by Carly Bishop
She twisted in his grasp. “Stop, please! You’re hurting me!” she cried.
“Darling, I’m sorry,” he said, the regret in his voice sincere enough to convince a middle-aged man standing within a few feet and the woman joining him.
He used her twisting motion to bring her around into his embrace, till she felt herself drawn flush against him. The power of his lean, hard body embracing hers quelled her. She couldn’t think what she’d been trying to accomplish, couldn’t focus. He smelled of leather and dust and too many hours in the saddle. More man than she had ever come near. Stronger, harder, seasoned. And very, very angry.
He held her tight and with his other hand clasped her head against his shoulder. To the onlookers, his actions must have seemed intimate and caring. Eden wasn’t fooled.
“Stop it,” she cried, “just stop it!” But her voice was muffled against his broad, muscled chest, and unintelligible even to her.
He stroked her hair and made soothing motions and lowered his head to murmur softly, lovingly, in her ear.
What he said had nothing to do with how tenderly he held her. Or how he said it.
“Listen to me. Listen well. Get this, Eden Kelley. Try to remember. Innocent people die when you’re around. If you keep this up, someone else gets hurt. You want that on your conscience, too, be my guest. Otherwise, my advice to you is to keep your smart little mouth shut.”
Tears sprang to her eyes and her throat clamped tight. It wasn’t her fault that his wife was dead or that Agent Paglia had been shot down in cold blood less than an hour ago.
It was even less her fault if Winston Elijah Broussard III had brokered every bullet that had ever killed anyone in the history of the world. She had given up everything, everything to stop him.
It wouldn’t be her fault if this man chose to kill or maim or hurt whoever might play hero and step up to save her from Catherine’s hate-ridden husband. But that’s what it felt like to her.
Just as he knew it would. He stroked her hair.
“Don’t touch me,” she muttered.
“Don’t worry.” He let her go, dropped her cold, and Eden found herself clinging to him to keep from crumpling to her knees. She despised him for that, for making it clear to her how fragile she was.
He shoved open the door leading onto the apron of the runway, heading for the small jet. She fought desperately against the constant threat of fainting dead away. A gust of wind blew down off the Tetons, cold as ice. The pilot’s coat collar whipped up about the time he drew a weapon and took a warning stance, both arms outstretched, both hands cupping the gun.
“Stop right there,” he commanded.
But Catherine’s widowed husband didn’t even blink, much less stop. Propelling her along, his expression fixed in arrogant, grim determination, he produced a wallet that fell open on credentials Eden couldn’t see but that gave the pilot pause. “United States Deputy Marshal Christian X. Tierney, Boston,” he snapped. “Put the piece away.”
Christian X. Tierney. A United States deputy marshal. Eden swallowed. Relief swamped her until she remembered what he had done to the county sheriff’s vehicle.
The pilot, a brown-haired, ordinary man—of a build to be intimidated by Tiemey—wasn’t convinced and did not lower his gun. “I’m holding for Special Agent Paglia, FBI.”
“I said put the piece away.”
The pilot exhaled sharply and straightened from his shooting stance, lowering his arms. He jerked his head toward Eden. “Who’s this?”
“The relocation witness you’re waiting on. Your guy ran right into an assassination attempt. He’s dead and the sheriff’s deputy is either dead by now or still trying to take out the shooter.”
The pilot cleared his throat, glancing nervously at Eden. “Then I’m required to report to Special Agent Tafoya and get revised orders.”
“I need to talk to him, too,” Eden broke in. “I—”
“What’s your name?” Tierney interrupted.
“Haggerty. Agent Dan Haggerty.”
“Well, do that, Haggerty,” Tierney suggested in a lethal tone. “Report to Tafoya. Of course, every second of delay risks this woman’s life. She’s hit, she’s bleeding, she’s on your head. Add to that the possibility that the shooter makes it here and takes her out while you’re getting permission to wipe your nose—”
“Look...” The pilot wavered, but Tierney reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his coat. “No, you look. You have two minutes to get this puppy off the ground or kiss your government pension goodbye.”
