Final Touch

by Brandilyn Collins

Rayne patted her shoulder. “Why don’t you get some sleep?”

  “You know I can’t.” Brittany looked toward the great room. “Where’s Gary?”

  “I don’t know. In the den, I think.”

  Brittany rubbed her face and sighed. “I feel like…dead. Or like my brain’s been put in someone else’s body. Everything isn’t quite real.”

  Footsteps echoed on the great room floor. Hours ago the long rows of wedding chairs had been taken down, but only a few pieces of Ed’s oversize furniture had been carted back in from the estate’s storage shed. Now every sound in the huge room echoed.

  “I know.” Rayne took a long drink and set the glass in the sink. “Me too.”

  A cell phone went off from the dining room. Brittany froze. It was Agent Scarrow’s—again. It rang all the time. And each time she feared hearing some terrible news. She cocked her head toward the sound.

  “Scarrow.”

  Rayne caught Brittany’s eye. They both remained still, listening.

  “Oh,” the agent said. “That’s great news. Where?”

  Rayne and Brittany exchanged wide-eyed looks and hurried out of the kitchen. At the threshold of the dining room they stopped, watching Agent Scarrow’s face for clues. He sat near the end of the long table—his makeshift office—surrounded by files and papers and his laptop. As he talked he jotted in his notebook. He glanced at them and gave them a thumbs-up. Brittany’s heart clutched. What? What?

  She found Rayne’s hand and gripped it.

  Agent Scarrow scribbled on and on in his notepad. Brittany waited impatiently, drinking in his words. Something about a call. Local law enforcement sent out. He asked curt questions, then wrote some more.

  Please God, please—have they found her?

  “All right. Thanks. Get right back to me with updates.” He ended the call and focused on Rayne, speaking rapidly. “Shaley called nine-one-one. She’s in Utah.”

  “Oh!” Rayne’s hand flew to her mouth.

  Utah. For a split second Brittany’s mind tripped over the detail. Shaley was now in Utah? Then crazy joy and relief flooded her body. She rushed forward, hands up, pleading. “Is she okay? Where is she?”

  “In a cabin off Highway 125, southwest of Provo. Local law enforcement are on their way to seal off the cabin. Apparently Shaley managed to call while her kidnapper was somewhere else in the house. Sounded like she hung up abruptly when she heard him coming.”

  “Can they get to her?” Rayne’s voice sounded tinny.

  “The sheriff’s department is cordoning off the property. The FBI’s field office in Salt Lake City is two hours’ drive north. They’ve got a SWAT unit. We’re calling in the unit to handle the situation. These are very highly trained men. They’ll get the job done.”

  SWAT unit?

  Questions crammed into Brittany’s mind. So many things could go wrong.

  “But those men are two hours away?” Rayne dug her fingers into her hair. “And that’s once they’re called in and ready to go. Why not have the local police—”

  “They’re out in the sticks, near a small town of seven hundred people. Local police don’t have the resources to do what we need. The FBI’s SWAT team will know how to negotiate, how to talk a suspect into giving up. And if they have to, they know how to storm the place and remove Shaley.”

  Where was Gary? He should be hearing this. Brittany swiveled toward the great room. “I’ll go tell everyone!”

  She ran through the great room, shouting, “They know where Shaley is, they know where she is!” Bedroom doors opened on the second floor. Gary darted out of the den. “What happened?” He ran toward Brittany.

  “She called nine-one-one!”

  Band members and Ed Schering spilled from their rooms, their footsteps pounding down the two big staircases. Brittany led them all into the dining room. Soon they were grouped around Agent Scarrow and Rayne, questions tumbling from them. He went over the story once again. Rayne held on to Gary, whispering, “God heard our prayers.”

  Yes, he did, Brittany thought. But what would that evil man who’d kidnapped Shaley do when he found himself surrounded by a SWAT team?

  Rayne let go of Gary and grabbed Al’s wrist. “How long until they get there?”

  “As you mentioned, the team needs to assemble and be briefed on the situation before heading out. It’s a two-hour drive, but they’ll transport to the site in a chopper. So altogether they should be at the cabin within two hours.”

