Dangerous Waters

by Amy J. Fetzer

  Dangerous Waters

  By

  Amy J Fetzer

  AMY J. FETZER'S TIME-TRAVEL STORIES

  HAVE SWEPT COUNTLESS READERS INTO

  PASSIONATE ROMANCE. NOW, SHE BRINGS US

  DANGEROUS WATERS, THE DRAMATIC STORY OF A

  BEAUTIFUL, MODERN-DAY BOUNTY HUNTER IN SEARCH

  OF JUSTICE, AND HER DESTINY, IN THE ARMS OF A

  LAWMAN OF THE OLD WEST.

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  Twentieth-century bounty hunter Victoria Mason plunges

  through a waterfall after a wanted man and finds herself

  in the Colorado of 1872. Even that won't throw her off the

  track of her quarry, a twisted psychopath who's threatened

  to kill again. But it's not as simple to fight her attraction

  to Christopher Waythorne, the local marshall whose

  hard-edged good looks and expert touch inspire

  long-suppressed desire.

  From the intoxicating cascade of her gold and red hair

  to her straight shooting, Chris is captivated by

  the mysterious Victoria, and protective when he learns she

  is stalked by a murderer. And while the code of the West

  demands that he keep her safe from harm, Victoria's only

  hope of escaping from a whirlpool of danger and deception

  depends not on his protection, but his help in bringing

  a killer to justice.

  Between yesterday and today, an old-fashioned

  lawman and a modern woman must work together, or risk

  their new-found love...and their very lives.

  Chapter One

  Present Day

  Victoria Mason hunted killers for a living.

  And this one was the worst of them—a homicidal maniac in an Armani suit.

  "Got a bead on him, Samurai?" she whispered into die headset mic.

  "Yeah." Deep, masculine and annoyed. "Jesus, it's dark." "You think, maybe, because it's night?"

  ' 'A hundred comedians outta work, and you gotta be a smart ass."

  A brief smile tugged her lips as she rested her head against the wall and stared at the stars. "Ivy League knows we're here, Cole."

  "How you figure?"

  "Has he looked behind himself?"

  "No."

  The bastard had confidence, she'd give him that. "Lit a smoke yet? Using that gold cigarette case like a mirror?" 'He is now."

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  "Stay back!" she snapped, holding the thread mic closer to her mouth and hoping he wasn't within striking distance.

  "I'm a big boy, Vic," Testy, soft. "How'd you know he would?"

  "I don't know. I just do."

  "Jesus, woman, you give me the creeps sometimes."

  "Yeah, and you give me the hots."

  His soft chuckle, knowing and male, soothed the unintended insult. He'd meant it as a compliment, left-handed as it was. Cole was a P.I., blonde, brawny—and her best friend. They'd tried being lovers, once, and tried was the optimum word, because all they did was laugh, never making it beyond a little heavy groping. They'd settled for friends after that, closer than most, but friends.

  "We gonna take a vacation after this one?" she said after a moment. God, she could use one.

  "Depends."

  "On?"

  "Do I get to see those legs in a skirt?"

  "You've seen all I've got, Cole, so what's the difference?"

  "Allure," he whispered huskily and she smiled, shaking her head.

  She had all the feminine allure of a slick doorknob, and they both knew it.

  "He's just smoking, Vic. No, he's moving, unlocking the trunk, bending. Oh, God."

  ' 'What is it?'' she hissed, looking left and right before mov­ing in closer and wishing she'd taken out her night vision goggles.

  "It's a kid. Shit, she can't be more than eighteen." "Blonde?"

  "Yeah. She's gagged and tied." She heard another curse laced with a plea to God, and then, * 'It's Sgt. Alien's daughter.''

  "Don't move in yet, Cole," She inched toward his locale. "If she's bound, she's got to be alive."

