Racing Toward Love (Horses Heal Hearts Book 2)

by Kimberly Beckett

  “Some time after the three rigs leave Whiskey Ridge, and once we are sure the coast is clear, Megan, Stephen, Daniel, and I will load Biscuit into an old, but serviceable, trailer pulled by a beat-up, but mechanically sound, truck and make our way directly to Chicago. I believe our quarry will take the bait and follow the nicer, newer trailers thinking they carry Biscuit and will be fooled into following those rigs on wild goose chases.”

  “I’m counting on the O’Reillys to fall for the plan as well, but I have no guarantee which of the rigs they’ll follow. Please don’t take any unnecessary chances. I want all of us coming out of this unharmed. Is that clear?”

  When everyone in the room nodded their assent, Ian smiled and said, “All right, then. Let’s get going.”

  Chapter 23

  Friday morning dawned clear and crisp, and the birds had just begun to sing when the peaceful atmosphere was interrupted by the distinctive rumble of diesel engines. Quinn and his men had spent the night in their SUV parked down the road from Whiskey Ridge Farm, waiting for the Bradys to make a run for it. Each had taken a shift to watch the farm, allowing the others to sleep. Quinn happened to be the man on watch and saw three large horse trailers towed by heavy duty pickup trucks pulling out of the farm. One had the Whiskey Ridge Farm logo on the side. Another had the Shady Oaks Farm logo, and the last had the Four Roses Farm logo. All three headed in the direction of Interstate Sixty-Five, at least at first.

  As the curious press scrambled to discern which of the three rigs carried Seabiscuit II, the rigs split up and each took a separate, more rural route out of Lexington. Quinn and his men watched as frustrated reporters consulted with their management and randomly picked one of the rigs to follow. One of them would probably be right, but which?

  “Get up, you bloody fools,” Quinn bellowed to his men. “They’re making a run for it.” He took the binoculars and scanned the cab of each truck to see which was being driven by Daniel Brady or a member of his immediate family. No luck. He banged his fist on the dashboard. It was too dark to discern which of the trucks was the one he wanted. Now what?

  “Which one should we follow, boss?” one of the men asked.

  They only had one rental vehicle, so their choice of which rig to follow was limited. Growling in frustration, Quinn directed his driver to follow the Whiskey Ridge rig, figuring the Bradys wouldn’t risk transporting their horse in anything but the best transportation. They would stick with their plan to waylay the Bradys on an isolated road, ambushing the rig and taking a hostage. It mattered not to him whether they kidnapped Stephen or Megan, or even Daniel Brady. If O’Reilly held any of the three, the other two would bow to the organization’s wishes and throw the race. Quinn actually hoped that Megan Brady’s ever-present body guard would be there and would attempt to fight with him. He would love nothing better than to kill the bastard, Ian Stafford.

  Quinn was barely able to control his excitement at the prospect of confronting the Bradys and handing Ian Stafford a crushing defeat. His father would be so proud of his accomplishment, and his place as heir apparent to the O’Reilly organization would be assured. The vehicle he and his men had rented slowly gained on the Whiskey Ridge rig carrying the horse he was certain was Seabiscuit II.

  He looked over at his driver, who appeared tense—most likely anticipating a fight with whoever might be occupying the truck.

  “Take it slowly, boyo,” Quinn said. “We don’t want to spook them and risk them hurting the horse.” After he directed his driver to come level with the rig and prepared to signal the rig to pull over, he realized the man in the driver’s seat was not Daniel Brady, but his father-in-law, Walter Gibson. Quinn paled. Apparently, he had chosen the wrong rig.

  Shaking off his sense of foreboding at this unexpected development, Quinn brandished his 9-millimeter handgun to ensure his directive to pull the rig over was followed. Walter nodded, indicating he would move over as soon as he could. If Quinn couldn’t have a member of the immediate Brady family, one of their relatives would do nicely as a substitute.