  Two hours. That would be six o’clock Pacific time. Tears filled Brittany’s eyes. It was good news. But two hours was an eternity.

  “They’ll get her, Rayne.” Gary’s voice shook. “They’ll bring Shaley home.”

  20

  Aringing phone jangled thirty-two-year-old Randy Sullivan from a sound sleep. His arm shot out to snatch up the receiver almost before the first ring stopped. It was an automatic reflex, honed from many nights of being jangled awake.

  He pressed the phone to his ear, propped up on one elbow. “Sullivan.”

  “We need you here pronto. Mission near Oak City, southwest of Provo.” Bear’s voice—the SWAT unit leader.

  The line went dead.

  Sullivan heaved out of bed, fully awake.

  The bed covers rustled. “You have to go?” His wife’s voice, thick from sleep, filtered through the darkness.

  “Yeah.”

  A small intake of breath from Rhonda. No matter how many missions he went on, she always worried. With good reason. “Be careful,” she said.

  “Always.”

  Randy strode to the bathroom by the light of the corner streetlamp filtering through the bedroom window. He dressed in one minute flat. His uniform and gear were already in the car, ready at a minute’s notice—the military-issued bulletproof vest, the helmet and goggles, the weapons and accessories. Exactly what he took would depend on the mission. At the Stable—his team’s slang for their headquarters—Bear would brief them on the situation.

  Before leaving the bedroom, he bent down to kiss his wife’s cheek. She felt warm and smooth. “Love you.”

  She reached up, placed a palm against his cheek. “Come back to me.”

  “Always.”

  Two years ago, one of his team members hadn’t come back.

  Randy hurried down the hall past the room where their two-year-old, Stevie, slept. As he passed the open door, he brushed fingertips against the doorjamb. “Hug you, Stevie,” he whispered.

  A moment later, the garage door opened, and Randy started his Bronco and backed out. The neighborhood streets were quiet and empty. Randy drank in the peace. He wouldn’t have it for long.

  Within ten minutes he’d reached the Stable. Soon all of the men on his team had showed up.

  “Hey, Crooner.” Randy’s nickname was an inside joke, as were all the other men’s. Bear, their team leader, had heard him singing off-key as he worked out one day, and Crooner he became.

  “Okay, we’re all here. Heads up, we gotta move.” Bear stood in front of them and next to a flip chart, notes in hand for the mission briefing. The top sheet on the chart showed a hand-drawn view of roads and a small house.

  Bear stood six foot four, with the shoulders and chest of a bear—hence his nickname. His thick brown hair finished the image. “You all hear on the news yesterday about Shaley O’Connor’s kidnap just before her parents’ wedding?”

  Heard it? Randy’s eyebrows went up. Every channel was full of the story.

  “We get to go rescue her.”

  “You’re kiddin’ me.” Eagle’s beady eyes lit. Murmurs went around the room.

  “Man, I love Rayne’s music,” Volt said. Volt—short for voltage—was tall and lean and ran like the wind. A long lightning bolt tattoo jagged down his left arm.

  Randy exchanged a meaningful look with Coop, whose nickname came from his long chicken neck. They both knew what a case like this meant: publicity, and lots of it. They’d better dot every i and cross every t. Not that they usually did
n’t. But with the national media breathing down your back…

  Bear ignored the comments. “She’s in a rural cabin off Highway 125. Held by one HT—calling himself Joshua.” HT—short for hostage taker. “We’ve been informed his real name is Ronald Fledger. Spent a year and a half in prison for stalking Shaley.

  “Fledger is fifty-five years old. You may have seen the suspect’s composite on TV. Here’s a look at the real guy, before he got the hair cut off in prison.” Bear handed a copy of Fledger’s mug shot to Rex, who gave it a good look and passed it to Randy.

  He studied the picture. Ugly man. Mean-looking small eyes and disgustingly big lips. Randy shook his head. He couldn’t imagine his own child stolen by a man like this.

  “And here’s one of Miss O’Connor.” Bear gave a second sheet to Rex.

