”
Riley hung up abruptly, hoping to hell that Big Sky had enough time to get into position at the shelter before the bad guys arrived.
Riley spent the rest of the evening and the next day trading war stories with Fowler and his troops and trying to pretend he fit in—when all the time he felt his flesh crawling. But now he saw they were watching him more closely. Somebody was with him at all times—even waiting outside the outhouse for him, which meant he couldn’t call Courtney the way he’d called Big Sky.
THE MORNING of the big opening dawned bright and crisp. A beautiful day, Riley thought as he ate baked beans and franks for breakfast and drank rot-gut coffee, along with the rest of the troops.
Fowler had a planning session later in the morning, where he put up a diagram of the battered-women’s shelter and the nearby national park, and used a pointer to show everyone where they’d be located. Then he had them practice the actual raid—with some of the gang playing themselves and some playing Secret Service dudes, as Fowler called them.
The whole exercise turned Riley’s stomach, but it helped pass the endless hours until they would leave for the night’s assignment.
He kept thinking about the people these bozos were planning to attack. Courtney was supposed to be there. And he wanted to warn her. But he couldn’t make any more phone calls.
As evening approached, the sense of doom increased. Big Sky hadn’t had much time to prepare. What the hell were they going to do to save innocent lives?
He’d given up on warning Courtney. All he could do was pray that he could keep her out of the line of fire—the way he’d done yesterday.
Just before they left, Fowler called him aside.
“You think Ms. Rogers is coming to the opening?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” Riley answered.
“Well, if she did, that would kill two birds with one stone.”
“What do you mean?” Riley asked, struggling to keep his tone even.
“She’s a pain in the ass. I mean, once I get rid of her, I can run her ranch better than she does.”
“You sure could,” Riley said, hoping he didn’t sound like he wanted to kill the man.
“I had one of the guys take a shot at her. He almost got her that time, but it was snowing, and he missed. Then another time, he tried to follow her from town. But she slipped away again.”
“Which guy?”
Fowler’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Why do you care?”
“Just curious.”
“Drake. And I had Nichols going over to her place at night to pick up information. He used to work for her, and he didn’t like her much.”
“She can be hard to take,” Riley managed.
“We also booby trapped an old cabin out there. I heard it blow up.”
Riley nodded tightly.
Fowler gave him a piercing look. “What?”
“I think I almost got killed in some of your booby traps. You had a pit dug, too. Didn’t you?”
“Yeah.”
“I wish I’d had a clue.”
“Sorry. If I’d known it was you, I would have—” he shrugged.
“Water under the bridge,” Riley answered, keeping his hands hanging at his sides when he wanted to wrap them around the guy’s throat.
Fowler waved an arm, dismissing the subject, then took up another. “To make up for the insult, I got a choice assignment for you.”
“Sure.”
“I want you to drive one of the getaway vehicles,” he said.
“Okay,” Riley answered, hoping he didn’t look as if he thought Fowler had just handed him a big Christmas present.
“Drake will go with you.”
“I’m glad to have the company,” he answered, wondering how he could sit next to the man without shooting him. And wondering how he was going to get rid of the bastard. He’d thought Fowler was giving him a break. It turned out to have strings attached.
They started out for the battered-women’s center just after dark, with Riley holding back and getting into position at the rear of the column.
As they approached the turnoff to the ranch, he slowed down.
“Boone told me about your taking a shot at Mrs. Rogers.”
“Yeah. That was fun. Too bad I missed.”
Riley gritted his teeth to keep from cursing, then slowed the vehicle some more.
“What?” Drake asked.
“Something’s wrong with one of the front tires.”
“I don’t feel nothin’.”
“Well, I do, and I’m going to have a look.”
Riley pulled onto the shoulder and got out. Drake waited in the cab.
“Come look at this,” Riley called out.
Drake muttered an expletive, but he got out and came around to Riley’s side of the vehicle.
When the militia man bent down, Riley moved in behind him.
“Hey, I don’t see nothin’.”
“It’s right here.”
Riley hit him over the head with the butt of his gun. “That’s for trying to kill Courtney,” he muttered as he tied and gagged him with the rope and undershirt he’d brought along.
He turned in at the ranch, speeding up the driveway and pulling to a halt in the ranch yard.
As he jumped out and hurried toward the house, Jake appeared in front of him. Riley stopped short. Once again, Jake was holding a gun.
“Where are you going?” the older man demanded.
“I’ve got to talk to Courtney.”
“No way am I letting you get close to her.”
“Jake, I don’t have much time.”
“Yeah, you’ve got to get back to those militia friends of yours.”
He debated spitting out the truth. But he still didn’t know where Jake stood. He could be the spy at the ranch, and no way could Riley take a chance on the whole mission blowing up in the collective faces of Big Sky because of old Jake. This was their best chance to round up the militia leader and his new gang of thugs.
“Ask her if she’ll talk to me,” he said, using a wheedling tone.
