ROCKY MOUNTAIN RESCUE

by Cindi Myers

  Willa called Stacy an obscene name. Stacy cradled Carlo’s head to her breast, covering his ears.

  “I think I will kill you,” Abel said.

  “Not in front of the boy,” Willa admonished, as if she was warning him against drinking or swearing or some other petty sin.

  “No, not in front of the boy,” Abel agreed. He motioned to Patrick again. “Take off that pack and turn and face the door, hands behind your back.”

  Patrick did as the old man asked, moving as slowly as possible, but quickly enough not to provoke his captor. Stacy kept her eyes on him, anger and fear doing battle in her expression. “So you don’t care about the money?” Patrick said, when he was facing the door.

  “I wondered what happened to it, but there’s plenty more where that came from. Fifty thousand is nothing compared to what I’m going to have as soon as Stacy here signs a few papers for me.”

  “I won’t sign anything unless you let Carlo go,” she said.

  “Carlo will be fine here with Mother and me. We’ll love him like the son and grandson we never had.” He opened a drawer and took out a roll of duct tape. “You like it here, don’t you, Carlo? You’re going to learn to ride horses and be a cowboy.”

  Carlo said nothing. He stuck out his lower lip and watched his uncle wrap layer after layer of tape around Patrick’s wrists.

  Patrick’s mind raced. He had to do whatever he could to stay here with Stacy, Carlo and the others. As soon as Abel got him alone, the man would most likely kill him. With his hands bound, Patrick had less chance of overpowering the older man. Years of ranch work had honed his muscles, and the weapon put the odds well in his favor. “Even if Stacy signs papers giving you control of the trust, you won’t have legal custody of Carlo,” he said.

  “What, are you a lawyer, too?” Abel tore the last strip of tape, patted it into place and stepped back. “We’ve taken care of it.”

  “Stacy is going to sign over custody of Carlo to us,” Willa said.

  “I most certainly am not,” Stacy said.

  “You will unless you want to see the boy hurt.” Willa smiled—a horrible grin, made more so by the unnaturally white false teeth that gleamed between her withered lips.

  “Mommy, don’t let them hurt me.” Carlo clung tightly to Stacy, his arms around her neck.

  “I won’t let them hurt you.” If looks really could kill, Willa would have been struck dead right then.

  The old woman looked around. “Where’s Justine?” she asked.

  No one answered.

  “Where is Justine?” Willa demanded again.

  “What did you do with the nanny?” Abel asked.

  “She’s fine,” Patrick said. “She’s in the bathroom upstairs, tied up.”

  “Well, go untie her, Abel,” Willa said.

  “I’m a little busy right now, Mother.”

  “Oh, just shoot him and be done with it. But outside. You don’t want to make a mess in here.”

  Patrick couldn’t decide if Mother Giardino was off her rocker or playing the part to unnerve them. He suspected the latter. The old lady looked frail, but her eyes—as well as her tongue—were sharp.

  Abel pressed the gun into Patrick’s lower back. The hard metal barrel drove into one kidney, reminding him of the damage a bullet at this range would do. The older man grasped the doorknob and turned. Nothing happened. “It’s locked,” Patrick said.

  Abel rewarded this answer with a harder jab of the gun. He unlocked the door and opened it.

  “No!” Stacy, still holding Carlo, rushed toward them.

  Patrick whirled around in time to see Abel, gun in hand, turn to face her. Her eyes widened in horror and the boy began to wail. “Stacy, hit the floor!” Patrick shouted.

  She dropped, throwing her body over Carlo’s at the same time Patrick aimed a mighty kick at Abel’s back. The old man went sprawling, the gun flying from his hand. A shot rang out, the bullet splintering the frame of the doorway that led into the hall as it sank into the wood. Stacy screamed, Carlo wailed and Willa shouted curses.

  Patrick stepped over the old man on his way to retrieve the gun. Abel grabbed at his ankles and Willa headed toward him with surprising speed despite her walker. Stacy clambered to her feet and pulled Carlo up after her. “The gun!” Patrick called to her. “Get the gun.”

