Resonable Doubt

by Catherine Anderson

  A bright beam of light bounced off the earthen walls of the main passage seconds after she left it. Her knees wob­bled with relief. One, two, three, four... She hurled her­self along the narrow hall, going as fast as she dared, clicking off her steps, trying to keep track. She had gone fourteen strides in the main tunnel; now she had gone six­teen in this one. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen...

  "You can't get of here!" the man yelled. "There's no sense hiding! I locked the door. We'll find you!"

  Breanna blocked him out, counting as she ran. Twenty- three. A faint sliver of light glowed above her and she stopped, throwing back her head. Moonlight. Her eyes fo­cused. An airway?

  Her pulse accelerated. She threw up her arms and felt a hole about two and a half feet square. Could she get a grip on the supporting timbers and lift herself into it? Her vi­sion grew more accustomed to the light. Yes, it was an air hole, a vertical tunnel going straight up to ground level, with a grate at the top.

  Bending her knees, Breanna tensed her legs. She leaped upward, flailing her arms. Her right palm struck wood and she homed in on its position, dropping back to the ground. The light beam was coming closer and closer…

  She hunkered down again. One more try. If she didn't get a handhold this time, she wouldn't have another chance. With all her strength, she pushed off in a desperate leap. Her fingertips grazed wood, curled, gripped frantically. The weight of her body pried her fingernails away from the quick, but she gritted her teeth and didn't let go.

  She had never been very good at climbing. That handi­cap, coupled with near blindness, made her ascent into the air shaft all the more difficult. She pumped her legs to swing, using the momentum of her body to help lift her­self. Flinging up her free arm and groping with her palm she found a cross section of wood along one side of the open­ing. Repeating the pendulum motion, she found another, a rung higher, and pulled herself up until she could get a toe­hold.

  The hole was high and narrow, but it was wide enough for her to fold her body into it, bracing her shoulders against one side and her knees on the other. She leaned her head back, willing her heart to stop pounding.

  "You're locked in, lady," the man roared. "I don't have time to play games with you. Come out and save us both a lot of trouble."

  Breanna saw the beam of light bouncing around on the floor beneath her. She dropped her chin to her chest. The illuminated figure of the man came into view between her spread legs and she stared at the top of his bald head. Don't look up.

  "Dammit," he snarled. "Where the hell could she go?"

  He turned and stepped out of sight. Breanna felt sweat trickling between her breasts. She waited for total dark­ness, straining her ears. A cough sounded some distance away. Was he going for help?

  She stared down at the blackness under her. It was safe here. She could probably stick tight and never be discov­ered. The agents outside wouldn't expect any heroics from her. Neither would Tyler. They would want her to hide, wouldn't they?

  Perspiration beaded on her forehead now and ran into her eyes. She blinked and swallowed. What could she do to help? Risking her life for no good reason was stupid.

  Coward! Think! There has to be something that you can do.

  Had the man taken Jack's radio? Breanna mentally re­played the sounds she had heard when she was running. No, surely he hadn't. Right after the gun had gone off, he had closed the door and locked it. He had followed her almost immediately after that. With the radio, she could call the agents above ground, tell them where the back entrance was, and get help for Jack.

  With her heart drumming in her chest, Breanna slid down the air shaft and dropped to the ground. She counted her steps as she ran back up the passage and slowed on twenty- two, feeling for the intersecting corridor. One more step and her hand met nothingness. A right turn and fourteen steps. Jack had to be just ahead of her.

  She stooped, searching with her arms. Her fingertips ran into something warm and sticky. She gasped and recoiled, then forced herself to reach out again. His midriff. Sliding her hands downward, she found the radio, uncliipped it from his belt and keyed the mike. Nothing. With trembling fin­gers she searched for an on-off switch, and as she traced the outline of the handset, she felt shattered plastic. Jack must have broken it when he fell.

  She stood there for a moment at a loss. With no radio, she couldn't contact anyone aboveground. She was locked in. The only other way out was through the main chamber. Her own life, as well as Jack's and Tyler's, depended on her, and she didn't know what to do. Jack's gun. The thought slid into her mind and crystallized. Oh, God, she knew nothing about guns. Could she even fire one? And if she could, would she be able to hit her target? There wasn't much time to think about it.