  As the rig came to a stop, Quinn saw Walter look over at Sarah. He was pleased to see that Sarah met his gaze with apprehension. In his rearview mirror, Quinn spotted two dark-colored sedans approaching from further behind them on the highway but discounted them as locals who would simply drive by and be gone before he acted. He exited the SUV and pulled out his 9-millimeter handgun.

  “All right, Gibson, get out of the truck. You’re coming with me.”

  Walter stayed behind the wheel. “I’m afraid I can’t do that, Mr. . . .?”

  “I’m Quinn O’Reilly, Mr. Gibson,” Quinn responded, confident the man would recognize the name without any further explanation. “Where is your son-in-law, his family, and the horse Seabiscuit II?”

  Walter’s eyes darted toward the back of the truck, then back at Quinn. “Why, I suppose they’re on their way to Chicago to board an airplane bound for London.”

  Quinn felt a cold blanket of panic wash over him, and his heart thundered in his ears. The Brady family and their accomplices had successfully drawn him and his men off the trail of their quarry, and Seabiscuit II had gotten away. Livid, he drew his pistol, cocked it, and trained it on Walter Gibson, resolved that someone would pay for their treachery.

  Instantly, the sound of several handguns cocking accompanied by a strong, clear voice declaring, “FBI. Drop your weapon immediately, or we’ll shoot.”

  Shite! Knowing he and his men were outnumbered and outgunned, Quinn raised his hands and dropped his weapon. In seconds, two FBI agents approached him from behind, grabbed his arms, and twisted them behind him. He then felt the cold steel of handcuffs being secured around his wrists. He was read his Miranda rights as the FBI agents led him and his men to their cars.

  From the car he could hear Special Agent Scott Miller as he barked orders to his agents. “Confiscate all their firearms and take them to the Louisville office lockup. I have a few questions to ask these gentlemen about their reasons for traveling to our neck of the woods and about why they’re threatening these innocent people. We’ll also need to take an inventory of all their weapons and check with the ATF to see if they bothered to get approval to bring them into the country. If they didn’t, there are several charges we’ll have to file against them. Oh, and make sure to have their vehicle towed to our impound facility, so we can thoroughly search it for any other illegal contraband.”

  “Yes, sir,” one of the agents replied. “We’ll get on that right away.”

  Quinn’s mind raced. As soon as they got to the FBI lock up, he would call his father’s attorney and order him to get Quinn and his men out of this mess. He cringed. Da was not going to like this.

  Chapter 24

  After confirming that the press and the O’Reilly men had all taken the bait and followed one of the three rigs that had already left the farm, a ten-year-old maroon Chevrolet Suburban pulling a nondescript two-horse trailer containing Seabiscuit II, drove slowly out of the Whiskey Ridge Farm drive. Sitting in the back seat, Megan looked out her window, and seeing no sign of the press or of the O’Reilly SUV, glanced over at Ian and smiled. He smiled back and winked. She watched as he reached forward to grasp her father’s shoulder.

  “It looks like they all took the bait, Daniel,” Ian said. “I think you can relax and enjoy the drive.” Ian said.

  “I believe you’re right,” Daniel replied, “but I won’t rest easy until we’re on that airplane and on our way to London.”

  “Suit yourself,” Ian said.

  When, after an hour on the road, they were certain they weren’t being followed, Ian took a deep breath and released it. Some of the tension he had been holding in his shoulders relaxed. He then addressed the Bradys with a very serious expression. He reached into his pocket and pulled out three bracelets that looked very much like Fit Bits. “Although we a
ppear to be safe for now, Roger Davis overnighted these compact GPS tracking devices to me after our telephone conversation Wednesday.”

  Megan and the others each took one of the devices and examined it. The GPS portion of the bracelet was the size of a dime, and to the untrained eye, the bracelets with the devices attached looked a lot like a cross between a Fit Bit and an Apple watch, with the watch face itself much smaller than normal.

