Blue Ridge Ricochet

by Paula Graves

  “Oh, Trevor,” Nicki murmured, her heart squeezing. “Your son?”

  “My son,” he answered quietly. “So you see, I really don’t care who you’re working for. Or why. Because now, you’re working for me. And you’re going to stay here and do whatever you can to get my little boy well.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The day was unseasonably mild for mid-February in the Blue Ridge Mountains, only a faint breeze adding a hint of chill to the midday sunshine. This deep in the mountains, however, the canopy of evergreen boughs blocked out most of the warming sun, forcing Dallas to hunch more deeply beneath his borrowed camouflage jacket to ward off the cold.

  He’d been fortunate that John Bartholomew carried an extra jacket in his truck, and more fortunate still that his feet were only a half size smaller than his benefactor’s, the difference in size between his feet and the sturdy dirt-colored hiking boots easily minimized by wearing a second pair of socks. The shirt and pants Nicki had purchased at the thrift store were a little too short in the legs and sleeves, but they fit well enough and kept him reasonably warm as they trekked as silently as possible through the dry underbrush toward the blinking red light that denoted Nicki’s position on the GPS map.

  The borrowed Smith & Wesson M&P .40 tucked into a holster behind his back felt heavy against his spine, as well. The good kind of heavy, the kind that said he wasn’t going into this fight unarmed.

  John drew up and held out his arm to block Dallas from walking past him. He turned to look at Dallas, his hazel eyes blending in remarkably with the woodland camouflage face paint he’d smeared over his face before they left the truck and headed into the woods. He nodded his head toward a point directly ahead of them before turning around again.

  Dallas peered through the shadowy gloom and spotted what John had seen—the edge of a clearing about seventy yards due east. Movement caught Dallas’s eye, but he couldn’t make out what he was seeing.

  Beside him, John lifted a small pair of binoculars to his eyes and took a look. He held up three fingers.

  Three what? Three little pigs? The Three Stooges? What the hell did three fingers mean?

  John must have sensed his confusion, for he turned a quick glance his way and murmured, “Three men. Near a cabin. We need to get closer, but you’re going to have to move slowly and carefully. And silently. Understood?”

  Dallas nodded.

  John started picking his way carefully ahead, moving with deliberation and stealth. Dallas fell into his wake, drawing on his own long-forgotten skills in the woods. He’d learned to hunt at a young age, sent out with his brother to bring in food to supplement what his father could steal or purchase with the money his drug sales brought in. He and his brother Clanton had seen themselves as modern-day Daniel Boones, blazing new trails through the mountains of Harlan County, Kentucky.

  Of course, those trails had all been blazed long before, by good men and evil men, and his childhood dreams of adventure and discovery had soon given way to the reality of his dead-end existence.

  He’d gotten himself out of Kentucky, used his wits and his brains to create a new life for himself. Yet here he was again, creeping through the woods in search of prey.

  The human kind, this time.

  They closed the distance to just under twenty yards from the sunlit cabin now visible through the thinning trees. John pulled to a halt and crouched behind a scrubby huckleberry bush. Dallas squatted beside him and gazed toward the cabin. The three men John had seen before were still visible, standing near the low-slung front porch. A fourth was now visible, leaning against the railings of the porch steps. Sunlight gleamed on the barrels of the rifles they carried.

  John spoke quietly, his voice barely more than a hiss of air in the wind rustling the pine needles overhead. “Remington 798. Browning X-Bolt. Marlin XS7. Another Remington. Model Five, I think.”

  He was telling Dallas what kind of guns they were up against, as if he felt certain Dallas would know what those guns were and what they could do.

  Which suggested John knew a little more about Dallas than most people did. Enough to know that he was more than just some civilian graphic designer working for the FBI. That he might know a little something about rifles.

  And, if the trust John had shown so far meant anything, he also believed Dallas knew a little something about moving with stealth through the woods, as well.

  Just how much did Alexander Quinn and his people know about him and his past, anyway?

  John edged a few yards forward, toward another bush. Dallas followed, wincing as his foot hit a dry twig, making it snap.

  For a moment, the nearest man jerked to attention, his brow furrowed. He glanced toward the trees, and Dallas and John both froze in place. Camouflaged as they were, it would be movement that would give them away. Dallas breathed shallowly, keeping his eyes half-closed as he peered toward the alerted rifleman. The man finally appeared to relax and wandered away from the corner of the porch.

  After a long pause, John led them forward another few yards and finally hunkered down again. From their new vantage point, they had a decent view of the whole yard in front of the trees.

  There was a large blue Chevy pickup truck parked at the edge of the yard. John turned to look at Dallas, a grim smile twisting the corners of his mouth. “Del McClintock,” he said quietly.

  Dallas took another look at the truck. The cab was empty, so Del and Nicki were apparently inside the cabin.

  The very well-guarded cabin.

  What were they going to do now?

  * * *

  “I CAN’T SEEM to fix things for Jason. Much as I try.” Lynette Colley’s pale eyes met Nicki’s with wary hope. “Trevor says you can help him.”