  Tossing the radio aside, she ran her hands over Jack's chest, found his gun and pulled it from the holster. Just as she slipped the weapon into the waistband of her jeans, Jack moaned. Breanna dropped to her knees, scarcely believing her own ears. He wasn't dead? Pressing her palms to his midsection, she found one wound. Nausea rolled up her throat when her hand came away wet with his blood.

  Moving quickly, she grabbed the hem of her shirt and tried to rip it. It wouldn't tear. She sank her teeth into it and yanked until the cloth split, thanking God it was a T-shirt, so it would stretch to provide double thickness. As soon as she'd wrapped Jack's middle, she tore another strip for his head. It wasn't much in the way of first aid, but it was all that she could do in the dark. She frisked him, finding his extra bullets and stowing them in the pocket of her jeans.

  Oh, Jack, hang on. Knowing how badly a head wound could bleed, Breanna propped him in the corner so that the steps and wall braced him in a sitting position to restrict the blood flow. If he fell sideways... No, she wouldn't think about that, couldn't think about that. She rose to her feet, hating to leave him. Tyler. He was down here somewhere.

  He needed help, too. She had to go . She heard a sound down the corridor.

  Fourteen paces back the way she had come, a left turn and twenty-three more. Breanna ran until she stood be­neath the air hole again. By the time she had shimmied back up into the narrow space and wedged herself there, she was exhausted.

  Only moments later, the main passage was echoing with shouts, and lights were bobbing everywhere. Breanna held her breath, so scared that her whole body quivered.

  "Well, she didn't get out. Look at this," Morrow ex­claimed.

  The familiar rasp of the bald man's voice reverberated in the tunnel. "I'll be damned. Is he alive? Maybe I won't get a murder rap out of this, after all."

  "He's a goner," Morrow replied. "You're in up to the neck."

  The bald man grunted. "Might as well finish him then."

  Breanna clamped a hand over her mouth. No, no, don't. She tensed for another shot, smothering sobs. Animals, nothing but animals. She envisioned cold metal pressing against Jack's forehead. Hot tears slid down her cheeks.

  "You moron, don't fire that thing down here again. You want the whole place caving in?" Morrow gave a snort.

  "Use your head, man. He's history. Forget him. Help me find the woman."

  Moments later, the men shone their flashlights down the corridor Breanna was in, but didn't enter it, which con­firmed that it was a dead end. The sound of their voices passed her.

  "Well, if she hits the main chambers, Rawlins and Pope will nail her," Chuck speculated. "I say we try these. I'd bet money she's in one of them. Damn, she's at home in tun­nels."

  More passageways? Breanna shivered. It was so cold. She had forgotten how chilly it was underground. Where the perspiration was drying, her bare midriff felt icy.

  "I'll go left, you go right," she heard them agree.

  When their footfalls had died away, Breanna lowered herself from her hiding place. Just in case she needed it, she pulled the gun from her waistband and searched for the safety. Right behind the trigger guard she felt a small, round button. She pressed it. Metal rasped, something hit her stomach, and bounced down her le
g. Thunk. She cocked her head, running her hands over the weapon. Horror raced through her when her fingers found a square hole in the butt.

  She had ejected the ammunition clip.

  Frantic, Breanna dropped to her knees, patting the ground all around her. Her breath came in quick little gasps. Oh, God, please. Her hand bumped against metal. The clip. With a sob, she picked it up. In one end she felt an inch-long bullet, on the other a sloping surface. She knew the bullet end went first, that the tip of the bullet had to point for­ward so it could be ejected into the chamber. She squeezed her eyes closed, gritted her teeth and shoved the metal cyl­inder into the hole, hoping the sound wouldn't carry. The clip grated, hit home and stayed.

  She knelt there, holding the gun in her hand, pointed away from her, if it had a safety, she didn't know where it was. She curled her finger around the trigger. She had to see if it would move without pulling it far enough to activate the firing mechanism. Easy, easy. She tightened her grip, pull­ing back. Nothing. The trigger wouldn't move. It was on safety, and she didn't know how to get it off.