THE PHONE RANG at ten-thirty Saturday morning.
Paul Maroncek sat at his kitchen table sharing a cup of coffee with his wife, Janna. Sunlight streamed through the fern-filled bay windows, the coffee was freshly ground, freshly brewed. None of this special-blend stuff, just good old-fashioned black coffee.
The rich aroma filled his nostrils. Pleasure settled over him like a favorite comforter. He’d taken Chris’s advice and had a long talk with Janna where he’d done most of the listening. He couldn’t believe the change in her attitude, how the hostility had faded. How just listening to her seemed to change everything. He had his wife back.
When the phone rang, she put down her mug, stretched out a hand and covered his. “Don’t answer it, Paul. Let it go.”
“Janna—”
“Just this once. Please. Let it ring. The nation won’t go to ruin if you don’t answer.”
He felt a flash of irritation. He didn’t want to spoil the rosy glow, but he had a life outside Janna’s domain, too. Responsibilities.
He compromised with himself.
“I’ll just see who it is and get rid of them.” He rose swiftly and pecked his wife’s cheek, intending to deliver on the second part of that promise. He lifted the receiver from the wall phone by the refrigerator.
Turning to wink at Janna, he stood leaning against the kitchen counter. “Maroncek here.”
“Hold please,” a brisk female voice returned, “for Special Agent David Tafoya.”
Paul’s level of alertness took a sharp climb. There was only one reason the Feeb would have to call Paul on a Saturday morning.
“Maroncek?” The Feeb’s voice sounded accusatory from the start.
“Yes.” Paul told himself to keep cool. To seem unwitting. He wasn’t. “What’s up?”
“I’ll tell you what’s up,” Tafoya snapped. “I’m expecting a call this morning, no later than 9:00 a.m. from Wyoming. You know the call? The one that says my men have the witness safely in custody?” He didn’t expect an answer and didn’t leave time for one, either, but while he was yapping, Janna got up and wearily dumped the mugs of coffee down the kitchen sink. “Well, guess what, Maroncek? The freaking call never came.”
Trapped between his wife’s resigned disappointment and the Feeb’s angry outburst, Paul snarled, “Gee, I’m sorry to hear about that, Tafoya.”
“Yeah, well, sorry doesn’t cut it! I’m gonna haul your ass—”
His wife banged through the swinging kitchen door. Paul only half listened to Tafoya’s tirade. When the Feeb ran out of breath, Paul cut in. “How can the United States Federal Marshal Service be of assistance to you?”
“I want answers, Maroncek. Your assistance is the last thing I’m looking for.”
Paul stared at the white-lacquered, six-panel swinging door. He couldn’t even blame Janna. His promises were always predicated on demands of The Job. “Maybe your priorities are askew,” he suggested, choking on the thick irony. “Have you thought about that, Tafoya? Maybe if you had let us handle the witness relocation—”
“Cut the crap,” Tafoya interrupted angrily. “You should know this call is being recorded. You should know the attorney general is going to hear about this. You should know, in short, that your career is in the toilet. Now I want answers and I want them right now. What the hell’s going on?”
Paul cleared his throat. “Maybe you should tell me what you think has happened.”
&n
bsp; “I got a fax at 9:53. My guy went with the county sheriff’s department and ran into an assassination attempt on Eden Kelley. She’s wounded and my agent is dead.”
Paul swore. “I’m sorry, Tafoya—”
“I’m not finished,” he went on in the same dire tone.
“Seems some lone ranger on a Harley swooped in and snatched my witness and then blew out the damn tires on the county vehicle—precluding pursuit, precluding capture. Now who do you suppose this cowboy S.O.B. was?”
Chris Tierney. Surprise, surprise. Switching to the cordless, Paul walked over and booted the cat out the patio door. “How would I know that, Tafoya?”
“Because this whole deal was between you, me and the A.G.”
