Twice A Target (Task Force Eagle)

by Susan Vaughan

  “And why he doesn’t talk about it.” Sadness overlay the anxiety in her eyes. “Doesn’t seem like much of a reason to suspect him.”

  For now. Holt rotated the tension from his jaw. “Guilt and self-loathing can send a man down the wrong road for no good reason at all.”

  “Suspect everyone. Trust no one. Is that your motto?” Her tone and smile didn’t match. On a sigh, she turned her camera toward the assortment of vendors setting up stands.

  He blinked at the cynicism. “In this situation, it sure as hell is.”

  Signs hawked local crafts, food, “Authentic Western Duds,” and supplies for antique guns. Will hadn’t mentioned vendors. Another set of possibilities. The pressure in Holt’s jaw shot warning salvos down his spine.

  “I’ve photographed a few historical re-enactments and Renaissance festivals,” Maddy said. “Those enthusiasts staged a rehearsed show. The competition here adds a layer of excitement and realism the others lacked.”

  Babbling, talking too fast. “You okay, Maddy?”

  “I’ve had photo gigs in many dangerous spots before—war-ravaged countries and earthquake-leveled cities where aftershocks could slam you at any minute. I’ve never deliberately set myself up as a target. But I can do this.”

  “Like you said, immerse yourself in taking your pictures and forget about the danger,” he said. “Trust me and the others to do our jobs.”

  A wistful smile quirked her mouth. She placed a soft hand on his cheek. “Trust. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?”

  Uh oh. She was no longer talking about letting him protect her. “Maddy, I trust you in lots of ways. You’ve saved my ass in more ways than one by staying to look after Bobby. Not to mention ranch work. You put yourself in the crosshairs of a killer in a fight that never should’ve been yours. I trust your courage. I trust you to take care of my nephew. I trust you to see this through.”

  “But even though we’re married, you don’t trust me to stay with you. You can’t let go of the past. I see it in your eyes.” In hers, tears glistened. “Is it guilt, Holt? Is it doubt about my character? Or do you simply not love me?”

  Before he could reply, Will Rafferty joined them.

  “Hey, lovebirds,” Will called. “Heard you eloped. You should’ve told us. Too bad about the barn. But we could throw a wedding party and barn raising all in one.” He clapped Holt on the back.

  Holt straightened his hat brim and rubbed his nape. Will knew nothing of the joint DEA-sheriff’s office plan. Once he found out—supposing his innocence—would he remain the genial host? “Seems like everyone knows already. No need to send out engraved announcements.”

  Will guffawed. He handed them each a booklet of the day’s shooting events. “Let me take you away from this unromantic bum, ma’am. I’ll show you around, explain the stages and the layout for the day.”

  Holt was supposed to keep his distance while coordinating props for the stages of shooting. Maddy ought to be safe until the matches started with their noisy cover of gunfire, smoke, and hullabaloo, but he didn’t like sending her off alone with their host. Or anyone.

  “Holt?” Her pansy eyes widened with anxiety before she caught herself and smiled.

  “I’ll be around...if you need me.”

  She dropped her camera case and flung her arms around his neck. “I’ll always need you,” she whispered. “You’d better get used to it. But I’ll be fine for now.”

  She kissed him deeply. He hesitated, but then his arms went around her, crushing her to him as he returned the embrace, physically communicating all the passion and conflicting emotions he couldn’t otherwise express.

  Making love with her had shown him how much he needed her. It had fanned his feelings into such a swirl he might never sort them out. He had to stop that whirlwind and steel himself to be the professional she needed to protect her. But for now, he was enjoying losing himself in her.

  “If this goes on any longer, I’m going to sell tickets,” Will said.

  Grinning, Maddy backed away and slung her case over her shoulder.

  “See you later,” Holt muttered.

  She waved and strode away with the rancher.

  Holt meandered along at a distance while Will showed her each of the six one-to-four-gun “stages,” or competitive courses of fire. The stages were placed around the outbuildings, in the corral and in one meadow. Each stage required the shooters to act out a scenario by blasting steel targets in a prescribed sequence with pre-1899-style weapons. Scoring was based on timing and accuracy. For that day, about eighty shooters had registered, and they would rotate among the stages in “posses” of eight or ten.