  A shudder ran through her. She blinked, gulped air and swallowed, then stood up. She had to find Tyler. There was no choice. And if she had to bluff her way with a gun that didn't work, she'd do that, too. If she could get the gun to him, they had a fighting chance. Rawlins and Pope. That gave her two more men to contend with in the main cham­ber, which she assumed was under her barn. If they had Tyler in there under guard, how would she ever reach him?

  Driving all doubts from her mind, Breanna elbowed her way along the wall and turned left into the main corridor. Twenty paces farther, she felt another doorway. One of those being searched?

  It seemed to her that she walked at least a mile, even though she knew the barn wasn't that far from the creek bank. One hundred and eleven steps had registered in her mind when she walked face first into dirt. With her right arm extended, she groped until she felt a door. She pressed her ear against it and heard muffled conversation. Gingerly she tried the knob. The door wasn't locked.

  Breanna had never jumped into a den of criminals with a gun before, but she had seen how Tyler and the other agents had held theirs and had also watched enough television drama to hope she could do it convincingly. The counter­feiters wouldn't be too frightened of her if they knew she'd never shot a pistol. Especially if they guessed the trigger was locked.

  She closed her eyes for a moment, saying a quick prayer, then tried to remember the most recent detective movie that she had watched. One thing she knew for sure, cops always entered rooms with a bang. She was no policewoman, but maybe if she yelled loud enough, no one would notice her knees knocking.

  She turned the handle again and eased the door forward so that the latch was free, then stepped back. Raising her left leg, she kicked as hard as she could and jumped into the opening, slapping her gun hand onto her other palm and locking her elbows.

  "Freeze!" she yelled.

  The sudden pool of bright light blinded her. She blinked to clear her vision, inching sideways, keeping her back pro­tected by the wall. One man was so taken by surprise that he nearly fell off his stool. Another was lounging against the wall to her left, sipping coffee. He slopped the liquid all over his blue shirt and flinched.

  Never in all her life had Breanna been so scared. She hoped her voice would stay steady. "One false move, just one, and I'll blast you where you stand."

  The man on the stool made a move toward his revolver, which rested on his hip.

  "Don't do it, mister."

  Their eyes filled with fear.

  Breanna shut the door with her foot. "Okay, fellas, real slow and real easy, put your weapons on the floor."

  "Lady, be careful with that thing," the man in the blue shirt pleaded. "You might shoot somebody."

  "Yes, indeed." Breanna kept the gun weaving from one man to the other. "Fact is, I might shoot two somebod­ies."

  "Just stay calm," the man near the stool said smoothly. "We'll do what you say. Just don't accidentally pull that trigger."

  Breanna realized her acting hadn't been very convincing, but they seemed frightened of her this way, so that was okay. She didn't care, as long as she got the job done. They put their weapons on the floor. "That's good, very good. Now turn around and step against the wall. Arms up, legs apart. That's the way. Move and you're going to be exceedingly sorry."

  Glancing uneasily around her, she got her bearings. It was a large room, filled with machinery. Copying equipment? A press? She spied the huge generator in one corner and mar­veled that they had ever gotten something that large down here.

  With her peripheral vision she saw jean-clad legs stretched out on the floor to her left, bound with rope at the ankles. She whipped her head around and her heart soared with joy. Tyler's slate-blue eyes stared back at her over a band of white cloth. She couldn't see much of his expression, but guessed he was horrified. He wasn't the only one. She hur­ried over to him, keeping the gun aimed at the other men while she struggled to untie his feet. He leaned forward so she could reach his wrists.

  As soon as he could, he ripped off the gag and scrambled for the weapons on the floor, stowing one in his belt, keep­ing one in his hand. Leaning against a wall, Breanna sighed with relief, more than happy to let him take over. His leg? He isn't limping!

  "Keep the door covered," he instructed her.

  She jerked erect and gave him a bewildered look. He flashed her a quick grin. "Don't quit when you're on a roll, Bree. We've still got the other two to worry about." He kept his gun trained on their prisoners and stepped back, glanc­ing at the paneled ceiling. "Hey, fellas? Coffee break's over up there. We need some help. Send someone down to the creek, too. There's a back exit there, right up from the bathing hole. A sod door in a bank, right there in the brush."

