by Jill Gregory
“Hear that?” one of the shooters yelled above the whirring din. “We’ve got company. More of us any minute now—coming through that door. You can’t watch your back and us at the same time!”
“Those are cops, you idiot,” Ty shouted back. “My backup. You’re surrounded.”
Maybe they’d believe him. One instant, one opening, that’s all he needed.
“You’re screwed,” he called out, his tone deliberately arrogant. “They’re coming in those doors and the back exit, and you’re sandwiched in between. And meanwhile, Sabatini’s gotten away with the diamond. All you’ve got here is me. I’m nothing to Tate.”
There was silence from outside then—the helicopter must have landed, Ty thought tersely—and the men waiting to pump him with bullets had fallen silent as well.
“If I were you two dumbasses, I’d cut my losses and try my luck on the road while you still can,” Ty followed up roughly.
He listened, bracing his reflexes to react if Tate’s men came storming through the exit behind him. But no one came through . . . not the main double doors or the exit.
Not yet.
What the hell was going on outside?
Sweat dripped down his neck. In his mind he saw Josy, frightened, hurt . . .
Fear for her cut through him like a dagger.
He had to get out of here.
Then they blinked. The two shooters apparently realized they were wasting their time here with him instead of following the diamond—or maybe they bought his story of the cops getting ready to storm the saloon. For whatever reason, they made a run for it, spraying bullets behind them as they sprinted for the double doors.
It was the opening he’d been waiting for. Using his good arm, Ty fired five shots in rapid succssion. He saw the red-haired man spiral down, screaming, and ferret-face convulsed as a bullet plunged into his shoulder. The impact stunned him into hesitating for a split second, poised just feet from the doors.
Ty fired again. This time the bullet ripped through his back. Ferret-face thumped to the ground with a crash like a tree cut down at its base.
“Everyone stay down behind the bar!” Ty shouted. He raced toward the fallen men. Crew cut looked critical. He’d been hit in the chest; he was moaning, his eyes glazed. He wasn’t going anywhere, but Ty scooped up his gun just the same.
The other guy was gone—a mass of bone, blood, and flesh. Dead as a doorknob.
Ty leapt past both bodies, his attention centered on what he’d find when he opened those doors.
Dolph’s huge, muscular frame lay twisted and still in the gritty dirt. Josy swayed in shock, unable to look away.
They’d shot him—just like that. And he was on their side.
Her stunned brain tried to make sense of what had happened.
Ricky figured it out first. He now had his revolver trained directly on Len. “Tate’s orders, right? Because he let Josy get away.”
The blond man’s lip curled. “Mr. Tate doesn’t like mistakes. Or cops who cause trouble. Okay, Armstrong,” he said, flicking a glance at his partner, who looked as unperturbed after shooting Dolph as if he’d merely kicked a rock out of his path.
“Now the girl. Count of ten. Unless Sabatini drops his gun.”
Armstrong aimed at Josy, his expression so coldly nonchalant her heart nearly stopped.
“Len, if she dies, you do too.” Ricky’s voice was a harsh rasp. “Are you ready to go to hell right this minute? If not, let her go.”
Len shrugged. “Okay, Sabatini. She can go—after she brings me the diamond. Is it in that bag? Is it?” he demanded of Josy.
“Yes.” Her tongue trembled over the word and she saw him smile. Bastard.
“Good. Bring it to me. Then I’ll let you go.”
“No deal,” Ricky snapped. “Josy, don’t move.”
She knew why he didn’t want her moving toward Len. It was a ploy, a trap. If she got too close to either Len or Armstrong, they’d grab her, use her as a shield, and force Ricky to drop his gun.
But she had to do something to tilt the odds in their favor. And she was desperate with worry about Ty. Somehow she had to give Ricky the upper hand.
“It’s okay, Ricky,” she said quietly. “I’ll do it.”
“No.”
“I’ve been wanting to get rid of this diamond all along. I don’t want it one more second.” She let her voice go shrill, emotional. It wasn’t difficult, considering she felt as if she were going to collapse at any moment. “Besides, he said he’d let me go. Please, it’s my only chance.”
She hoped that would tip Ricky off. At least he didn’t protest again. As she walked quickly toward Len she prayed Ricky was ready for what was coming next.