  She looked around, but apparently didn’t see the gun. Patrick raced across the room, thinking he could kick the weapon toward her, but Willa intercepted him, banging him hard in the shins with her walker. Patrick leaned over to shove her aside, but a hard blow to his back knocked him off balance. He turned and Abel landed a solid punch to his chin. Patrick staggered back, trying to maintain his balance.

  He heard Stacy coming before he saw her. “Nooo!” she bellowed, and ran at them. She jumped on Abel’s back, hands flailing, clawing at his eyes and nose. The old man turned in circles like a rodeo bull trying to throw off a rider. Carlo, still wrapped in the blanket, huddled against the wall and watched the spectacle wide-eyed, his thumb in his mouth.

  “Carlo, run!” Stacy shouted. “Run and hide.”

  The boy hesitated, then turned and raced out the open back door, the blanket trailing behind him like a cape.

  Stacy drove her thumb into Abel’s eye. With a howl of rage, the old man grabbed her arm and slung her to the floor, where he began kicking her, his cowboy boots connecting with her ribs with a sickening thud.

  Patrick shouted and rushed the old man. Hands still bound behind his back, he had little defense against Abel’s fists, but at least the rancher had left Stacy alone. She crawled to the side of the room and leaned against the wall, clutching her side and moaning.

  “Stop this! Stop this at once!” Willa shouted. But no one paid her any attention. Abel’s fist connected with Patrick’s nose and blood spurted. He blinked, trying hard to clear his head. To think. If Abel got hold of the gun again, Patrick was done for, but with his hands tied and Stacy helpless, the old man had the odds in his favor once more.

  Abel rushed at him again. Patrick dodged the punch, but the old man still landed a glancing blow. Patrick staggered back.

  “Don’t let him get out the door!” Willa shouted.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick saw Stacy move. She was sliding sideways along the wall, still hunched over and nursing her ribs, or pretending to do so. But she was moving, ever so slowly, toward the handgun that lay in the doorway to the darkened dining room.

  “Maybe we should take this outside,” Patrick said loudly. “Untie my hands and fight like a man.”

  “As if insults from a fed mean anything to me.” Abel hit him again, a hard blow that snapped his head to one side and sent him staggering again.

  “Quit playing with him, Abel,” Willa said. “Where is that gun?” She looked around and spotted Stacy. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Stacy froze. “I think my ribs are broken.” She looked around, as if only just now becoming aware of her surroundings. “Where’s Carlo? What have you done with my son?”

  “Abel, where is the boy?” Willa asked.

  “We’ll find him later,” Abel said. “When I’m done with the fed here.”

  “Abel, we should find him now,” Willa said.

  “He’s three years old. He can’t drive and he can’t walk far in this snow. We’ll find him.”

  “If we lose that boy, we’re done for,” Willa wailed. “You know that, Abel.”

  Abel shook his head, looking more annoyed than ever. Patrick leaned back against the counter, stealthily stretching his fingers in search of a knife, a bottle, a frying pan—anything he could use as a weapon.

  A heavy footfall on the back steps made them all freeze and look toward the still-open door. A dark figure filled the space, then moved into the room, followed by two b
urly men with guns drawn.

  “What’s going on here?” Senator Gary Nordley took in the two battered men, the young woman on the floor and the old one by her walker.

  “We caught them trying to steal the boy away.” Abel stood up straighter and wiped a smear of blood from his cheek.

  “Where is the boy now?” Nordley asked.

  “He ran out the door and is hiding somewhere.” Abel motioned toward the landscape behind the senator and his bodyguards. “We’ll find him. He can’t have gone far.”

  Nordley shook his head. “Abel, you told me you could handle this. Was I wrong to put my faith in you?”

  Abel walked over to the dining room and retrieved his gun. “I’m handling it. You don’t have to worry.”