  Please be alive, she thought, her stomach rolling. Alien was the cop who'd collared the perp in the first place. He had found

  DANGEROUS WATERS 9

  the three small town murders that linked with the others. Eleven women left dead across the country, with no connection except the manner of their deaths. A serial killer and her defendant had been charged with number twelve. Only number twelve. But this morning some slick-ass lawyer convinced a judge he wasn't a flight risk and he'd walked. She'd trusted her instincts, not lawyers, and followed, his previous moves reeking of suspi­cion and finally, bringing them close to the county border. Fat Jack's a fool for putting up the bail, she thought, even if he provided only a hundred thousand of the million five bond. Ivy League could easily afford the whole enchilada, and she figured he dealt with a bondsman just to satisfy the court. Regardless, she and Cole had trailed him here, to what she hoped was his souvenir burial ground. But if they didn't do something quick, preppy-with-a-weapon would add another trophy to his collec­tion, a young bride of no more than two years.

  Victoria wanted to do him, now.

  But her conscience wouldn't allow it and she side-stepped against the wall of the dilapidated building. It was an abandoned stock yard at the base of a mountain, littered with rotting wood and shadows.

  "Cole?"

  No answer

  "Cole!"

  "I'm here."

  "Jesus, don't scare me like that!"

  "Gosh, pumpkin, didn't know you cared."

  "Where is he,, jerk face?"

  She could almost hear him smirk.

  "Setting the stage. I'm going in for a closer look."

  "No!" He didn't respond and her temper rose. "Back off, pal. He's mine." Her voice chilled through the tiny mic.

  "I'm not going to provoke him."

  "Being here will provoke him."

  "We're covered."

  "Just because marshals are within radio distance doesn't

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  mean we're safe. This guy is slick and fast and you could be his next victim."

  She beard him grunt.

  "I am."

  "Cole?"

  A crash and she felt the impact of his body hitting the wall as sound banged against her ear drum. "Cole!"

  Victoria immediately yanked her hand radio from her jacket pocket and called in the police, then took off, moving as fast as she could in the dark, sliding up against the crumbling wall, her gun close to her body..

  "Answer me, damn you," she hissed over and over, but she knew. Oh, God almighty, she knew. A gurgling came through her ear piece, amplifying his lungs working desperately to draw in air. It sounded wet and spongy. He's taken it in the chest. "Hold on, Samurai, I'm coming." She imagined his pain, his lungs filling with blood, foaming from his lips, lips she'd kissed. And her heart shattered.

  A shot fired, soft, whizzing. Cole. He always used a silencer; said the usual noise made civilians panic. "I'm coming, pal, hold on."

  ' 'Wounded. ..... him,' came between a faint shuddering gasp. "I'll see you get a medal,"

  Through the highly sensitive mic she caught the faint uneven thump of footsteps and Victoria quickly slipped into the build­ing, circumventing the room as she stepped over fallen beams and shattered furniture, her eyes constantly checking for Ivy League, her back always facing the wall. She headed to the rear entrance, silver gray moonlight from the alley spilling over the half-reclining body slung across the doorway. Oh God.

  Victoria checked the alley, her back, then knelt. "I'm here, Samurai. Don't cut out on the party
now." He was sweating; a stream of blood, black and shiny in the dark, trickled from the corner of his mouth, stained his shirt just below his heart,

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  and she covered the bloody hole, her hand trembling. He strug­gled for one more breath before he went still.

  She blinked, stunned. "Oh Jesus, Banner, don't do this, don't. Help's coming!" It was too late. Even in the dark she could see his pupils were dilated, his pale blue iris's swallowed up with black. She slammed her eyes shut, stinging grief and guilt and rage clawing through her. She clung to it like talons to fresh meat to keep from crying. If she did, she'd never stop. Never. She drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly, purposely. Later, she thought. Dropping a kiss to his still lips, she closed his vacant eyes, then stood, slipping her flash light free and stooping low to search the ground for a show of blood.

  Come on, Ivy League, bleed for me.

  She scanned the ground around Cole's body, littered with trash and soda cans and splintered wood someone used for target practice. Rotten place for such a good man to die, she thought, then tried to imagine the struggle, examined the angle of the foot prints, then noticed the blood on Cole's jeans. His killer's blood. Point blank, she decided, dropping the beam to the area beyond Cole and picking up the shiny splatter. The slim flash light wasn't very strong, but gave enough light to find the direction. She followed it, wishing again that she had her night vision goggles so her flash light wouldn't alert him, wishing she'd taken point instead of Cole. Police sirens ripped the stillness somewhere far behind her and she hoped Cole's killer would lose his arrogance and run.