  “Why the additional precaution, Ian?” Stephen asked from the front seat, a hint of suspicion in his voice. “I thought we’d be safe once we arrived in England.”

  Ian grimaced. “There’s always the chance that O’Reilly and his men will be able to penetrate our defenses and take one of you. This way, we’ll be able to find you much more quickly if one of you is taken. Hopefully, we’ll never have to use the devices, but it never hurts to be safe.”

  “Would O’Reilly know what they are if he sees them?” Megan asked.

  “Yes. Would it be better if we wore them out of sight, say around our ankles rather than on our wrists?” Stephen chimed in.

  Ian considered their questions and realized they had a point. “Yes, I supposed even if he mistook them for either a Fit Bit or an Apple watch, either can be tracked via GPS, so he might dispose of them if he sees them. A good solution might be to wear them in a less visible spot, like around your ankle.” The Bradys took a moment to do just that.

  As the truck cruised along on the interstate, Megan felt the stress of the past few days gradually melt away, and her eyelids grew heavy with exhaustion. She found herself leaning toward Ian and forced herself back upright, not certain he would welcome her encroaching into his space. She tried to lay her head back to rest, and as she drifted to sleep, again felt her body drawn toward Ian. Not willing to fight her body’s natural inclination, she allowed herself to tentatively lay her head on his shoulder. When Ian didn’t object, Megan relaxed into his warm, sheltering body.

  She let her mind drift to their argument in the stables on Wednesday. Ian seemed to believe that the way she demonstrated her love to Stephen—by stepping in and protecting him from harm—was not really the best way to love him. He implied that it might be more loving to allow Stephen to experience the consequences of his actions and learn from them rather than protect him from them.

  Ian had also insisted that by wanting to protect him by stepping in and waking him from his nightmares or excusing his behavior during a flash back, Megan prevented him from finding true healing for himself. True, even if they were together, she would not be there every time he had a nightmare or flashback. He did have to find his own way to deal with his trauma. Megan smiled. Now she was starting to understand what Ian was talking about. She would have to be sure to tell him. Now, however, it was time to take a well-deserved nap.

  When he didn’t resist, she wrapped her arm around his torso, and snuggled in to get more comfortable. In doing so, her hand brushed over the shoulder-holstered Sig Sauer Ian had strapped on. Her eyes flew open, but Ian smiled his reassurance and curled his arm around her.

  ~ ~ ~

  Ian marveled at how right it felt to have Megan curled up against him, sleeping peacefully. He glanced out his window and relaxed. His plan had worked. Now that the press and the O’Reillys had both taken the bait, the trip to Chicago should be uneventful. Nonetheless, he was happy his trusty Sig was strapped to his body—just in case.

  He shifted Megan closer in his arms. He had never felt more conflicted. In just a little over a week, there would be no reason for him to associate with Megan at all. How could he walk away from her after everything they had been through? On the other hand, how could he in all good conscience accept the love of this woman when there was a distinct possibility his PTSD might never be cured?

  Although his nightmares were becoming less frequent, the fact that the sound of a medical helicopter had transported him immediately back to the desert had shaken him, reminding him that his condition was like a ticking time bomb, potentially going off without any notice. He was broken. Damaged goods. Even if Megan did profess to love him, was she mistaking sympathy for love? Could it be that the same feelings of protectiveness she had exhibited for Stephen for all these years had been transferred to him?

  No clear answers came to him, but one thing he knew for certain. If he had to let Megan go, it would be like tearing his heart from his chest. He finally admitted to himself that he loved her with all his heart, and he would never forget her. He would never find another woman to replace her. He looked tenderly down on her sleeping countenance and brushed a lock of hair away from her beautiful, innocent face.