“Use what you have,” he’d always told her.
Well, she had this duffel.
She held her body rigid as she moved toward Len. But suddenly another barrage of gunshots thundered from inside the saloon, and she stopped breathing, her heart freezing in her chest.
Please God, let Ty be all right, she prayed. Then she quickened her pace and reached Len, but as he stretched out a hand for the duffel she suddenly shoved it with all of her might into his stomach, knocking him off balance.
As he staggered back, two paces away from her, enough to give Ricky a clear shot, she heard it. Thunder, once, twice—and blood sprayed from Len’s chest. She felt warm droplets on her neck and shoulders, splattering across her tank top as the blond man crumpled into a heap on the weedy earth. Bile rose in her throat and her knees sagged as she half-turned and saw Ricky firing again, this time at Armstong. But Armstrong was shooting back, and as she watched, Ricky sagged to the ground, blood spurting from his thigh.
“No!” she screamed. But Ricky’s shot had gone true— Armstrong was hit, hit worse than Ricky. He twisted with a groan and fell facedown.
He didn’t move. Oh, God, was he dead?
Confusion, fear, and desperation clawed at her—then she spotted the rifle in the weeds near Len’s body.
She sprang forward, grabbed it up, casting a panicked glance at Len’s unmoving form, then at Armstrong’s, before staggering toward Ricky. A hawk screeched overhead and she heard sobs—then realized that they were coming from her own throat.
“How bad are you hurt?” she cried, kneeling beside Ricky.
“Only . . . a scratch.” But his breath was rasping in his chest and pain laced his voice.
“Help me up. Get . . . the duffel, Josy. Let’s get . . . outta here.”
“But Ty—”
“You heard him, he said . . . not to wait. Get the duffel.”
She didn’t want to leave, not without Ty. She glanced uncertainly toward the saloon again, then jumped when Ricky’s fingers closed hard around her arm. Startled, the rifle tumbled from her grasp.
“Get the goddamn duffel, Josy. Now.”
“Fine, you can have the duffel, but I’m not going with you.”
Clamping her lips together, she averted her eyes from the scattered bodies and ran back toward the crimson space where Len’s blood soaked the dirt.
She needed Ricky to leave her with the rifle, or one of the guns. For when Ty came out—in case he needed help . . .
Seizing the duffel she dashed back to Ricky, casting an uneasy glance at Armstrong. He hadn’t moved . . . he was still facedown. He must be dead . . . or unconscious.
Where was Ty?
Ricky was starting to limp toward the car. Blood drenched his pants leg, his shoes, puddled in the dirt as it flowed from his wound.
“We should wrap that, stop the bleeding—”
“Later.” He kept on walking, his stride uneven. When they reached the car, he put the rifle on the floor and holstered his gun. “Give me . . . the duffel.”
“Here.” She thrust it at him, not caring about anything, certainly not that stupid diamond, not when Ty was still in the saloon and she had no way of helping him—
Suddenly, more gunshots boomed from the saloon, a burst of them, and c
old fear surged through her.
“No,” she breathed, “please, no.” A tremor rocked her body, but suddenly, beside her, Ricky let loose a stream of oaths.
“What the hell! Where’s the damned diamond?” he yelled.
He was squeezing the brown wrapping paper in his fist and staring furiously into the duffel. “There’s nothing but a few bottles of water and beer and ammo and junk in here! And this goddamned brown paper. What did you do with it?”
“It was in there.” In shock, she stared into the duffel. “I saw Ty put it in there myself . . . oh, God.”
Ty. She had seen him put the wrapping paper in the duffel bag—but he must have already taken the diamond out, she realized dazedly. He must have done it when I was in the restroom.
And then it hit her. Why hadn’t she thought of this earlier? He had given the diamond to Roy.
When she’d come outside, the two of them were already standing by the car. It wasn’t until Roy drove off that he’d removed the wrapping paper from his pocket and stuffed it into the duffel. But by then, the diamond was no longer wrapped inside . . .
“It doesn’t matter, Ricky,” she said hurriedly. “You don’t need the diamond anymore—you have to turn yourself in. After all that’s happened, they’ll believe you—”
“Damn it, Josy, I trusted you. You betrayed me too!”
