Unafraid

by Allie Harrison

  Like the magician he knew himself to be. His jaws ached with the need to grin. That recuperation from a gunshot wound and his stint in jail hadn’t turned him into a fumble fingers. Instead, he muttered, “Sorry, I tripped. It’s hard enough just to walk with the chains on my ankles. Can you take them off while we’re out here, given all the roots and sticks and rocks so I don’t fall again? I’d hate to hurt someone.” It was almost impossible to utter that last sentence without laughing, but he managed it. The truth was, if he was given the opportunity, he planned to hurt every single one of them. And with Brubaker looking at him with arrogant contempt just then, his greatest wish was to rid Brubaker of every one of his perfect, white teeth.

  His only regret was that he would have planned the fall better when he could get his hands on Shackleford’s gun he knew was holstered under his left arm. He knew it wouldn’t have been an easy feat, but with the right plan in action, he could have succeeded.

  “How much farther?” Brubaker didn’t try to keep any anger, contempt, or loathing out of his voice.

  Bob was certain the man was sweating under the coat he wore. Good. “A few hundred yards,” Bob lied. That was sweet justice all on its own. Knowing Brubaker, he saw sweating as a sign of weakness and never wanted anyone to see he perspired like a normal man. Bob was willing to bet Brubaker thought himself far above other men. And right then he thought he had a pretty good idea why Brubaker was hot under the collar. After all it was a pleasant, almost cool, fall morning. The rising sun was outshining the clouds, despite the afternoon forecast of rain and possible thunderstorms. At the same time, Bob was fairly certain Brubaker’s stained armpits had little to do with him.

  Oh, Brubaker was by no means happy to be out hiking in the woods, no matter how many beautiful fall colors the woods displayed or how many different colored leaves feathered to the ground around them. Bob thought what bothered him was having to walk away from the cute hot chick who had served him coffee earlier. Bob had seen that look of want that was etched into Brubaker’s face as he looked at himself in the mirror. He had felt that look, that want, that knowing he couldn’t touch a piece of fluff like that without forcing his hand or forcing her.

  Oh, yes, Bob knew that feeling well. It had taken him years to learn how to play others to get that piece of fluff he wanted when he encountered it. Just as he also knew there were times when simply taking what he wanted was the more fulfilling way to go. Bob had always put women into three categories which he labeled A, G, or S. A was attainable whereas he could get what he wanted from her through persuasion or sweet talk, or even threats if required. G was gullible. S was just plain stupid. There were times when G and S played hand in hand. Other times when a woman see-sawed between A and G. His wife fit that combination to a tee. Given the way she sounded the only time he was allowed near a phone and called her, she still believed he was the innocent husband. If he wasn’t so busy stumbling his way through the woods and his wrists weren’t shackled to his belt, he’d reach back and pat himself on the back for a job well done at convincing her to be exactly what he needed. Damn, if he could get free of this, he considered even taking her and the kids to hide out in Mexico.

  Now, as he shuffled his way through the trees, he thought about that cute little coffee woman. He knew better than to think about her. He had seen the way she’d stepped away from Brubaker. He had seen the way she looked at Brubaker before she stepped away. She was smart enough to recognize him for the snake he was. She might even see through Bob. There had been very few women over the course of his life who had looked into his eyes and had seen something that caused them to back away from him as that coffee girl had backed away from Brubaker. Those women didn’t fit into any of Bob’s three categories. Bob thought he should almost label women like that coffee woman as P for psychic, seemingly having the ability to see his thoughts and know his plans.

  He didn’t readily believe in psychics, but there were women who were in a league of their own, not necessarily what he’d label S for smart—although he thought they probably were—but what he’d definitely label O for observant. They had the ability to see something no one else ever did. And he’d venture to guess it was because they had at sometime in their lives dealt with a man like him.

  He wondered what the man in the coffee woman’s past had done to her.

  And it took the next several moments for him to keep a cap on letting his dick get hard at that thought. He almost stumbled again. And again, it wasn’t intentional. He needed to keep his right head in the game until he was out of the woods. He looked at the back of Shackleford’s head before shifting his gaze down the man’s jacket to his left arm pit where he knew Shackleford holstered his gun. Bob allowed himself a lopsided grin.

  Soon, he thought.

  He also thought he could smell freedom among all the other earthy scents of the woods.

  To his amazement, it was Shackleford’s turn to stumble and lose his balance.

  Bob snatched the opportunity like a child seizing a piece of candy from the counter before his sibling could get it. He pretended to be unable to stop and landed right on top of Shackleford like the defense on a football team making the greatest tackle in history.

  Shackleford helped by struggling, causing his jacket to move.

  Yes, by God, Bob hadn’t lost his touch. He was quick as ever, despite the chains that bound his hands and ankles. One heartbeat, he appeared to be flailing like a man trying to keep his head above water. The next, with his hands together, he had Shackleford’s gun in his hand.

  A Glock 17, nice. At least he didn’t have to worry about a fucking safety. “Thanks for making it easier for me, Shackleford, you piece of shit.”

