Deadly Attraction

by Misty Evans

  “There,” Emma said. “Do you see it?”

  Mitch pressed an eye against the lens of her telescope, his body tense. “The gate’s closed.”

  He’d been a million miles away when she’d found him in her office staring out the window. She’d heard the murmur of his voice below her as she’d scanned her property from the attic window, landing on the gate that she never closed. She couldn’t hear the contents of his conversation, but it had certainly knocked him sideways.

  “Zoom in on the latch.”

  His long, capable fingers fiddled with the focusing knob as he tweaked the direction of the tube. “Is that a padlock?”

  “There were two men, just like we suspected. One tall and thin, the other shorter, but stocky and bald. They closed the gate and locked it; that’s not my padlock, by the way.” She’d never had one that looked like that.

  Mitch straightened, his tenseness now flat-out irritation. “You saw the men who did this? Why didn’t you yell at me?”

  “I did. You didn’t answer. I watched them until they disappeared behind the old outbuilding at the far end, near the creek, then I went to get you. I don’t know who you were talking to, but you went dark side for a few minutes. I said your name three times from the doorway before you answered me.”

  He rocked back on his heels and rubbed his eyes. “Shit. Sorry.”

  She nodded, seeing the consternation in the pinch of his brows. “Did you have one of your flashbacks?”

  He closed his eyes briefly, opened them and shook his head as if shaking off a memory. “No. Yes.” Another shake of his head. A lock of his unruly hair fell over his forehead. “Not about Mac. I was talking to my…”

  He glanced at the window where the telescope peeked through the curtains. His lips were set in a thin line, his body motionless.

  Except for his fingers.

  She hadn’t noticed it when he was fiddling with the telescope. Now that his hands hung loose by his sides, she noticed the tiny tremor in the fingers of those steady hands.

  It hadn’t been his boss on the other end of that call. Whenever Mitch spoke to Cooper Harris, he relaxed.

  If she had a guess, it hadn’t been Victor either. Mitch might fear Victor’s disappointment in him, but he respected the man. The emotion she saw in her bodyguard’s current posture suggested the person had some kind of control over him in an emotional manner. A very strong, emotional manner.

  If his brother were still alive, Emma would have guessed it had been Mac on the other end of that phone.

  His mom. It had to be.

  Unless he had a girlfriend he hadn’t mentioned. A wife—ex, maybe.

  Mitch wouldn’t lie to you, lead you on.

  Would he?

  She hated to admit it, but there had been people in her world she’d misjudged. Criminals and other clients who’d fooled her, tricked her into believing in them, and then pulled the trust rug out from under her feet.

  Which was why she’d learned not to be suckered by anyone.

  “Mitch?” she asked gently. “Who was on the phone?”

  He glanced at her, then at the telescope, leaning forward to look through the eyepiece once more. “Did you get a look at the men’s faces?”

  He didn’t want to talk about it. Big surprise. “Yes, actually. Quite clearly.”

  “Recognize either one of them?”

  “One of them, yes; the other no, not personally, but I know of him.”

  His head came up. “You do?”

  She nodded. “They were both wearing camouflage pants and black jackets with a symbol on the back. A gold flaming sword with an all-seeing eye on the hilt.”

  His jaw jumped again. “The Reckoners.”

  “You’re familiar with the group?”

  “You could say that. How do you know about them?”

  “I worked with one of them and evaluated him for a colleague a few years ago. A man by the name of Sean Gordon. Ring any bells?”

  Mitch chuckled without humor. “Should have known, Doc.”

  He took one of her hands and brought her fingers to his lips, where he kissed them as he sent her a heated look. “Our paths were bound to cross one way or another over this wildfire, weren’t they?”

  Her heart leaped in her chest for a moment, both at the look he was giving her and the synchronicity of the situation. “Sean Gordon is a Reckoner. He’s also a fan of The Mary Monahan Chronicles. Online, he goes by the avatar, Armagordon.”