“Granted. But you’re assuming—”
“I’m assuming that the attorney general of the United States is unlikely to snatch a protected witness or even arrange such an event.” Tafoya’s voice rose a notch. “I had the full cooperation of the local sheriff’s department in a perfectly controlled relocation, so—yeah. I’m making the leap and assuming you cowboys decided this matter shouldn’t have been assigned out of your precious jurisdiction, and you interfered. So take this for fair warning, Maroncek. You can bend over now and kiss your behind goodbye.”
The line went dead. Paul looked thoughtfully a moment at the receiver, then rang off himself.
He shook his head. The cat screeched to be let back in, but he ignored it. He would never grant the Feds had arranged a “perfectly controlled” relocation. Tafoya wouldn’t be in this position if he had, but the point was moot. The witness was gone.
And a Feeb was dead.
Paul felt badly about that. In a perfect world, cops wouldn’t get whacked. But Paul had taken what he considered an acceptable risk when he revealed the FBI position in this matter to Chris. Paul knew Chris wouldn’t stay out of it, but his hands were essentially clean. Tafoya could howl foul play to the A.G. all he wanted. The herculean Christian X. Tierney was unlikely to be apprehended and less likely than that to betray Paul’s confidence if he was. When the situation played out to its conclusion, Chris Tierney would be taken down a peg or two for his reckless interference.
He needed to be taken down.
Paul knew he didn’t have anything to fear. The Federal Marshal Service position, his own position in the matter of Eden Kelley’s relocation, clearly a matter of records, was hands-off. Chris Tierney was acting as a private citizen. He was decorated, celebrated and adored among the powers-that-be.
Paul Maroncek could not be held accountable if his ever-so-able and trusted subordinate had gone off the deep end. Besides, Tafoya was missing the most crucial point.
By the Feeb’s own account, Chris had saved the witness’s life.
EDEN BEGAN TO FEEL claustrophobic from the first moment she climbed aboard the federal government’s Learjet.
After the near Arctic cold dumping into the Snake River valley from the Tetons, the air inside the jet felt hot and stale. Endlessly recycled. Like life in a coffin. Her skin felt tight. Beads of perspiration broke out on her brow and the nape of her neck and between her breasts.
Christian Tierney had his hands full making sure the pilot did as he was told. She heard them talking and she gathered the pilot was still resisting, but their actual words sounded garbled in her head.
She stared for a moment at the furnishings of the passenger compartment, feeling alternately hot and shivery and lethargic, as if her limbs were no longer taking orders from her. She told herself to breathe, willing herself to get a grip. To focus.
Bolted to the navy blue pile-carpeted floor of the compartment were twelve chairs arranged in conversational clusters, each covered in a rich burgundy tweed.
She should choose, before Tierney chose for her. She couldn’t think why that seemed so vital. Pick a chair...as if she were picking another destiny? As if she had some control? Deluded... But making a decision, any decision, felt vital.
She eyed the nearest one and headed for it, but halfway there, after only a few steps, her head began to swim and she stumbled.
Tierney appeared to keep her from falling, of course. He swore, grabbed the collar of her coat, pulled her up and scooped her into his arms. The motion made her head spin all the more, but for that moment, cradled in his arms, she felt somehow safer than she had ever been.
She swallowed and shut her eyes to savor the isolated moment, then laid a hand on the warm, solid wall of his chest. His heartbeat comforted her. She momentarily forgot everything—her dizziness and confusion, the stabbing pain. Everything but the overwhelming sensation of her guard going down, her eternal vigilance slipping away... In his strong, masculine arms and against his body, she didn’t have to worry.
But then the plane jolted forward and began to taxi. He dropped her like a hot potato into one of the chairs, and Eden knew the feeling of safety in his arms had only been a weak-minded illusion. Tears gushed to her eyes, but she would die before she shed even one.
Beside her on one knee, Tierney caught an arm to steady her and then raked his fingers through her hair, pulling it back from her face. She clamped her jaws tight, swallowed and stared out a miniature window, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Look at me, Eden,” he commanded.
“No,” she whispered. “No. Just leave me alone.”
He swore softly and let go of her hair, but caught her chin in his hand, then laid his wrist on her brow. “You’re flushed and warm.”