  Breanna watched Tyler tie their prisoners with the ropes that had bound him, then edge his way to the opposite side of the door. She remembered how the agents had flanked her earlier when she had entered Tyler's cabin. She could handle that, she thought. All she had to do was keep her arms locked, her gun steady and look shifty-eyed. She took her position, thought of asking Tyler about the gun safety, then discarded the idea. Just in case the criminals got brave, she couldn't risk them knowing she had a weapon that wouldn't fire.

  "Bree, don't point it at me!" Tyler snapped.

  She moved the barrel tip, shrugging one shoulder. If he expected perfection her first time at this, he could think again. "Sorry."

  Just then the door opened. The bald-headed man looked so big when he stepped into the room that she decided to let Tyler take the lead. Her knees were shaking too hard. Mor­row walked in and froze. His brown eyes met Breanna's, and he smiled a smile that turned her skin to ice.

  "Come on in, gentlemen," Tyler said calmly, motioning them forward. "Guns on the floor, please."

  Breanna watched the barrel of her pistol shake and thanked God Tyler had this mess under control. If she could have pulled the trigger, chances were she would have shot her foot off.

  "Shut the door, Bree."

  Tyler slid the guns out of the criminals' reach with his foot and instructed them to join their cohorts along the wall. His voice was disappointingly conversational, not rough and tough as she'd imagined federal agents would talk. No wonder the counterfeiters hadn't been convinced by her acting. She was lucky she hadn't botched the whole thing.

  "Real good. Keep your arms reaching and don't move." Tyler looked totally relaxed, his eyes deadly calm.

  Thumping sounds filled the room and Breanna jerked her head around to stare at the closed door to their right. It flew open and three men entered, Jacobsen coming in last. His eyes landed on Breanna and widened in amazement. She dropped her chin and stared. What was left of her blouse was smeared with blood. Her hands were bright red. No wonder Tyler had looked so horrified. She stooped and let the gun slip from her fingers to the floor.

  She fixed her gaze on Tyler. He was already shrugging off his jacket, st
epping toward her. Smiling, he holstered his gun, stuffed her arms down the overly long sleeves of his windbreaker, zipped it up and hugged her. It wasn't just an ordinary hug, but a tight squeeze; his arms were trembling.

  "What happened to your shirt? Are you bleeding? I'm so glad you're safe."

  He leaned over and picked up Jack's gun, stared at it for a moment, then flipped a lever on the left side of the ham­mer. His face grew pale when he pulled back the slide to check for a bullet in the chamber. "My God, you didn't have a bul—" His eyes flew to hers. They stared at one an­other for a long moment, then he smiled, hefting the weapon on his palm. "You are one helluva lady, Miss Mor­gan. Who gave you this?"

  Breanna's mind froze. Jack. Here she was, feeling so re­lieved, and Jack Jones was badly injured, maybe bleeding to death. "Jack, he's been shot. Oh, Tyler, hurry. Get a light. We have to help him."

  Jacobsen heard her and left the prisoners with the other two agents. "I've got a light," he said, flipping it on as he left the room with them, "but the agents coming in the back way should be there by now."

  Breanna cried, "Oh, hurry, hurry...!"

  To her relief, the wounded man was surrounded by other agents when they reached him. "She got the bleeding slowed down," one said, "... did a fine job of this, for working in the dark. Excellent...."

  Tyler's arm tightened around Breanna's shoulders. Someone shouted behind them. "We've got Van Patten back here! Stomach wound. He's bad, real bad." Breanna turned, staggering down the tunnel. There was a lighted opening ahead. She reached it, braced her hands on each side and leaned in. Flashlight beams bounced. She glimpsed blond hair, a gray T-shirt, sprawled legs. Dane. Breanna stepped into the room. She felt Tyler grasp her shoulder, give her a pat. Then he was gone.

  Confusion broke out. Voices bounced off the walls around her. Men dashed back and forth. She was trapped in a nightmare of blackness and sporadic light, alone, un­able to help, numb. She leaned against a wall, registering bits and pieces of what she heard said.