  After that, everything happened in a matter of three seconds. At the same time, Bob was certain the earth stopped revolving and time slowed to a crawl because he saw it all with absolute clarity as if it was a film and he was watching frame by frame. Shackleford was on the ground on his hands and knees, looking back at Bob over his right shoulder. One of the three of men who walked behind rushed forward to grab him. Bob heard the movement, the crunch of foliage under foot before he turned and took it in. Five agents in suits. Hell, there must have been a few in a car following that Bob hadn’t noticed. He was going to have to pay better attention in the future. They were on the move and didn’t slow. The quick movement and struggle against having his hands and feet shackled made shooting a bit awkward.

  And it had been a few months since he’d fired anything besides a rifle.

  His first shots were wide.

  The lack of control surprised him. Weapons had always calmed him, brought him more peace and a sense of authority. Bark shattered from nearby trees. More leaves slithered toward the ground. The sound of gunfire seemed to stop everyone in their tracks.

  The sounds of birds and insects were suddenly lost under a high pitched whistling sound that filled Bob’s senses and sent his heart racing. The recoil was less than Bob expected. He had a split second to think about the smoothness of the weapon in his hands. For a frightening moment, he thought the agents rushing him might knock him on his ass and tackle him.

  He took a step backward and fought to maintain his balance when he stumbled slightly with the binds on his ankles. The suit who had been rushing toward him doubled over with the next shot hitting him in the gut. His white shirt was instantly red. The four guys behind him received the same thing in less than the blink of an eye. Bob was amazed at how easy it all was. He should have stolen one of these guns long ago.

  Bob turned back to Shackleford.

  “I’ll bet it bites getting shot with your own damned gun, doesn’t it?”

  “No! No!” Shackleford barreled into his legs and knocked him off his feet. The gun went off a few more times, but Bob had no idea where the shots hit home. He felt dust whiff at his ankles and considered himself lucky a stray bullet didn’t take out his own foot. He swung his hands—and the gun— upward, connecting with Shackleford’s chin, makin
g him roll a few feet away. On his knees, Bob took aim. Blood dripping down his chin, Shackleford held up a hand as if that would save him. Bob showed him it wouldn’t.

  Then he raised the gun and pointed it at Brubaker, who stared at him with what looked like a combination of loathing, rage, and disbelief.

  What bothered Bob most was he saw no fear in that odd look of shocked hatred.

  For a brief moment, only a matter of two heartbeats perhaps, Bob thought Brubaker was going to rush him.

  Then, of course, he didn’t.

  The sounds of running footsteps through the trees told him he had little time. Obviously, there were more members of the team he didn’t know existed. He hoped it wasn’t the woman with the dog. He didn’t want to have to shoot the dog.

  “What are you waiting for?” Brubaker asked, his voice harsh as if he could hardly speak. “Are you going to shoot me? It sounds like back up’s coming.”

  Bob grinned. He knew he was taking a chance, but he had no choice. He knew there would be no getting away with his extremities shackled. He pointed the gun down and shot the chain that laced his ankles together. He’d still have the cuffs, but he no longer had to worry about his stride being inhibited. “I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you mean. I’d rather leave you alive so you can answer to the higher ups who I’m sure will be asking just how you managed to lose me.” He held his other hand out as far as possible and fired another bullet to break the chain that looped his wrists to this belt. The action sent the chain snapping away. It slapped brutally against his left wrist and hurt like a son of a bitch. The sound of the ricochet was quick and sharp. But he ignored it considering the elation of having his hands free from being connected to his waist. Again, he still had bracelets around his wrists, but his arms were free.

  Bob met Brubaker’s gaze evenly and smiled. “You know? I have the strange feeling you and I could have been partners in crime if we had met some other time. I would have even let you pull my underwear out of the crack of my ass for me.”

  Without wasting another moment, he put another shot into Brubaker’s right arm, just in case the man suddenly grew a pair of balls and decided he should do something. Brubaker dropped to his knees like a bowling pin taken out by a sixteen pound ball. The look on his face said he couldn’t believe Bob had the gumption to really shoot him. Then he opened his mouth and let out a blood-curdling scream like a girl, clutching his arm as blood poured out between his fingers.

  As Bob ran the other direction from the approaching footsteps, he let out, “Idiot.”

  Although not exactly blindly but without direction, he crashed through the trees. There was no path to follow. Branches cut his face and tugged against the sleeves of his orange jumpsuit—which he knew he was going to have to find a way to cut off soon. Amongst the woods, the orange stood out like a sunburned nose, which was why all the hunters wore it this time of year. Even running in nothing but his skivvies would camouflage him better, though the trees would scratch him to pieces. While he was glad he’d had the foresight to shoot the chains that bound him, the bracelets that laced his wrists and ankles were added weight, making him feel as if he was swimming against a current.

  Then again, no matter how well he blended in with the trees, he realized whoever chased him would hear him. It seemed after only a few hundred feet, he was panting for breath and his motion through the foliage sounded like an elephant, unless that was just the blood he heard rushing in his own ears.