  Excusing himself to go check on some of the props, Will left her at the first stage, outside the hay barn.

  Holt hung back as she focused and began capturing the scene on film. Neither of them had dressed for this time-machine trip. Her denim jacket and faded jeans weren’t out of place, but the Notre Dame cap didn’t quite cut it. She bent and twisted to snap pictures. He couldn’t stop a grin. She was already deep into it, unaware of his surveillance as he gathered props for the next stage.

  The front of the barn had been transformed into the inside of a saloon, complete with card table and dummy gamblers. The scenario involved a crooked game and an escape, the booklet said. It required the shooter to use both a pistol and a rifle. Six-guns held only five rounds, with one chamber left empty for safety. Silhouettes of other gamblers blocked the path to a steel-drum horse. Smaller targets designated as “vultures” completed the stage.

  Bronc was in the first posse to compete. As he prepared to shoot, he grinned at Maddy and tipped an enormous black hat made even more towering with an eagle feather. His bib-front flannel shirt, leather gauntlets, homespun trousers, and high black boots fit his alias of “Buffalo Bronc.” Most of the shooters looked too twenty-first-century well fed to be authentic, but Bronc’s wiry form and weathered face made him kin to Buffalo Bill’s prairie marksmen.

  Buffalo Bronc took his place at the card table, and a beep began the timing. Acting outraged, Bronc leaped to his feet, and his six-gun blazed at the two cheating cardsharps still seated opposite him.

  The metal targets rang like bells as they were hit, and gunsmoke hung in the crisp morning air. Its acrid smell drifted to Holt with the usual scents of hay and dust. Maddy clicked at Bronc shooting the prescribed targets in sequence.

  She knelt in front of the smattering of colorfully dressed on-lookers and waiting shooters. A prime target. Dammit,.

  Holt swept a gaze around the vicinity of the barn. Any guns visible were holstered or carried with the action open. The club members were fiercely rigid about safety, thank God. But might someone pretend to be careless?

  Gunfire erupted again as Bronc dashed out onto the “street” and blasted the three “gamblers” in his way. Holstering his pistol, he mounted the “horse.” From the saddlebag, he withdrew a rifle and shells. On another beep from the timer, he loaded a round and leveled one vulture, reloaded and wasted the other vulture. A final beep ended the shoot.

  After collecting his spent shells, Buffalo Bronc swaggered over to Maddy. Holt couldn’t hear their words, but he’d bet the old cowboy was downplaying how well he’d done and expounding on how hard the next stages would be.

  She photographed two more shooters before she moved on to another stage. Will had said he wanted pictures of the action at all six stages as well as the winners and the team shoot at the end.

  Holt’s other duties called him to the opposite side of the ranch compound. He helped settle a dispute between two vendors about a prime location. Then he and Chris Hawke carried new dummies to a stage where a novice shooter had pulverized the wrong targets.

  Chris nodded toward where Maddy was snapping the adjacent stage. “Looks like your lady’s having a blast,” he said as they entered the corral.

  Holt winced. She crouched nearly in the line of fire. Anything for a good angle. “Very funny choice of words.�
�

  His friend’s ebony eyes gleamed. “You spotted the undercover agents?” He set the ranch-wife dummy in the wagon.

  “A few. Bonnyman’s competing in two of the stages and the team shoot. Talked the Denver club into including her. The sheriff and Luke are just patrolling.”

  Chris frowned. “Making their presence obvious may be too much of a deterrent. You’re hoping to invite an attack, or am I mistaken?”

  “That’s the plan.” Holt’s spine tingled from neck to butt. “My sixth sense tells me the shooter’s here. Whether he’ll try anything is anyone’s guess. I’m surprised you’re part of this shindig. Not your sort of thing.”

  Chris’s Indian scout outfit consisted of cavalry trousers and a fringed shirt topped with a beaded headband. He shook his head. “Faith asked me to come. Said they needed the help. This is the biggest match the Circle-S has ever hosted.” His opaque gaze invited no more questions.