  And bleed.

  Yeah. Do us all a favor and die for me, you son of a bitch.

  The darkness hampered her, stealing precious time, but his blood trail wasn't going anywhere. And neither was she.

  His bounty just went up.

  A half hour later, she stared at the mountain rising up before her like Jabba the Hut and faced the fact that no matter how much she jiggled the flashlight, she wasn't going to get anymore power. Behind her, the blue and red lights of squad cars lit the

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  Amy J. Fetzer

  darkness as they overtook the long twisting road to the stock­yard. Decision made, she tied her dead Mag-light to a dry bush and headed back, mentally listing everything she'd need to track, not even conscious of the tears rolling down her cheeks.

  With her shoulders braced against the wall, Victoria watched

  the men zip her best friend into a black body bag and lift the

  girney into the coroner's wagon almost in synch with a stretcher

  being lifted into an ambulance. Paramedics worked over the

  comatose young woman.

  At least she's alive.

  And she was an unfinished kill for Ivy League, a break in the

  ritual. It would make him angry, she supposed, and hopefully,

  sloppy. That the kidnapping was motivated by revenge was a

  new facet to consider. Shrugging deeper into the fleece-lined

  suede jacket, Victoria took a drag on her cigarette, blowing out

  the smoke in a sharp stream and eavesdropping on the police

  chatter while she waited for a friend to bring her a horse. She

  sucked another toke, raked her hair off her forehead, then dug

  the heels of her palms into her tired eyes and prayed for an

  attack of patience before she strangled someone. What's taking

  so damn long? Her heart felt numb, impatience riding just ahead

  of her emotions. She needed to get moving, before the FBI

  Special Task Force showed up and flexed its muscle, before

  the sweep of deputies, highway patrol and volunteers trampled

  the grounds, obliterating the trail. But she was forced to remain,

  letting precious minutes tick by while she gave her statement.

  Damn paper work—if she didn't get the go-ahead, she'd yank

  a few chains and take it. f

  A man approached, his face weathered and familiar: Mark Daniels, U, S. Marshal.

  "Give this one up, Vic," he said, handing her Cole's headset. "You've done your part."

  If she had, Cole would be alive. "Not a chance." Stuffing the set in her pocket, she flicked the cigarette into the air, watching as it made a smooth arch of glowing red before hitting

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  the dirt. "Jack doesn't pay me to sit on my butt and mope," she said, pushing away from the wall and brushing past him. She headed to her car. Standing at the rear, she dug for her keys, staring at them briefly. Cole had driven tonight, and she'd had to search his body for them. They were still sticky with

  his blood.

  Jamming the key in the lock, she threw open the trunk and shoved aside Burger King and Taco Bell wrappers to grasp her back pack, unzipping it and immediately taking inventory. Flipping her hair back over her shoulder, she checked her battered tackle box, the load of her gun, stashed an extra clip, a knife, a tazer, the pair of head mics, night vision goggles, a micro camera, maps, a couple of slim bottles of water and a rolled pair of jeans. Then from another duffle, she added a couple fistfuls of necessities—a thick envelope of back-files, two non-descript tee shirts and a plastic lunch bags stuffed with clean panties. A bra she could go without if she had to, but not food. She pushed energy bars and freeze dried whatever into every available space.

  Mark stood beside her the entire time, trying to convince her to let them handle this one and give herself a break.

  "You mean wait for the Feds?" That was not in her plan.

  He shifted uncomfortably.' 'They're responsible for this case

  now."

  She spared him a quick glance through a curtain of dark gold hair. "We all are, Mark. But he's a bailed defendant headed to the country border, the wilderness and that makes him mine." All accounted, she zipped the pack shut. "I have to move, now." To prove her point, helicopters crossed overhead. They'll have thermal tracking equipment, she thought, and FBI field agents to destroy the trail.