  Nordley scowled at Patrick. Behind him, the two guards focused their weapons on the marshal. “You must be Thompson. I heard you’d been giving my men trouble.”

  “Hello, Senator. My colleagues told me they suspected you were behind all of this. I had a hard time believing it at first.”

  “Why wouldn’t you believe it? You don’t think I’m capable of orchestrating a project like this?”

  “A kidnapping is not a project,” Stacy snapped. “Murdering people is not a project, you scum.”

  Nordley turned to her, his expression affable. “Mrs. Giardino. That’s not any way to talk to someone to whom your family owes so much.”

  Stacy struggled to her feet, using the wall for support. Her face was pale, and she was clearly in pain, but her eyes never lost their expression of defiance. “I don’t owe you anything.”

  “If not for me, Sam Giardino would have rotted in prison for the rest of his life.”

  “I wouldn’t have been sorry to see it,” Stacy said.

  “Maybe not. But this way was so much better. He had a chance to settle his affairs before he died. To make a will giving everything to his only grandson, to be held in trust until the boy is old enough to appreciate the money. In the meantime, there are those of us who can advise him on how to put the funds to the best use.”

  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Patrick said. “You want control of the Giardino family fortune.”

  “Not for my own selfish aims,” Nordley said. “For the good of this country.”

  “Right. You’re a true patriot.” Stacy didn’t keep the scorn from her voice.

  Nordley looked offended. “It takes millions of dollars to run a successful political campaign. In the past I’ve been obligated to corporate donors and special interests for their contributions. With the Giardino money, I’ll be beholden to no one. I’ll have the ultimate freedom and the political power to do what’s right, without concern for the special interests. And the beautiful irony is that I’ll be using corrupt mob money to do good for the American people. I hope Sam Giardino is spinning in his grave at the idea.”

  “You’re crazy,” Stacy said.

  “Genius is often confused with insanity,” Nordley said. “The founding fathers were willing to make sacrifices to turn their ideals into reality. I’m willing to do that, too.”

  “Killing us isn’t some noble sacrifice,” Stacy said. “It’s murder.”

  “Who said anything about killing you? You’re still useful to me.” He turned back to Patrick. “But I have little use for a federal marshal who interfered with things that are none of his business.”

  “You don’t think blood on your hands would look bad to the voters?” Patrick asked.

  “There won’t be any blood on my hands. If anything, you’ll be a hero. An officer who died in the line of duty.”

  “What are you going to do?” Stacy asked.

  The senator ignored her. “Abel, you and Stevie take Marshal Thompson out to one of the barns and take care of things.” He motioned toward the door.

  “Not the barn,” Abel said. “It would upset the horses.”

  Nordley glowered.

  “They’re sensitive animals,” Abel said.

  “Take him to Timbuktu for all I care,” Nordley growled. “I don’t want to see him again.”

  “Don’t you talk to my son that way,” Willa snapped.

  Nordley nodded to the old woman. “No disrespect intended.”

  “You can’t kill him!” Stacy protested.

  “I told you. I won’t be killing anyone,” Nordley said.

  “You can’t let anyone else kill him, either,” she said.

  “Why not?” Nordley arched one eyebrow, all skepticism.

  “You brought me here to sign over control of Carlo’s trust. But I already signed it over to Patrick—to Marshal Thompson.”

  The lines around Nordley’s eyes deepened. “Why would you do that?”

  “It’s because I was going into witness protection,” she said. “With a new identity, I couldn’t control the trust, so I signed over control to Marshal Thompson. He’ll handle things and see that Carlo and I have everything we need.”

  Patrick couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It was a crazy idea, but she was doing a good job of selling it. Nordley turned to him. “Is this true?”

  “Yes,” he lied.

  “What happens if you die?” Abel asked.

  “Another agent will take over control of the trust on Carlo’s behalf.” Was that the right answer?

  “You’ll spend years in court trying to untangle this,” Stacy said. “By the time you’re done, Carlo will be grown and you’ll be too old to run for president.”