  “I can help with some things,” Nicki said as gently as she could manage. Whatever she might think of Trevor and his merry band of thugs, Lynette Colley’s love and fear for her child was unmistakable and genuine.

  “I know he needs insulin, and Trevor takes care of that, no worries, but ain’t there more he needs?” Lynette touched Jason’s pale cheek, her expression teeming with concern that made Nicki’s heart ache.

  “Jason needs a doctor,” she said quietly but firmly.

  Lynette slanted a look at her. “Trevor ain’t gonna have it. You know he ain’t. That’s why you’re here.”

  “He loves his son, doesn’t he?”

  “Yes.” Lynette’s chin came up in a show of angry defiance. “Don’t you dare suggest he don’t.”

  “I wouldn’t,” Nicki said quickly. And she wasn’t suggesting any such thing. Clearly, whatever his sins and faults, Trevor Colley loved his son enough to take a woman hostage in order for his son to have the care he needed.

  But Nicki wasn’t a doctor, and while she’d had some experience helping people with diabetes, her experiences had been more with adults suffering from type 2 diabetes. Type 1 diabetes, the kind that had once been called childhood diabetes, was a whole different animal.

  Still, Jason Colley was clearly ill, and there were things she knew how to do to get his blood sugar levels back to a better place on a continuing basis. “We need his glucometer.”

  Lynette nodded. “You want to test him now?”

  At the strangled tone of his mother’s voice, Jason looked up with dismay. “No tests, Mama. Okay? No tests.”

  Nicki crouched next to where the boy sat on the sofa. “Jason, has your mama told you what diabetes is?”

  “It’s what makes me sick.” He sounded more irritated than afraid. “I can’t have candy except sometimes.”

  “It’s because things like candy and mashed potatoes and cookies—all those things are full of carbohydrates. Do you know what carbohydrates are?”

  He shook his head no.

  “They’re part of the things that make foods good f
or you. But in your case, too many of them can make food very bad for you.”

  He stared at her, clearly not understanding.

  “Ever been stung by a bee?”

  His eyes widened. “I hate bees.”

  “Me, too,” she said, glancing at Lynette with a smile. “But did you know bees can be good things?”

  He looked skeptical.

  “They help plants grow,” she said, keeping it simple. “When they do that, they’re good.”

  “But not when they sting you,” he insisted.

  “Definitely not when they sting you.” She looked at Lynette with a little nod. Lynette rose and left the room for a moment.

  Jason followed his mother’s exit with worried eyes, but he looked back at Nicki when she spoke. “Carbohydrates are like bees. When they work the way they’re supposed to, they help your body grow like bees help plants grow.”

  “Until they sting you,” he groused.

  “Yup, until they sting you.”

  “Tests sting.”

  “They do,” she agreed. “But they help us know whether or not we need to give you medicine to make you feel better.”

  Lynette came back in the room with a small pouch. She set the pouch on the coffee table in front of the sofa where Jason sat and looked at Nicki.

  Nicki pulled the glucometer from the pouch. It was a medium-sized monitor, not really ideal for the continual level of glucose testing Jason needed if he was going to keep his blood sugar well regulated. Nicki looked up at Lynette. “Where’d you get this?”

  The woman looked panic-stricken. “Is it wrong?”

  “No,” Nicki assured her. “It can do what you need to do. Did a doctor prescribe this?”

  Lynette shook her head. “I told you—”

  “How’d you get a diagnosis?”

  “I got a friend to take us to Bristol a few months ago. I knew somethin’ was wrong—”

  Nicki pressed her mouth to a thin line. “And Trevor wouldn’t let you take him to a doctor?”

  Lynette shot her a defensive look. “He has his reasons.”

  Fear and stupidity, apparently. “The doctor diagnosed him?”

  “Yeah. He wanted me to come back, let him see Jason again in a few days, but—”

  “But Trevor wouldn’t let you.” She looked at Jason, who was staring with apprehension at the lancing device sitting next to the glucometer. She looked in one of the inner pockets of the pouch and found a sealed packet containing a few alcohol wipes. She’d already washed her hands before entering the room, but to be safe, she opened an alcohol wipe and gave her hands a quick cleaning before she picked up the lancing device. “How often do you test his blood?” she asked as she cocked the device.

  In front of her, Jason made a soft moaning sound.

  “He hates it so much, I try not to do it more than twice a day.”

  “That’s not often enough.” Nicki shot Lynette an apologetic look. “I know you both don’t want to hear that, but regular testing is necessary to keep his blood sugar from reaching dangerous levels.”

  Tears welled in Lynette’s eyes as she gazed at her son. “He hates it so much.”

  “I bet you hate feeling sick even more, don’t you, Jason?”

  His gaze snapped up from the lancing device and met hers. “I just want to play with the other kids.”

  His plaintive reply made her heart hurt. No matter how she’d come to be here, or how much danger she might be in, she was going to help this little boy if she could.

  Maybe that was as close to a princess with rainbow-colored wings as she’d ever get, but that would be pretty damn good, wouldn’t it?

  “Let’s see if we can do something about that,” she said, turning on the glucometer and holding out her hand to him.

  Tentatively, he reached over and laid his hand, palm up, in hers.