“I’m not going to upset her by telling her you sneaked back on the ranch.”
A noise from the truck came to Riley’s rescue. Drake must have come to—and was trying to shout around the gag.
“What’s that?” Jake demanded, his attention shifting toward the vehicle.
Riley used the distraction to come down in a chopping motion on Jake’s gun hand.
Jake made a startled exclamation. For the second time that night, Riley bashed a man’s head with the butt of his gun. This time not as hard.
Picking up Jake, he ran with him toward the house.
Courtney must have heard something outside, because she was already at the door—and armed. She was wearing a dress coat and boots. He assumed she was dolled up to attend the shelter’s opening ceremonies.
“What in the Sam Hill is going on?” she demanded as she took in the picture the two men made. “What have you done to Jake?”
“He was trying to keep me away from you, and we have to talk.”
“We’re done talking—and anything else of a personal nature.”
He pushed past her, strode into the living room and laid Jake on the couch.
Courtney followed, her eyes angry. “You can’t just put him on the sofa and leave.”
“Yeah, I can. And you’d better take care of him.”
“Damn you,” Courtney spat out.
He gave her a direct look. “I came to warn you. Stay away from the opening tonight. The militia are going to make trouble. But don’t tell Jake where I’m going.”
“What kind of trouble?’
He looked around and lowered his voice. “I can’t talk about it. Bu
t we’ve got it under control.” He hoped to hell he was telling the truth.
“We who?”
“My…buddies and me.”
She wedged her hands on her hips, which thrust her belly toward him. “I’ve thought for a long time that you’re not what you say you are. Do you work for a government agency?”
“No. And I can’t stand here jawing. I have to get back before Fowler sees I’m missing—and executes me on the spot.”
She winced. “Would he do that?”
“He might.” He made his voice hard. “Fowler told me he was the one who ordered the shooting at the bridge. And he had you followed.”
She gasped.
“So just do the smart thing tonight. Do us both a big favor and stay home. And don’t call the sheriff, because he’s one of the bad guys.”
“How do you know?”
“By the way he handled the murder investigation. He was deferring to Fowler.”
She stared at him, wide-eyed.
He went on quickly, pressing his advantage. “I’m taking a big chance coming here. But I had to warn you.” That was the best he could do. He wanted to make sure she kept herself safe. Now he couldn’t stay another second. So he turned and raced back to the truck.
Drake was in the back, thrashing around. He stopped moving and gave Riley a fierce, angry look—as if he’d heard everything.
Well, too bad. Riley tightened the gag, then checked his captive’s bonds before climbing back into the driver’s seat and speeding down the ranch road.
If he could catch up with the convoy before they got to the shelter, he’d be in good shape. If he couldn’t, then Fowler might start asking questions.
But what about Drake? Which was more dangerous—taking the man with him or dropping him on his head somewhere?
COURTNEY BENT TOWARD JAKE. He groaned and moved, and she felt the lump on the back of his head.
His eyes fluttered open. Before he even knew where he was, he reached for his gun—which wasn’t in its holster, thank the Lord.
“Where is he?” Jake demanded, trying to sit up.
She pressed a hand to his shoulder. “Stay where you are for a few minutes.”
“I have to get that bastard.”
“He’s gone.”
“Where?”
Courtney hesitated. If she told Jake Riley’s story, he’d probably rush to the women’s shelter. And that might throw a monkey wrench into Riley’s plans.
But was he even telling the truth? She clenched her teeth. It was obvious he didn’t want her to go to the shelter. That he didn’t want her to get hurt. Still, that didn’t mean he was one of the good guys. He could simply be acting on his feelings for her.
So what was she going to do? Believe what he’d told her…or call the sheriff?
“Where is he?” Jake asked again.
“He’s left. He had business to take care of.”
“You trust him?”
“I want to.”
“You’re making a mistake,” Jake growled.
“Let me take care of your head.”
“I’m fine. You go on to that meeting.”
“I’m staying with you,” she answered.
His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. “Oh, yeah? Because you’re worried about me…or because of something that bastard told you?”
“Both,” she admitted in a small voice.
RILEY SPED INTO THE NIGHT. He saw a line of taillights on the road ahead of him and gave silent thanks. Then he caught up with the car at the end of the line and realized he was only seeing traffic on the highway—probably people heading for the shelter opening.
He slowed, looking for the back road into the national park that Fowler had directed them to take. When he saw a narrow lane, he hoped he’d found the right place and turned off.
A vehicle loomed in front of him, blocking his path, and armed men got out.
It was the militia, using the national park like it was their private camping grounds.
Walters strode toward him, gun drawn.
“Don’t shoot. It’s me,” Riley called out.
“Where the hell have you been?”
Riley thought fast. “Drake turned out to be a little skittish about the assignment. He got sick, and I had to stop at the side of the road a couple of times.”
Walters laughed. “Yeah, he was a mite nervous.”
“Then I got caught in traffic.”