  Randy leaned toward Rex and studied the photo. Same one he’d seen on the news. A close-up. He’d spotted the picture on some grocery store tabloid in the past. Randy gazed at the photo not because he didn’t know what Shaley looked like—he’d seen her face dozens of times—but because he wanted to memorize every detail. To hold those eyes in his memory. This girl’s safety was why he’d been pulled out of bed. Right now she depended on his team and their years of vigorous training—for her life.

  “We’ve got the sheriff’s department on the scene.” Bear handed a small stack of papers to Rex. “Each of you, take one. They faxed this map and layout of the cabin and surrounding roads. It’s up here too.” He tapped the flip chart. “Small wooden cabin, porch with two steps. Two levels. Only one door entry—the one on the porch.” He pointed to the spot. “Detached, windowless garage to the left of the cabin.”

  Randy’s trained eyes took in the sheet he held in his hands, then the bigger flip-chart view. He noted every window in the cabin, the measured distance between the house and woods and garage, the proposed location of the command post. Forest was a good thing. Trees meant cover.

  For the next five minutes, Bear continued talking. Randy knew the importance of the briefing. All the same he could feel the moments slipping by—and every one had to seem an eternity to Shaley O’Connor.

  Hold on, Shaley. We’re coming.

  Briefing over, the men hurried to change into their uniforms and pull equipment from their cars. The uniform and boots were camouflage, with a large FBI insignia on the upper arms. Over that went the bulletproof vest, which held numerous pieces of equipment and magazine pouches for extra ammunition.

  Randy checked his submachine gun, his main weapon. A waist belt with thigh harness held an extra, smaller gun.

  The mission also called for a gas mask, plus eye and ear protection in case they had to throw a flash-bang into the cabin. Those things were so bright and loud that any unprotected person, including Shaley, would be stunned right down to the floor. She’d be blinded for about five seconds. Not the way they wanted to treat any innocent victim, but sometimes they had to do it to catch the bad guy.

  Randy would put on his helmet and affix the radio to his ear after reaching the site.

  Team assembled and ready, they climbed into a transport vehicle to take them to the waiting chopper.

  On the short drive, Randy went over in his mind what was to come. Eight highly trained, excellent marksmen against one out-of-shape fifty-five-year-old man. Sounded like a slam-dunk. But no mission was routine, especially with a hostage involved. You just couldn’t predict what a man might do when he was up against a wall. When his only choices were surrender and jail—or death.

  Sometimes they chose death.

  And sometimes they took their hostages with them.

  21

  Don’t lie to me, Shaley,” Joshua spat. “You weren’t looking for shoes.”

  His eyes narrowed as I cringed by the bedroom closet. For a terrifying moment we faced off. My heart was about to bang out of my chest.

  “Yes, I was.”

  He strode toward me. “You picked up the phone, didn’t you?” He caught my arm and squeezed.

  “No!”

  “I heard the phone!”

  “You didn’t!” My head jerked toward the closet. “You heard this door open.”

  Joshua’s stale breath poured over me, his anger buzzing like bees. “Who’d you talk to?”

  “Nobody!”

  “Who?” He yanked me close to him, his face inches from mine. In his eyes I saw hatred and betrayal deep enough to kill. My stomach shriveled.

  “I didn’t talk to anyone!”

  He cursed and shoved me away from him. I hit the wall. “You’ve really done it now, Shaley. If anybody comes here to rescue you—you’re dead.”

  22

  Randy and his team reached the target area at 6:55 a.m. They’d landed in an open field a good distance from the cabin—so as not to alert the HT—then were driven in by sheriff’s department vehicles.

  Sheriff’s deputies had blocked off the narrow dirt road to the cabin. The road rounded a bend about a quarter mile away, disappearing into forest.

  They piled out of the vehicles and were quickly introduced to three men who’d had a chance to survey the area firsthand. Bart Stockle from the Utah State Police shook Bear’s hand. Stockle was commander of the mission and would make the decisions regarding the SWAT unit’s actions. “Glad you guys are here. I arrived just a short time ago. Still gathering information.”