  “I’ll be damned.” He kept her hand locked in his, his gaze gliding to the window again as his mind worked through the implications. “So, he and his Reckoner brother are working with Goodsman and Brown. Gordon started the fire and Brown was part of that, like we hypothesized.”

  “She hoped it would spread west and endanger the prison. Sean probably knew the best place to start it and when.”

  “Exactly. Data about the path of wildfires in this area for the past fifty years isn’t hard to come by. Historically, the fires sweep southwest because of the way the valley is situated. The winds sweep down from the north and the fires naturally follow the forest line that spreads west.”

  Pieces of the puzzle plunked into place for her. “So Sean and Linda snuck out of the park and they followed the creek bed. It took two days after the fires began in the park before they’d spread far enough west to endanger the prison. She had plenty of time to make it back to civilization and join the heist to free Chris.”

  Mitch nodded. “The man who helped Brown take out the transport van and rescue Chris is probably the same one out there with Gordon now.”

  “Gordon is an arsonist, but the other man is the murderer. He helped Linda take out the officers on Chris’s transport van, killed Carla, and nearly killed Danika. He lives for blood.”

  Mitch released her to once again use the telescope and scan the area. “Is Gordon’s boner for you because of Goodsman, or does he have a personal ax to grind over whatever happened a few years ago when you evaluated him for your colleague?”

  “Most likely, both.”

  “Great.” He said it softly, almost like a sigh.

  His back was slightly curved over the telescope, the muscles rippling under his shirt. She put a hand there. “There’s a bolt cutter in the barn. We can remove the padlock and open the gates for your team members.”

  He shook his head. “That lock is a high-end, professional, security lock. The shackle is probably armored steel and the base laminated steel, so a hacksaw or bolt cutters won’t cut through it. Can’t pick it either, because of the tumbler system.”

  Emma bit her lower lip. “We could remove the hinges on the gates and simply take them down.”

  “Meanwhile, we’re exposed. They could shoot us at any point.”

  True, and it was a solid half mile down to the gate. Even if Mitch’s team got there, it was a long way to walk, run, or ride in the open. “So what do we do?”

  Mitch straightened and squeezed her hand. “Stay here. I’ll be back.”

  She watched him until he got to the attic stairs, then dropped her eye to the telescope. What she saw made her hesitate for a moment before she followed the tendril of smoke in front of her to her right.

  Her heart sunk, the hair on the back of her neck standing straight up. “Mitch!”

  He came hammering back up the stairs. “What?”

  Panic building in her chest, she motioned him over and moved back so he could see what she’d spotted.

  “Aw, shit,” he said under his breath.

  “The horses,” Emma said, her voice catching. Tears welled in her eyes.

  Mitch ran for the stairs, yelling for her to stay inside.

  Ignoring him, Emma ran too.

  “Barn’s on fire,” Mitch announced to Will as he entered the kitchen. The man stood at the back door, a rifle in hand. “You stay here with Emma. I’ll get the horses out.”

  “Goddamn SOBs.” Will’s face was grim. “Not the horses for fuck’s sake.”

  Mitch
felt the same way. He stopped, hearing Emma’s footsteps on the stairs following. “They know this will flush her out. Flush us out. They’re baiting us.”

  “They?”

  “We got two for sure.”

  Will shook his head. “You ain’t gonna put out a barn fire by yourself.”

  Emma was breathing hard and had her S&W in-hand as she stalled in the doorway. “That’s why we have to help.”

  Mitch wheeled on her. “You are not leaving this house. No one is putting out the fire. All I can do is get the horses out.”

  “You think they’ll…?” Will stopped, his gaze saying it all to Mitch, even as he let the words hang in the air because of Emma.

  “Think they’ll what?” she said.

  Mitch grabbed the door handle. Pick off the horses one by one to draw you out. “Emma, please, I’m begging you. No matter what happens with the horses, do not come outside. That’s what they want and you’ll play right into their hands.”

  Her eyes were floating in unshed tears. Her jaw was clenched. She started to argue, then snapped her mouth closed again. “Just go save my horses.”