  If she really was mistaking her protective feelings for him as love, then as much as he loathed doing it, and regardless of the fact he had agreed to maintain a friendship with her, he would have to end their association. There was no way he could become dependent upon Megan for his recovery. If she came to him, it would have to be as equals. He couldn’t live with himself if he allowed her to take on his problems. After the race, he would say goodbye and wish her well. Until then, he would have to make sure he didn’t do anything to encourage her affections.

  Around four o’clock that afternoon, the jagged skyline of downtown Chicago loomed in the distance. The Chicago airport was less than an hour away. They had arrived. God willing, the rest of their journey should be uneventful.

  Chapter 25

  Ryan O’Reilly watched as his father hung up the telephone and swept everything off of his desk with one massive surge of strength. As the men tasked with guarding his father cowered against the walls of the room, Ryan calmly said, “Don’t worry, Da. We’ve got the best lawyers money can buy. Quinn will be free before you know it.”

  “Fuck Quinn,” Seamus retorted. “He deserves everything coming to him. He’s an idiot.” Seamus drummed his fingers impatiently on the desk and growled. “What I need desperately is to find a way to get the fucking Bradys to give us the St Leger Stakes race.” He looked desperately at Ryan. “You can do that for me son, can’t you?”

  Ryan hesitated for just a moment. If he was able to accomplish what his father was asking of him, he would be crowned the heir apparent. He would be the next boss of the O’Reilly crime family. His father was that enraged over Quinn’s bungling of the Brady matter. He inwardly thanked his arsehole of a brother for handing him this prize. Knowing that this moment was everything he had been dreaming of, Ryan quickly made his decision.

  “Yes, Da. I will do it. You have my word.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After a brief examination by a vet and a review of his passport upon their arrival in the U.K., Seabiscuit II was approved for entry to the customs quarantine facility. Ian assisted the Bradys in arranging for transportation from London to Doncaster for the following day. Biscuit was to stay in a quarantine facility overnight for observation, and then barring any difficulties that might arise, he would be released to them.

  Once Biscuit was led away by a British customs officer, Ian watched Daniel hasten over to Ian’s uncle Thomas, who had been waiting for them. Ian was equally pleased to see Roger Davis and one of his men approach him after he and the Bradys cleared customs.

  “Welcome home, Stafford.” Roger grinned and offered his hand. Ian took it and shook it heartily.

  “I’m very glad to see you, Roger,” Ian said. “I had to pack my sidearm in my luggage back in Chicago, and I feel naked without my Sig strapped to me when there are criminals about.”

  “About that,” Roger said as he waited for the Brady family to join them. “Let me take you to my office where we can speak without the danger of being overheard.” Roger took them to his sleek new Range Rover SUV and drove into London. He parked in an underground parking garage after presenting a photo ID card to the attendant. The building above the garage was modern, glass and steel construction with multiple stories. The elevator took the group to th
e twelfth floor, and Roger led them to his spacious and well-appointed office. The first thing Ian noticed after taking in the comfortable-looking, but obviously high quality, furnishings was that there were no windows in the office.

  “I see you’ve taken precautions to ensure you’re not spied upon from outside,” he remarked.

  “Definitely. We’ve also installed bug-detecting devices and hidden video monitoring throughout the office to ensure we’re not infiltrated in any way. You’re perfectly safe here.” Roger indicated his guests sit in one of the two overstuffed leather sofas in the office.

  “You were right to be concerned about O’Reilly. My operatives have done an extensive investigation into the O’Reilly organization. We’ve identified most, if not all, of his ‘employees’ and have been able to pinpoint several of his men staking out the airport. Their IT systems are difficult but not impossible to hack into, and we know from that hack his men have orders to kidnap any of the members of the Brady family and to kill Ian should he attempt to interfere.”

  Ian wished Roger had been a bit more discreet with his message. Although Megan was already aware the O’Reillys were after her family, Ian didn’t think she was aware that they had a kill order out on him. As soon as she heard the threat, Megan moved quickly to his side, her concern evident. Ian wrapped his arm around her shoulders and squeezed in an attempt to reassure her.