  Off to Randy’s left sat the mobile command post brought down from the state police in Provo. The large vehicle contained all the communications equipment needed to link every member of the three agencies involved in the mission. Radio would be used, since the guys manning the command post couldn’t be close enough to see the action. Randy and his unit, plus all the men from the two other agencies, were their eyes and ears. Randy’s radio transmitter, housed in a pouch on his shoulder, attached to an earpiece via a clear cord.

  “All right.” Rich Adams, from the sheriff’s department, pointed up the dirt road. “Cabin’s about a third of a mile up, around that bend.” He held up a large, hand-drawn map, similar to the small ones Bear had handed out. “We’ve got men here, here, and here.” He pointed to areas around the cabin. “First responder arrived within five minutes of the call. He and backups stopped here and went in on foot. There’s no other way out of the cabin but this road. And it’s been manned since then. We’ve got snipers in the woods on all sides of the cabin.

  “No vehicle outside the cabin. The HT’s stolen Ford Explorer apparently is in the closed detached garage. There are no windows to the garage. In the darkness one of our men crept close enough to the cabin to hear voices, so we know they’re in there. All windows in the cabin are closed. Front door entrance only.”

  Adams set down the map and picked up a set of blueprints. Randy knew the local guys had been busy while he and the team were in the chopper. Some unlucky clerk at the building department had no doubt been awakened by the sheriff’s department with an immediate request—blueprints for the cabin.

  Stockle moved to hold up one side of the large blueprints.

  “Okay.” Adams pointed to the document. “First level is essentially one big room. Den here, kitchen here.” His finger slid left. “Over here on the right—stairs. Upstairs, we have…” Stockle let go of his side, and Adams flipped to the second page. “Long hall and two bedrooms with a bathroom in the middle. Two windows in the hall. Bedroom windows here.” He pointed to numerous locations. “One window in the bathroom.”

  Adams turned to Bear. “What’s your assessment?”

  Bear eyed the map. “We can’t know what floor they’re on. Now that it’s light it’s not feasible to get a man across the clearing and able to check through a window without the possibility of being seen. Surprise isn’t the way to go.” Bear looked at Chuck Trayna, the man serving as negotiator.

  “All right.” Stockle nodded. “I say it’s time we make ourselves known and talk him out of there.” He looked to Adams. “The cabin phone—who’s it registered under?”

 
“John Baynor. Whereabouts unknown. Apparently he’s not at the cabin.”

  Stockle repeated the name to himself. “What do we know about Baynor?”

  “Short rap sheet: petty theft, that kind of thing. Worked as a clerk in a small hardware store in town until a week ago. He gave notice, said it was effective immediately, and hasn’t been seen since. Oh, and he gave away his dog to a friend.”

  Gave away his dog? Guy must have had some kind of plans.

  Stockle considered the information. “But he’s not our guy.”

  “Nope,” Adams replied. “It’s Fledger for sure. Maybe he knows Fledger. Or maybe Fledger just happened to stumble upon his empty cabin.”

  Randy gazed down the dirt road. His uniform was hot and heavy. Fully loaded with weapons, he would be carrying forty-five pounds. Hang in there, Shaley. You’ll be rescued soon.

  Stockle nodded decisively. “All right. Let’s get this team in place and make a phone call.”

  23

  Randy was sweating by the time the cabin appeared around the bend. He and his unit moved in a loping run, silent and with heads down, guns in their hands.

  Bear signaled for them to stop. Every man skidded to a halt, eyes on their leader. He pointed to various members of the unit, then indicated what direction they should go. Randy peeled off to the right with Coop, Rex, and Volt. The plan was to diffuse into the forest, using tree cover to approach the cabin. They’d have two men on all four sides. Once surrounding the target, they’d position to fire. The procedure did not call for complete stealth. On the contrary, they wanted the HT to know they were there. Their presence and firepower sent a very clear message—you are outnumbered.

  Randy skulked through the trees, followed by the other three. His heart beat double, and his hands gripped the gun. No matter how hard the training, how much experience he’d had, every mission sent his blood pumping.

  At the clearing Randy and Coop veered toward the side of the cabin. Rex and Volt ran on toward the back.

  Randy positioned himself behind the first tree at the edge of the clearing. The cabin sat a mere thirty feet away. He keyed his radio and spoke quietly. “Crooner and Coop ready.”