  He nodded, patted her cheek. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I can’t cover you well from inside the house,” Will said. “They might be drawing you out just to shoot you. You should let me go.”

  They were wasting too much time. Mitch swung the door open. “I’ve got it.”

  Salt and Pepper tried to rush out with him, but he snapped his fingers for them to stay before he shut the door, sealing them inside.

  Slipping along the side of the house, he drew his gun and peered around back. All looked clear, but Will was right. He was a sitting duck if he ran across the yard to the barn.

  The horses were neighing, flames shooting from the loft. The rain had stopped and done little to coat the barn’s wooden structure that was several years past its last paint job.

  A moment of indecision struck him hard in his solar plexus. His job was to keep Emma safe, not the horses.

  But damn if he could stomach letting the animals die inside that barn either.

  All his training insisted he go back inside. The life of the woman he was protecting was far more valuable than those of Twinkie, Igor, Second Chance and Hope.

  And yet, if he let those horses perish, he’d never be able to look Emma in the eye again. The horses, like Danika, meant everything to her. Gave her purpose.

  He couldn’t let them die.

  Racing to the front of the farmhouse, he kept an eye on his surroundings and jumped into his truck.

  The cab still smelled like Emma, reassuring and soothing, in direct contrast to his pounding heart. The Ford’s wheels might be flat, but it would still run. Two-plus tons of steel and fiberglass was a far better shield than none at all.

  Cranking the engine, he eyeballed the barn. A hundred feet or so from the house, but only two exits, neither of which provided him or the horses much cover.

  He hit the gas and fought with the steering wheel to guide the truck into the best placement he could get to shield him from whoever might be watching the front barn doors.

  The F150 was stubborn, built for heavy payloads and rough terrain, so even though the tires were flat, the engine pulled the truck forward. Mitch kept his head down, only peering over the dash enough to keep the truck headed in the right direction.

  Please stay in the house, Emma. The doctor was stubborn and took too many risks. He kept half expecting her to race out and jump in the cab with him.

  By the time he finagled the truck into position to provide some cover while allowing the barn doors to open fully, the heat had already busted out several of the windows on the east side and smoke billowed from them.

  Get the horses. Protect Emma. The refrain beat in his head in time with his pulse. Grabbing a bandana from the glove compartment, he used it to cover his nose and mouth. Then he climbed out of the truck on the passenger side.

  Keeping his body low, he used the truck to hide behind if anyone was watching from across the way in the smattering of trees. He breathed a sigh of relief when there was no padlock placed on the barn doors, and he threw them open.

  Flames ate at the peeling paint. Smoke filled the barn, along with the screech of splitting wood. The horses screamed now in their panic and Mitch saw hooves flashing through the smoke as they reared and beat against their stalls with their feet. Overhead, the loft was completely on fire, pieces of burning hay and ash taking wing and fluttering through the air to alight on the stalls beneath.

  Filling his lungs with oxygen, he held his breath and plunged inside.

  The first stall he came to was Igor’s. The old horse quivered and trembled, baring his teeth. Mitch flipped the stall’s latch and threw the door open. Igor crashed forward and Mitch whooped at him, raising his arms to send the animal toward the open barn doors.

  Igor, the good soldier, ran out.

  Across the aisle was Twinkie. Eyes burning from the smoke and sweat running in rivulets all over his body from the heat, Mitch repeated the sequence, opening the stall and sending the horse toward the open doors, ears straining over the noise in the barn, waiting for the sound of gunshots.

  He heard none, but didn’t dare hope that the men hiding in the woods weren’t gearing up for target practice.

  Last, at the back of the barn, were Second Chance and her foal. Lungs bursting, fingers clawing at his throat as he suffocated a coughing fit, Mitch waved at the smoke clouding his vision. Three feet from the stall, he saw Second Chance rearing up and kicking at the stall’s gate, the whites of her eyes showing, her body covered in ash.