“No kidding.” She despised his gentleness and the concern in his voice. “Maybe I’ll die and save you any more trouble.”
“You’re not going to die.”
“I’d rather do that,” she swore, her voice husky, “than be manhandled anymore by you.”
“Don’t be a fool,” he snapped. His eyes narrowed, their thick black lashes fringing intense hazel. He rose and straddled her legs, then bent over her, digging along the seat cushion for the seat belt.
Eden stiffened. Pain shot through her shoulder and chest. Her head pounded and she felt disoriented and clammy all over. Still, she protested. “I can do that myself.”
“Sure you can. But not fast enough to suit me, so just sit there and be quiet.”
“When hell freezes over,” she grated, grabbing one end of the strap from his hand. “I said I’ll do it.”
The bullet must surely be burrowing deeper with every move she made, but she didn’t care. The throbbing never stopped. She would have welcomed a silly feminine swoon. After all this, it didn’t seem likely she was going to be spared a single moment of this waking nightmare.
She gritted her teeth to stay strong. She no longer needed Christian Tierney to keep her on her feet and he was invading her space. His proximity unraveled her. His scent. The unruly, unkempt whiskers. The gentleness. The illusion of safety.
More than anything, the illusion of safety.
She didn’t want him anywhere near her ever again. “Give me the other end,” she demanded.
He hesitated—as if he were going to back off and allow her this one petty dignity—when an angry voice blared through the radio in the cockpit.
“Clearance for takeoff is rescinded, repeat, denied. You are to power down and deplane,” the voice demanded, reciting the aircraft’s specific call numbers. “Do you copy?”
Whatever slack Tierney had been about to cut her, he abandoned. He took her end, jerked the latch pieces together, crammed the male end of the buckle into the female and pulled the belt tight against her lap.
If he could have locked her in, Eden thought, he would have. Instead, he turned away and pointed a finger as he would his gun at the pilot.
“You tell them you’re acting under the authority of the attorney general of the United States. If the FAA wants to take it up with her, more power to them.”
Eden couldn’t see the pilot but she heard him clearing his throat. “You’ll have to tell them that yourself, sir.”
Tierney grimaced and spared Eden one more war
ning glance, then covered the distance to the cockpit in three strides. Keeping a watch on her, he stood hunched in the doorway with the headset microphone cupped in one hand.
Eden couldn’t make out what he said, only the commanding, preemptive tone. He never shouted or spewed off a list of ugly consequences if his demands weren’t followed.
He never drew the gun concealed inside his coat pocket.
Still, FBI Agent Dan Haggerty began turning up the power. The jet attained liftoff speed and the rumbling wheels had barely risen off the tarmac when a burst of gunfire battered the underbelly of the fuselage.
The pilot swore. A few seconds earlier, a quarter mile back, and the bullets might well have struck more accurately or penetrated the fuel tanks in the wings, vaporizing the escaping aircraft into a ball of fire.
Over her dragging weariness, Eden saw clearly the kind of man Christian X. Tierney must be. Bulletproof. Clever and daring enough to steal her away under the noses of two lawmen and an assassin. Brutal enough to dictate her cooperation. Powerful enough to command a hijacking without ever drawing his weapon.
Tierney had saved her life twice in less than three hours, but Catherine’s widowed husband terrified Eden.
Chapter Five
Sitting in the copilot position aboard the Learjet, Chris faced two immediate problems.
Pilot, and destination.
Chris hadn’t actually pulled his machine pistol. The Feeb pilot, Haggerty, wouldn’t doubt its existence, but so far, he’d believed Chris was who he said he was, and that he was acting under an authority that went beyond David Tafoya. Authority extending to the pinnacle of the Justice Department.
Haggerty’s continued cooperation depended upon maintaining the illusion, so Chns never considered threatening the guy with his own machine pistol.
Haggerty gave him a sidelong glance. “You so sure your pension’s gonna survive this stunt?”
Chris made empathetic noises companionably. A pension meant nothing to him. Less than nothing. He acted as though it did because he couldn’t afford to lose the least credibility with this guy.