“No! I didn’t. I didn’t know—”
“I can’t go back,” he snarled at her, his face twisting with fury. “I know too much. They’ll find a way to kill me, I have to get out of the country. The diamond was my one hope—you just signed my death warrant—”
Suddenly, there was a rush of sound behind them and Josy turned in time to see Dolph springing at her.
She tried to leap out of his reach, but he moved faster, grabbed her with arms like iron bands. One arm snaked around her throat and held her tight, nearly cutting off all her air. She gasped, struggled in vain, and then felt the butt of a gun against her temple.
“Hold still, Josephine, or I’ll give you something to squirm about.”
Ricky was staring at Dolph in shock. His bruised face had gone gray as dust.
“Kevlar,” he said dazedly. “You’re wearing . . . a Kevlar vest. I should have known.”
Dolph’s black eyes glinted. “I know how Tate operates. He doesn’t give many second chances. Do you think I’d get within one hundred yards of his men after everything that’s happened and not wear a bulletproof vest? Len’s been drooling to take me down—and to take my place.”
He tightened his grip on her throat even more and Josy’s vision turned black. She struggled uselessly, slammed her foot against his instep, tried to elbow him, but nothing seemed to touch him. Red spots danced. She heard his laughter as if from a great distance.
“You’re killing her—let her go!” Ricky yelled.
“Drop your gun, Sabatini. Kick it over here. Now, or I’ll snap her neck.”
Ricky set his gun down and kicked it. It skidded through the dirt, landing inches from Dolph’s feet. “Now let her go, damn you!”
Dolph laughed. He loosened his grip suddenly and threw Josy to the ground. She fell heavily, a rock scoring her cheek as she hit the hard-packed dirt.
“Now I’m going to shoot her—and you get to watch. Then it’s your turn, Sabatini.”
Josy lay stunned, trying to catch her breath. She smelled the dirt, saw an ant crawling over her finger. Her throat felt as if it had been pulverized. She couldn’t move. And couldn’t speak.
“The diamond is what you’re after, Dolph.” Ricky was talking fast. “Forget her, it’s that bastard sheriff holed up inside the saloon you want. He snatched the diamond from under her nose—and mine. If you want it, you’ll—”
“I want her dead more. And you too. I’ll get the diamond, don’t you worry. But it’s for me now—Tate will never see it again.”
He pointed the gun at Josy and she felt a faintness wash over her. She tried to brace herself, wondering if she could roll aside at the last moment, somehow avoid the inevitable. But how would she know when to move? Dear God, how?
“Don’t!” Ricky cried hoarsely.
“You’re next.” Dolph smiled. He held the gun and watched Josy’s terrified eyes for a moment longer, savoring the moment. The bitch had cost him his job, but he would take her life. He only wished he had time to do it slowly. A bullet at a time . . . a finger, limb, organ at a time.
But Sabatini was right. He still had to get the diamond . . .
A muscle twitched in his jaw. Ricky saw it and sprang forward a fraction of a second before the huge man pulled the trigger.
For one agonized instant he stood between Josy and the killer. Face-to-face with Dolph. Then the shot roared and his eyes rolled back and death exploded through him.
Josy screamed as Ricky crumpled backward to land a foot from her. Horror surged through her—he was still alive, his eyes glazed, blood pooling at his mouth.
“Nobody ever taught him to take his turn,” Dolph murmured.
Josy rolled to her knees, touched Ricky’s brow.
“Ricky, no! No, no, no,” she screamed.
“No need to miss him. You’re joining him. Now.” Dolph smiled at her.
A shot rang out. Dazed, Josy closed her eyes. She flinched. Gasped. But she hadn’t been hit. Dolph had.
The bullet from Ty’s gun shattered Dolph’s kneecap and the big man went down screaming. He collapsed in the dirt, blood streaming down his leg, but there was more fury than pain in his face.
Ty stood ten feet away, his gun leveled, and cool murder in his eyes.
“Police. Throw down your weapon. And put your hands above your head.”
“Go to hell,” Dolph muttered thickly. “You won’t kill me. You need me. I’m the only one left . . . to testify against Tate. Or this bitch will go to prison.” He laughed, an ugly sound.