  Sprinting forward, Mitch nearly met his end when a flaming board from the loft crashed down in front of him, cutting across his path. He jumped back and sucked in a breath, regretting it the moment his lungs began to burn. Forced to go around the board, he coughed into his elbow and wiped sweat from his eyes as he came at Second Chance’s stall from the opposite side.

  He reached for the latch and pulled.

  The wood had swollen with the heat, pinning the latch to it.

  Jerking hard on the metal, he peered over the stall door and felt his hammering heart stutter.

  Hope lay on the floor of the stall unmoving as her mother danced around her, kicking and screaming.

  Coughing so hard, he could barely stand up, Mitch raised a foot and kicked at the latch. Once, twice, three times. The last kick didn’t budge the latch, but ripped the metal completely off the wood.

  Grabbing the top of the stall door, Mitch yanked it open.

  He sagged back against the stall wall, waiting for Second Chance to run out.

  She didn’t.

  His legs shook, his lungs failing him. Any second, he would be too weak to make it out of the barn, the old thing falling down around him and crushing him before the fire could burn him up.

  Get out.

  His eyes felt like sandpaper. His lungs were no longer working properly.

  Peeling himself off the wall, he dared to peek inside. Second Chance was nuzzling Hope, desperately trying to get the foal to move.

  He staggered in beside her, knowing that at any moment, Second Chance could turn wild again and kick him. She could kill him or knock him unconscious.

  Fighting through the weakness in his body, he held a hand up and waved her back so he could drop to his knees next to the foal. Hope didn’t appear to be breathing and Mitch’s brain pleaded with him to leave the horse and get the hell out.

  Instead, he shoved his arms under the foal’s body, lifting her as he struggled to his feet.

  He thought about trying to chase Second Chance out of the stall ahead of him, but figured the mother horse would most likely follow his lead.

  Nearly blinded and barely able to put one foot in front of the other, he staggered around the blazing board, through the smoke, and toward what he hoped was the exit. Good thing his internal compass worked in the middle of a fire, because he could no longer see the barn opening o
r even a smidgen of light.

  As he forced his body forward, the heavy weight of the foal loading him down, he felt Second Chance speed around him. A moment later, in the wake of her breeze, the smoke lifted slightly and he saw the barn opening.

  As he neared the doors, he lost his footing, turning his ankle and going down on one knee. He pitched forward, sending Hope flying across the threshold and onto the ground just outside the door.

  Body aching, vision dimming, he crawled forward, then grabbed the foal’s back legs and pulled her away from the barn.

  Fresh oxygen rushed into his lungs and he fell to the ground and rolled over near the flat front wheel of his truck. Before he could wipe his eyes or check to see if the foal was still breathing, a loud crash came from inside the barn.

  In slow motion, the right side of the building tilted. The sounds of splintering wood rose over the licking flames. Down, down, down, the side seemed to be curling in on itself, the roof breaking apart. For a moment, it stopped, suspended, then the entire side crashed to the ground.

  A new burst of flames shot out from the now crooked barn doors and Mitch backed himself up against the truck, throwing up an arm in front of his face to block the heat and debris.

  Ash rained down. He felt heat on his head and knocked a burning chunk of hay from his hair. Once he ascertained nothing else on his body was on fire, he reached over and felt for a pulse in Hope’s neck.

  The foal’s tongue lolled from her mouth, her body lifeless. Rubbing her chest, her back, her muzzle, he searched again for a pulse.

  There! A weak heartbeat. Hope stirred under his hands. Massaging her some more, he spoke to her softly. “Come on, girl. Take a deep breath. You’re safe now.”

  At least, he hoped she was.

  The foal blinked her eyes open and twitched. Next thing he knew, she was on her feet, her spindly legs carrying her off, hopefully to her mother.

  His own legs and feet were less cooperative and he ended up sitting on his haunches when he tried to rise, his lungs rattling from the smoke inhalation.

  And then, boom! Just as Mitch was about to climb back inside the truck and hightail it to the house, a gun went off.