  Chris and Faith Rafferty had dated for a time before her injury. But what happened to the relationship was a mystery. Holt wouldn’t ask now.

  The shooting events progressed through the day and wore on his nerves. He gritted his teeth and tried to remain calm for Maddy’s sake. She appeared to be having the time of her life, laughing and joking with the costumed shooters, changing filters and lenses as fast as she could click through the frames.

  By mid-afternoon, all the shooters had finished the six stages. While the officials tallied the results, a team shoot between two of the clubs would take place. In the meadow, Holt and Chris hung two thick wooden posts horizontally between supports. Each team would race to cut their post in two with a blast of firepower from all their weapons—pistols, rifles, and shotguns.

  Two-by-tens formed three tiers of a makeshift grandstand against the barn, and chattering shooters filed into them for the rest of the entertainment. An empty corral joined the barn at its far end along with a jumble of small sheds at both ends. A light breeze blew across the meadow, bringing with it the scents of new grass and meadow muffins.

  Maddy rushed to him and hugged him around the waist. “This has been such fun. I totally forgot about the danger.” She glanced around conspiratorially. “Looks like our shooter chickened out.”

  Because others were watching the honeymooners and to please himself, he flipped off her cap and kissed the top of her head. “I hope you’re right. But the horses aren’t all in the barn yet.”

  She sputtered a laugh. “How folksy. Or is that secret agent code?”

  He swatted at her shapely bottom as she danced away to take up a good viewing position.

  He shook off the grin their banter had inspired. Shadows slanted across the spectators and crept toward the meadow. The sun would be to one side of the team shooters, but in his eyes when he turned to scrutinize the crowd. Salazar sat in the back row. Other agents were scattered through the crowd and lounging on the fringes, but he didn’t see the sheriff or Luke or Chris.

  He started to leave, to search for them. Will’s booming voice stopped him.

  “Gunfighters, duelists, renegades, and buckaroos, I congratulate you on a successful day of single-action shooting.”

  His words met with hoorahs, whistles, and applause. “Hey, Will, let’s get to the barbecue,” shouted a gray-bearded man in a silver-studded white suit.

  “You can fill your belly soon, Hiram,” Will said. “If you folks can be patient a few moments longer, the officials will have the points tallied. In the meantime, two teams of our finest marksmen and women have agreed to show off—I mean demonstrate—their prowess.” He introduced the two groups, who spread out twenty-five feet from their respective targets. Some wore a double-holster set of pistols. Others carried either a shotgun or a rifle. The massive mustachioed cavalryman wielded all three.

  Bonnyman was the last to line up and don her hearing protectors. The agent’s ginger braids and pink, fringed skirt and vest had transformed her into the Annie Oakley she’d promised—in glorious Technicolor. She positioned herself with her team on the end near where Maddy waited with her camera.

  Good strategy. If anything happened, Bonnyman could rush Maddy out of harm’s way.

  Maddy eased down on one knee a little in front and in alignment with the shooters, so that her camera had a perfect shot of the action and the weapons.

  Her open position made her a perfect target.

  Shit. His gut clenched, but a scan around noted nothing out of the ordinary. Only a hundred or so folks bristling with guns.

  “No limit on bullets,” Will announced. “No fanning or fast-draw with pistols is permitted. Aim only at your designated target. On my signal, commence shooting.”

  He blew a whistle. Team members slipped their weapons free and blasted away at their targets. Cracks from the assorted weaponry boomed like cannon fire. Gunsmoke blued the air, and wood chips sprayed as bullets rammed the posts.

  Maddy clicked away.

  Holt scanned the cheering crowd and the outbuildings. In the front row of seats, a trio of teenaged girls covered their ears and giggled. The bearded man tossed his ten-gallon hat into the air. No signs of danger. Only folks having a good time.

  He slid his gaze back to Maddy. The haze of blue smoke drifted to cloud around her. Coughing at the stench, she batted at it and covered her camera lens.

  Out on the field, one target post sagged from the onslaught. The earsplitting barrage like a roaring avalanche blocked all other sound.