  She wielded the lancet as gently as she could, but she couldn’t make it painless. Jason whimpered a little as the lancet pierced his skin, but he didn’t cry. Tough little kid.

  She touched the droplet of blood from his finger to the test strip in the glucometer. A few seconds later, the reading came up on the meter. “It’s too high,” she told Lynette. “When did he last eat?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “When did you last administer insulin?”

  Lynette’s face creased with distress. “Last night.”

  “We need to give him another shot. Now.”

  Jason started crying. Lynette moved to comfort him, but Nicki caught her arm. “Get the insulin now.”

  Lynette changed course, and Nicki reached out to put her arms around Jason. He resisted at first, but then he laid his head against her shoulder and started to relax.

  The door to the room slammed open and Trevor entered, his usually friendly expression hard as granite. “What are you doing to him?”

  She met Trevor’s gaze without flinching. “What you brought me here to do. I’m trying to make him feel better.”

  “You sayin’ I want something different?”

  She was growing sick of these belligerently ignorant men and their ceaseless bullying. “I’m saying you’re too afraid of hospitals and doctors to get your son the help he needs, so I’m all you’ve got. You need me more than I need you, so stop throwing your weight around as if you can scare me into doing what you want. Because you can’t.”

  His nostrils flared with anger, but he didn’t speak.

  She’d take that as a win.

  Trevor backed out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him. A moment later, the door opened again and Lynette returned, bringing with her a bag of supplies.

  “Did he yell at you?” she asked quietly as she handed the bag to Nicki.

  “Not much,” she answered with a smile of reassurance as she retrieved the insulin and syringes from the bag. “Did the doctor you saw in Bristol prescribe the dosage written on this package?”

  “Yes, but we’re nearly out.”

  Of course they were. She kept her mouth firmly shut and opened one of the syringes, earning another soft whimper from Jason. She tamped down the rush of sympathy, knowing what the little boy needed from her now was competence, not sentiment.

  “You’ve been giving him the shots in the soft part of his belly, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Think you can help me out, Jason?” she asked, turning to the boy. He gazed back at her, wide-eyed. “Do you know how to pinch someone?”

  His eyes widened even more. “Mama says I’m not s’posed to pinch.”

  “Well, sometimes it’s okay. Like now.” She held out her arm. “Pinch me. Right here on my arm.”

  He hesitated for a moment, glancing at his mother. She gave a nod, and he turned back to Nicki, reached out and pinched her arm.

  “Ow!” she cried, making him jerk back from her. Then she grinned. “Just kidding. That barely hurt at all.”

  Slowly, he grinned, showing his teeth for the first time. “You tricked me.”

  “I did,” she agreed. “Now, can you pinch your tummy just like you pinched my arm?”

  Frowning, he looked down at his T-shirt. “Why?”

  “Because if you’re pinching your belly when I give you the shot, you might not even feel the shot. Want to give it a try?”

  He hesitated a moment, then tugged his shirt up, baring his belly. She saw a couple of little bruises that had probably come from previous injections. He pinched a little bit of the flesh just below his navel.

  “Can you feel the pinch?” she asked.

  He nodded, squeezing a little harder.

  “Close your eyes now and just pinch.”

  He did as she asked, and she quickly injected the insulin into the pinched skin. “All done.”
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  He opened his eyes and looked at her. “You’re tricking me again.”

  “Nope, all done.”

  Behind her, Lynette started to cry.

  * * *

  THE MEN WITH the rifles left, one at a time, until by just before nightfall, only the Silverado remained parked in front of the cabin. Hours of stillness had begun to make Dallas’s legs and arms ache, reminding him that however improved he might be since his escape from captivity, he was still recuperating.

  This wasn’t the place where he’d been held captive. He was certain of that. But he was pretty sure it had been somewhere close by. The terrain was right. The lay of the land. And after a few minutes of surveillance, he was certain that at least one of the armed men guarding the cabin had been among those who’d kept guard over him while he was in the BRI’s custody.

  The fact that he’d managed to realize that bit of information without giving in to emotional paralysis was a victory of sorts. He was still plagued with nightmares, and probably would be for a while yet, but in the cold light of day, he wasn’t going to be held hostage by those memories.

  “Closest side window,” John murmured, the first words he’d spoken in well over an hour.

  Dallas followed his gaze and saw the curtains shift in the window closest to the corner of the cabin. A face appeared there briefly, lit by the setting rays of the sun.

  Nicki’s face.

  So she was in there. The GPS signal had suggested as much, of course, but now they had visual confirmation.

  Was she a prisoner? Or was she still playing her part?

  “How sure is Quinn that they know she’s undercover?” he asked John.

  “He wouldn’t have sent us after her if he wasn’t sure.”

  Dallas looked at the window again. She’d disappeared from the space between the curtains, replaced by a tall, broad-shouldered man who peered out at the woods with a frown on his face.

  “Del McClintock,” John said.

  Dallas took another look at the man before, like Nicki, he’d backed away from the window and disappeared from view. “If they know she’s an undercover operative, why haven’t they finished her off?” Merely saying the words aloud made his stomach ache. “They don’t even seem to be keeping her prisoner, do they?”