  “I think you’re lying,” Nordley said.

  “Do you want to take that chance?”

  Nordley stuck out his lower lip, considering. “Stevie, you and Ray take these two out to the barn and lock them up,” he said after a moment. “Then help the rest of us search for the boy. I’ll put in a call to my legal team and get to the bottom of this.”

  One of the big bruisers grabbed Patrick roughly by the arm and dragged him toward the door. The other man followed with Stacy. Patrick looked into her eyes, intending to offer some reassurance. Instead, she was the one who buoyed his spirits, her eyes shining with triumph over the way she’d tricked the senator.

  He wanted to tell her not to get overconfident. Their good luck couldn’t last, and when Nordley figured out he’d been had he was liable to take his anger out on them. But no need to add to her worries now. Let her savor her little victory—she’d had few enough things to celebrate lately, and a little respite from worry would help her prepare for the danger ahead.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Though Stacy’s every instinct was to struggle against the man who dragged her toward the barn, she forced herself to relax. Her side ached where Abel had kicked her; if he had broken one of her ribs, struggling would only make things worse. And Patrick wasn’t fighting his captor. He had experience in these situations, didn’t he? She should follow his lead.

  The icy night air hit her like a slap across the face. A shiver convulsed her body and she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. As the two thugs led them across the snow she scanned the darkness for some sign of Carlo. He shouldn’t be out in this cold. She prayed he’d find a warm place to hide and stay hidden. She didn’t want any of these people laying so much as a finger on him ever again.

  The barn was dimly lit, smelling of sweet hay and warm horse. One of the animals nickered from the horse boxes that lined both sides of a central passageway. Low-voltage lighting glowed along the floor in front of the boxes, but one of the thugs—Stevie, the senator had called him—flicked a switch and overhead fluorescent lighting flooded the space with a harsh white glow. Several of the horses stirred, their feet shifting on the concrete floor.

  “Where should we put them?” the other thug, Ray, asked.

  “Over there.” Stevie jutted his chin toward a horse box whose do
or stood open. Half a bale of hay spilled onto the floor inside the box. Stevie led Patrick to an iron ring fastened to one wall in the box and pulled at it. “This should work.” He spun Patrick around and wrapped a plastic zip tie around his already-bound wrists and cinched it tight. He wound a thick rope over this, then fastened the rope to the iron ring.

  Ray fastened Stacy’s wrists together behind her back with a plastic zip tie, then bound her ankles. “Sit on the hay,” he told her. “You’ll be more comfortable.”

  She doubted it, but did as he suggested. “Should I tie her to the wall, too?” he asked Stevie.

  Stevie was fitting a zip tie around Patrick’s ankles. “She won’t go anywhere trussed up like a chicken,” he said. He pulled the tie tight, then stood.

  “Should we gag them?” Ray asked.

  “Who’s going to hear us if we yell?” Stacy asked.

  Stevie looked around, as if searching for a gag, then shook his head. “Forget the gag. We need to go find the kid.”

  They left the stall, closing the door behind them. She strained her ears, listening as their steps receded. The overhead lights went out, then the barn door opened, creaking on its hinges. As the door closed again a horse across the aisle kicked at its stall, then whinnied.

  Stacy looked at Patrick. His lip and one eye were swollen, and dried blood streaked one cheek. He had to be in pain, but the eyes that met hers were calm. Thoughtful. He wasn’t panicking, so neither would she. “Now what?” she asked.

  “Now we get out of these restraints, find Carlo and get out of Dodge,” he said.

  “Right. Piece of cake.” She struggled against the plastic ties binding her wrists. “But how?”

  He looked down at his bound ankles. “These are just plastic zip ties. They probably came out of Abel’s garage. I can tell you how to get out of them, then you can free me. How are your ribs?”

  She shifted on the hay bale gingerly. “A little sore, but I don’t think they’re broken, just bruised.” Looking at his battered face where Abel had beat him, she felt like a wimp to complain. “Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.”