  Maddy pushed to her feet, then jerked like a marionette whose puppet master yanked her strings with vicious force. As if released, she crumpled to the ground.

  Chapter 24

  Holt stared, frozen.

  Oh, God, please no! The prayer stuck in his throat. She wasn’t moving. Adrenaline pumped through his system like a geyser.

  He pivoted, drew his sidearm—his SIG-Sauer 9mm—from beneath his vest, searched for the shooter. Saw only the crowd staring at the field, the team shooters aiming at their targets, the cloud of smoke like a pall over the festivities.

  He yanked out his cell phone. An ambulance was on site, a safety requirement of Cowboy Action Shooting. Neither the DEA nor the sheriff’s department had seen fit to equip him with the communication devices they all wore. He’d fumed but met only shrugs and excuses he wasn’t law enforcement anymore.

  Hell, fuck, damn, he’d been watching Maddy instead of the crowd. He raced across the field. “Woman down, shot on the grandstand field. Get here stat!”

  The team shoot continued as if nothing had happened. Alert to Maddy’s plight, Special Agent Bonnyman stood over her. She’d dropped her competition pistol and held her 9mm as she scanned the crowd.

  Will’s whistle shrieked to stop the din of gunfire. A woman in the stand screamed. Apparently now aware a disaster had happened, the crowd surged to their feet with a collective gasp. Slowly the pop and crack of pistols and rifles ceased. The acrid smell hung in the air as the smoke from the team shoot spread across the field and the grandstand.

  “See anything?” Holt yelled to Bonnyman as he reached Maddy.

  “Too much smoke.” The agent turned away and spoke into the small mic hidden on her collar.

  “Maddy! Sweetheart, talk to me.” He sank to his knees and cradled her head.

  The only response was a soft moan. Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. Thank God she’s alive. But how bad was she hurt?

  Blood covered her left side beneath her arm, pooling on the dirt and grass beneath her. He tore off his shirt and wadded it up. Pressed it against the wound to staunch the flow of blood. So much blood.

  “EMTs are here,” Bonnyman said, her hand on his shoulder. “Let them do their work.”

  He forced himself up but his legs felt like old rubber. He moved aside as the two emergency technicians bent to care for Maddy. He stayed with her until the EMTs trundled her onto a gurney and moved her into the waiting ambulance.

  “She’s lost some blood,” one tech said as he closed the doors. “She’s in s
hock. That’s all I can tell you. You can call County later for more.”

  Holt followed the ambulance across the field as far as the dirt track leading through the pseudo Old West town. As soon as the vehicle bore the unconscious Maddy away to the hospital, he bent over, hands propped on his knees and dragged in air. He hadn’t drawn a good breath since he saw her fall. His heart was pounding out of his chest.

  “Go to her.” Bonnyman spoke behind him. “We’ve got things covered here.”

  He ached to go, to see she would be all right, to— Shit, he didn’t know what other than pace and drive himself crazier than he already was. But he’d be more use to her here. Maybe he’d have good news when she woke up. She had to wake up. She had to be all right.

  “No. I’ll stay. Help find the fucking shooter.” He turned toward the red-haired agent. “What’s the plan?”

  “Sheriff assigned deputies to keep the viewers in the stands until they can be interviewed. My agents are questioning the team shooters now. Next is a search of the grounds.”

  He pondered places other than the grandstand for the shooter to set up. “I’ll start searching the outbuildings near the grandstand.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Luke Rafferty jogged from the grandstand gate to join him.

  *****

  “See if you can sit up now, hon,” said the nurse, a maddeningly cheerful woman with brown hair in a frizzy halo. “It’ll take the pressure off those ribs.”

  “I’ll try.” Maddy rolled over on the padded table to her uninjured right side. How could she possibly move at all with ten of Lucifer’s demons jabbing pitchforks into her ribs? Anything but a shallow breath scraped her side like a scythe, despite the painkillers that fuzzed her brain so she could barely think. She closed her eyes and concentrated.

  Metallic clangs of gurneys and the squeak of rubber soles filtered into the small treatment room along with medicinal and disinfectant odors.