  "Should I swear you in as a deputy?"

  She shrugged, still checking her trunk for equipment as he mumbled the oath. To cover his butt, she thought, throwing up her right hand.

  "Yeah, yeah, save your breath—I do." She slammed the hood closed and faced him. "I'm losing good hunt time." She

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  Amy J. Fetzer

  DANGEROUS WATERS

  tossed the keys and he caught them. "Keep it," He frowned and she shrugged inside the bulky sheepskin. "Sell it, junk it, I don't care. I've got a feeling that I'm not coming back." Panic swept his craggy features. "What!" "This is my last one, Mark. Then maybe ..." Maybe what? Grow flowers? It wasn't like she'd planned for the future. Oh sure, bounties were high, but the courts got the forfeitures. She worked for Fat Jack, and her paychecks just barely covered her expenses. Hell, she didn't even have an apartment, having shared a house with Cole for over a year. Not that she was ever there. And now he was gone.

  "Anything you need to know about me is in Cole's file cabinet under Pain-in-the-ass."

  Mark smirked, his eyes sad. She was a skilled hunter, the best, with a tuning fork in her head about felons. That's why he wasn't going to stop her. Even if the area was sealed off so tight a fly wouldn't get through, they couldn't overlook her 100% recapture rate, or that she'd suspected the killer's move and his playground before anyone else. She lived for nothing beyond bringing in the bail juniper. And she was a master at making herself blend in enough to do it. Mark couldn't count the times he stood right beside her and didn't recognize her. But he'd known her for years. He was her training officer when she'd been a marshal, but the woman standing before him was nothing like he remembered—sharp edged and callous, about her job and her own needs. Hell, he didn't think she ever did anything for herself like other women did—date, shop, lunch with friends, maybe some pampering. Nothing but hunt.r />
  "Don't say a damn thing," she warned, recognizing that

  pitying look. " 'Cause it won't matter."

  "1 wasn't. I know it won't, but one of these days I'll get you to wear a dress and date my little brother."

  She blinked. "The fashion plate from L.A.?" He nodded. "Oh, we'd have just tons to chat about," she said, rolling her eyes and slinging her pack on her shoulder. A deputy called out to her and she turned, meeting him halfway and taking the reins of the horse. ' "Thanks for the loan, Kyle.''

  Kyle glanced briefly at the U.S. Marshal, about to put in his two cents, then thought better of it. It was personal now. "If you lose her, she'll just head home."

  "How comforting," she said, then lashed her pack to the saddle, yet before she could climb on, Mark grabbed her, swal­lowing her in his beefy arms.

  "Dinner with Janey and the kids, this Saturday," he said in her ear and Victoria nodded, savoring the masculine strength, a lump swelling in her throat. Family dinners, laughing kids, a home . .. Don't! Don't weaken. Or Ivy League will eat you alive, she thought, quickly pushing out of his arms and swinging up onto the animal's back. She guided the mare away from the bulk of police cars when Fat Jack Palau suddenly blocked her path. He grabbed the mare's bridle, scowling and breathless, which wasn't unusual, but the chopper in the distance told her he'd hauled that Hawaiian-printed bulk in a hard run to catch

  her.

  Jack eyeballed her, her pack, and the determination in her gold eyes. "Firing you won't make a diff, will it?" "You did that last week."

  He snorted, glancing at the rolling coroner's wagon, then raising a questioning brow. "That's Cole."

  The color drained from his face and Jack glanced around, as if to make her a liar by spotting Cole.

  ' 'He was brain dead before I got to him.'' Her voice fractured when pain flashed in his eyes, and she told him what happened. Cole, the girl, the blood stains and the car were enough to indict, but they needed Ivy League—dead or alive.

  "How much of a lead does that som' bitch have on you?" She was relieved he wasn't going to fight her. Jack was a tough adversary when you pissed him off. "Better than two hours." Her expression blamed the Marshals, the local sheriff, and the heel-dragging paper work she loathed. "And he's book­ing it at five miles an hour, if I had to guess."