Walters looked around. “So where is Drake now?”
“The last time I stopped, he took off. I guess he was too yellow to stick around,” Riley answered, thanking God that he’d decided to leave the man tied up in a stand of trees beside the road. Someone would have to go back for him later—before he froze to death.
Walters walked toward the truck and looked in the cab, then looked in the back. He seemed satisfied with what he saw.
“I’m going to go and get into position…and you need to do the same,” Riley said.
He climbed back into his vehicle, turned around so he was prepared for a quick getaway, then walked up the road to where the other men were hidden.
There was no sign of Big Sky. Where the hell were the bounty hunters?
Fowler gathered the men. Apparently he was finally willing to let them in on his plans. “The meeting is in the cafeteria. They set it up like an auditorium—with a wooden stage at one end. We can go in the back.” He gave the men a satisfied look. “The first lady of the United frigging States is in there. So we’re hunting big game.”
There were exclamations of appreciation from the men.
“How do you know?” one guy asked.
“Inside information,” Fowler said proudly.
“That silent partner you told us about?”
“Yeah,” Fowler allowed. “And we don’t want to let them down. So here’s the scoop. We sneak up on the place through the woods. Then we take out the guards at the door. After that, we all go in through the back of the building. I’ll take the first lady and the chairman of the committee. Tipton, you drill Mrs. Rogers. The rest of you can aim for anyone you want in the audience. Make it random—so nobody knows who’s next. But we don’t stay more than a couple of minutes. We’re in and out of there.” He looked at Riley. “You stay with the vehicles.”
“I want to be in on the shooting,” Riley said, thinking that if Big Sky hadn’t arrived, he was going to have to stop these bastards.
“You do what I tell you,” Fowler growled.
“Yes, sir,” Riley answered, praying that Courtney had listened to him for once and stayed home. As soon as the militia was inside the building, he’d create a distraction—like some shooting outside.
Would that be enough to warn the people who had come to the opening? Well, they were Western ranchers. They’d take cover if they heard gunfire. And the Secret Service would hustle the first lady out of there. He hoped.
Still, he felt his tension mount as Fowler led the men toward the back of the shelter where two guards covered the door.
Riley’s sense of doom grew as two of Fowler’s men knocked out the guards. The others rushed across the space between the woods and then to the back of the building.
When they were all assembled, Fowler opened the door, and the militia filed in, with their leader taking up the rear—showing his yellow stripe.
The door closed, and Riley tensed. Before he could start shooting into the air, he heard a tremendous boom—followed by a fireball that blew the door off its hinges and into the frigid night.
Chapter Fourteen
The fireball sent Cameron Murphy and his men— Jacob Powell, Trevor Blackhaw, Bryce Martin and the others—diving for cover.
When the colonel raised his head, he saw that the women’s shelter was in flames. As he watched, a man came from behind the building and dashed toward the front door.
It was Riley Watson.
“Watson, wait!”
“Not likely.”
Cam cursed. He’d promised Watson that he�
��d be there to prevent whatever the militia men had in mind. But before they’d reached the women’s shelter, he and his men had gotten stopped by the Secret Service.
Big Sky was heavily armed and suspicious looking. They’d been held under armed guard, and no amount of talking about an attack from the militia men had convinced the federal agents that they were playing right into Boone Fowler’s hands.
“It looks like you got the wrong guys,” Cam snapped to the Secret Service agents guarding them. “Let us help.”
The agents didn’t bother to apologize. They simply nodded, then took off toward the chaos created by the fire.
“Follow Watson,” Cameron shouted. “I’ll be there as soon as I call 911.”
His men rushed for the windows, using logs from the edge of the parking lot to bash out the panes while he made a frantic call, asking for fire and ambulance assistance. Then he followed his men inside. The fire was at the back, thank God. In the kitchen area. People were stampeding toward the front door. The men from Big Sky helped calm down the crowd so they could be evacuated in an orderly manner.
He saw Secret Service men hustle the first lady through one of the windows. Thankful that she was out of danger, he pressed farther into the building and picked up a woman who had been overcome with smoke.
All the time, he kept his eyes peeled for Riley Watson. But the chameleon had vanished into the smoke and confusion of the fire scene.
Cam cursed again. He’d sent Watson on a dangerous mission—to make contact with Boone Fowler. Then he’d let him down at the crucial moment. If the man didn’t come out of that burning building, it would be his fault.
“Clark, Lombardi, see if you can find Watson,” he shouted at two of his bounty hunters as he carried an old lady toward the door.
Dazed victims flooded into the open space in front of the shelter. Snow began to fall, adding to their misery.
To get out of the elements, some people staggered to their cars.
The limousines with the first lady and her Secret Service escort sped away into the night. At least she was safe.
In the distance, sirens wailed. Fire and rescue were finally on their way.
As the men from Big Sky kept up their tireless rescue effort, Cam scanned the crowd for Riley Watson—his heart sinking when the agent failed to appear.