  He sucked in a deep breath and let it out in a loud whoosh as he forced himself faster. It was what twenty years of criminal activity had taught him—always be prepared, always have a plan B or even a plan C, and do whatever he needed to do to get what and where he wanted. If he came out at a bluff above the lake, he was prepared to jump in and swim for it. If he came out at the highway, well, damn, he had a gun. He’d carjack the first car that came by. He heard shouting behind him.

  His lungs burning, Bob forced his legs to pick up the pace.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Tex came out of the woods and into one of the most horrific scenes he’d seen, and he had seen many. But then again, these were colleagues. He might not readily know their names, but he knew they’d shared experiences.

  Six men in suits were down, their blood seeping into the ground. Brubaker was on his knees, clutching his arm, looking as if he might pitch forward onto his face any moment.

  Orrey and George came out of the trees and joined him.

  “Shit,” George let out.

  “What the fuck?” Tex added as he stepped closer. With his long legs, he was able to reach the first of Brubaker’s team in three strides. He reached out and felt for a pulse. There was none. Orrey and Dell checked the others.

  Brubaker stared at them as if he was seeing ghosts. “You guys aren’t supposed to be here. I know you were told to take a vacation. What are you doing here?”

  “I was about to ask you the same question, Brubaker. What are you doing here? Besides fucking up and getting your entire team shot?”

  “That bastard shot me,” Brubaker let out, his voice high-pitched, his face pale. He sounded as if he was more surprised by the idea than he was in pain. Blood covered his jacket sleeve. But then blood seemed to be splattered everywhere.

  John had taught them well, they knew where to walk to stay out of the evidence.

  “It looks like he managed to get his hand on someone’s weapon, and he shot everybody.” Tex replied, swallowing down the bile that burned his throat. “I don’t want to waste time learning how he did that.”

  “This one’s got a pulse,” Orrey interrupted.

  “So does this one.” George looked at Brubaker. “We were never here. You never saw us, understand? Your team is down. Don’t sit there like a little kid crying on the playground with a skinned knee. Fucking call it in right now.”

  “I don’t think I can call it in. My fingers don’t work. I don’t think I can hold the phone and dial.”

  “Shit,” Tex said again as he reached into Brubaker’s pocket and pulled out his phone and quickly dialed a number he had memorized. Then he brushed his shirt over it. “It’s a shame I have to waste time wiping off my prints just in case you decide to screw us over later, Brubaker.” He placed the phone in Brubaker’s hand. “Do you think you can manage to press send?”

  Orrey pulled out his own phone and snapped a photo before he chimed in. “I know it’s morbid, but if he decides to screw us over, we’ll make sure the entire FBI knows how he sat and did nothing while his team bled out on the ground in front of him.”

  Brubaker glared at them and for the first time was obviously smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

  Tex stared back. “Tell us which direction he went.”

  Brubaker acted as if he was barely able to press send and move to put his phone to his ear. “That way,” he nodded to the trees. “Through the trees.”

  Tex gave him a hard stare for another few seconds that he hoped relayed the message of what a dick Brubaker was. Then he wasted no more time, but turned and ran, his colleagues right behind him.

  His heart was already in his throat at the idea that Brubaker allowed Bob Smith to get his hands on a gun, and his team was shot. It instantly choked him when Tex heard the distant sounds of more shots come to him.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  John wasn’t sure why he was even driving, following this lead, working to keep Bob Smith in his sights as he normally would. There was no way in hell he was going to leave Abby alone to go keep an eye on the man charged with so many crimes right then John couldn’t remember them all. At the same time, he couldn’t simply drop Abby off at the entrance of the park and tell her to Uber it back to the coffee shop.

  He slowed the truck not far beyond the entrance into the park.

  “What are you doing?” Abby asked.

  “I can’t take you into what might be a dangerous situation. And I can’t just let you out to walk.”

  He didn’t tel
l her that through his ear phone, Tex had yelled, “Shots fired!”

  “I told you I’m fine.”

  “I know. I want to keep you that way. That’s why you’re letting us out here. And you’re driving the truck back to your coffee shop, and we’ll meet you there later.”

  “Really, I’m—”

  “Really,” he interrupted, “please do as I ask. You’ll make my job much easier if I don’t have to worry about you.” He put the truck in park. “Do as I say, turn the truck around, go straight back to your shop.”

  In his ear, he heard, “Shit, Brubaker’s team is down. Smith is gone.”

  Shit was right.

  “Go now.” He opened the door, wanting her as far from the park as possible in the next three seconds. Smith had seen her, and Smith had a nasty way with women. John wanted her free and clear and safe. Then he wanted to give Smith a good chase so he had other things to think about than pretty women.

  “Okay.” She opened her own door and climbed out. He knew her intent was to move around the truck to him to climb in behind the wheel.

  Monty opened the back door and stepped out, too, and closed the door behind him.

  John knew he should kiss her, touch her, reassure her, but right then he needed her out of here.

  His only touch was his hand on the small of her back as he directed her to climb in behind the wheel.

  A flash of movement caught his eye.

  Orange.

  This time he didn’t even think shit. Fuck touched down in his mind like a lightning bolt as Bob Smith crashed out through the trees in front of them, gun in hand.

  John’s mind was clouded with worry and terror. He merely reacted, working to shove Abby behind him.