“Want to bet?” Ty shot the gun out of his hand. He sprinted toward Dolph, scooped up the weapon. But Dolph wasn’t done yet.
He lunged forward with what appeared to be superhuman effort and sliced at Ty with the knife that had suddenly materialized in his hand. The blade narrowly missed Ty’s throat.
Ty slugged him, one punch, then another, the blows echoing sickeningly in the silence outside the saloon, and Dolph went down.
And stayed down.
Ty took the knife, threw it a dozen yards away, and knelt beside Josy.
He was no longer aware of the fire burning through his arm, or of the weakness overtaking him as his blood spilled out. All he knew was that Josy had a cut on her face, bruises on her throat, and her eyes were dazed with horror and grief.
“Ricky,” she whispered to him. “We need to help . . . Ricky.”
Ty’s glance flitted over Ricky Sabatini. The only one who could help Sabatini now was the undertaker.
“Come on, Josy, let me help you up. I have to call—”
He broke off. Sirens pierced the afternoon air. Finally. What the hell had taken them so long?
The kid who’d been playing pool and the bartender came out warily and surveyed the scene. The waitress and the older cowboy edged out behind them. The wail of the sirens came closer.
Ty licked his dry lips and looked down at Josy again. She stared at him with raw grief and a pain that rent his heart. She looked like a pale, broken doll, crouched among the weeds, anguish glistening in her eyes.
“Help Ricky,” she whispered again.
Ty smoothed the hair back from her brow. His voice was thick. “Ricky’s dead, sweetheart. I’m sorry. The police and the ambulance are coming. You don’t have to get up if you don’t want to. Everything’s going to be all right.”
Tears streamed down her face. Ty took her in his arms. He held her close against him, stroking her back and her pale hair that felt gritty with dirt and dust. He listened to her sobs and her pain ached through his chest.
She didn’t speak to him, not one word. The only thing she said, over and over, was the name o
f a dead man.
Ricky.
Chapter 28
SPECIAL AGENT THOMAS BEAUMONT TOSSED the bulging file folder onto Ty’s desk, his piercing gaze filled with skepticism.
“All I can say is that it’s a lucky thing for the Warner woman that Dolph Lundgren lived,” he snorted. “And that he’s agreed to testify against his former boss. Otherwise, she’d be looking at a prison term right now. Accessory after the fact, aiding and abetting . . .”
“Neither one applies,” Ty responded, his voice hard. “And you know it. Josy Warner didn’t even have a clue what was in the package Sabatini left with her doorman until a scant few days ago. Then she turned it in—to me. That hardly makes her an accessory to the theft.”
“She was planning to give it back to Sabatini in that bar in Wheatland,” Beaumont pointed out. He looked like a taller, fair-haired Tom Cruise. But something about the way he held his shoulders and the curl of his lips oozed an off-putting, hard-nosed arrogance. “That sounds like aiding and abetting to me.”
“Give it up, Beaumont. She turned the diamond over to me. I turned it over to my cousin with orders to hand it over to the Feds. What more could you ask? Josy Warner even accompanied me after that, to assist in locating and questioning Sabatini. She nearly lost her life by cooperating with my investigation and because of her, you now have a chance at taking down Caventini and Tate for good. Plus, the Golden Eye gets returned to its rightful owner in Zurich.”
“She kept it hidden for weeks,” observed John Snow, the other FBI agent who’d been working on the case since the melee at Slattery’s Saloon. “Even after Sabatini skipped bail and disappeared. She also fled a murder scene. Sorry, but that doesn’t look to me like she’s some hapless innocent—”
“We’ve been over this before. She trusted Sabatini. That’s what it comes down to.” Ty locked gazes with the low-key Snow. After spending the past seventy-two hours going over every detail with these two, as well as with the pair of detectives from the NYPD who had arrived in Thunder Creek yesterday to question Dolph in his hospital room, he had succeeded in taking their measure. Beaumont was ambitious, stiff-necked, and by-the-book. Snow was more laid-back, on the surface at least, but his receding hairline, comfortable paunch, and mild brown eyes belied a razor-sharp mind.
