It was time to do what she’d been trained for.
She checked her hat and hair in the visor mirror. No stray strands hanging out, announcing her true identity. From a distance, at least, she could pass for just about anyone of a similar height and weight. She grabbed the scarf, wrapped it around her nose and mouth. She was as covered up as she could get, as disguised as possible.
She waited another few minutes, letting the time tick away because she didn’t want to arrive too soon. Let Camden and Derrick assume they were home free. Let them get complacent and lazy and careless because all of those things would make it easier to free Beatrice.
If she was in a position to be freed.
The if was the part that had been haunting her, the word flitting through her mind over and over again as she waited.
What if...
Beatrice was hurt?
Beatrice was sick?
Beatrice was...worse?
She glanced at the dashboard clock, then texted Chance. Moving in. She put the car in gear and turned onto the gravel driveway that led to the lodge.
She crept along the three-mile stretch, trees brushing the sides of the SUV. The road opened into a clearing, a long building standing in the center of it. The headlights glinted off windows and reflected on the snow that lay on the ground. Karen’s cell phone buzzed again and she glanced at it. Bring beer.
Nice thing to ask your daughter to bring to a kidnapping event.
She tucked the phone away. Not bothering to respond.
Karen had mentioned a fork in the road when she’d given directions to the cabin. Stella looked for it, scanning the road, the trees, the tiny little paths that seemed to wind through the forest. When she finally found the forked road, she rolled forward, easing the SUV onto an even narrower stretch of gravel.
Seconds later, she saw a light flashing through the trees. Her pulse jumped, her muscles tense with anticipation. This was it. Everything came down to this one moment.
She thought she saw movement to her left as she climbed out of the car, a shadow shifting at the periphery of her vision. Chance or one of the men moving closer, ready to walk through the door that she was going to leave open.
She stepped onto the porch stairs, and the front door flew open, the man standing in the doorway was the guy from the hospital. She recognized the narrow, wiry build. The height.
Derrick.
She would have said his name, greeted him like an old friend would, but she didn’t want her voice to tip him off.
“Didn’t you get your dad’s text?” Derrick demanded. “We need some more beer here. That old lady is driving us batty. Go on back to town and get some. Buy some food, too, and don’t come back until you do.”
He slammed the door, and she thought she heard a bolt slide home.
She tried the knob anyway. Locked.
She could see in the front windows, the living room light making every detail of the room visible. Wide-planked flooring, rough with age and neglect. Easy chair. Saggy couch and beat-up coffee table.
Derrick must have seen her looking. He knocked on the window, motioned for her to go.
“Hurry up. We’ve got plans for later tonight. Maybe when you come back, you can convince the old lady to cooperate.”
He stalked to an easy chair, dropped into it, scowling as he stared Stella down. He didn’t seem to know she was an imposter, and she wanted to keep it that way, so she turned her back to the window, hurried down the porch stairs.
No way was she going to give up.
Derrick had mentioned Beatrice. Obviously she was alive and okay.
Stella was going to make sure she stayed that way.
She rounded the small cabin, checking two windows on the side of the small building. Both were locked. She moved around to the back. There was a small deck there, light from a single window illuminating the weathered wood.
She approached it cautiously, easing up the deck steps and peering into a tiny kitchen. Not much in it but a stove and a miniature fridge. A table stood against one wall. A chair. Beatrice was sitting in another chair, her frilly nightgown splattered with dirt, and what looked like a laptop was sitting on the table in front of her.
Were they trying to get her bank account password?
Stella reached for the window, her hand falling away as Camden Woods stepped into view. He walked to the table, jabbed at the computer screen and yelled something that Stella couldn’t hear through the glass.
Beatrice seemed unfazed, her shrug only adding to Camden’s fury. He stomped away, came back a second later with a pencil and paper. He thrust both into Beatrice’s hands and left.
Out to the living room maybe.
Stella didn’t waste time. She tried the window. Locked just like the other ones. There was the back door, though, and she fished in her pocket for the utility tool she’d brought.
Chance wasn’t the only one who knew how to pick a lock.
She worked quietly, the snow still falling, the night eerily silent. No animals moving through the trees. No night creatures calling out to each other.
The peace of the forest had been disturbed by humans. She could feel their presence, the weight of the eyes that were watching as she fiddled with the lock.
Was everyone in place? Were they ready to move in?
The lock clicked, and she took a deep breath, pressing her ear against the wood, listening. No more yelling. No voices.
She turned the knob, pulling the stun gun from her pocket. Not her weapon of choice but better than using a gun when Beatrice was in the line of fire. She pushed against the door and it creaked open, the sound breaking the silence, breaking the calm.
A man yelled something from the front of the cabin, and footsteps pounded on the floor.
She knew who was coming, and she was prepared, jabbing the stun gun into Derrick’s side as he raced toward her. He dropped like lead, falling to the ground with a loud thud.
Camden hadn’t appeared, and Stella darted forward, grabbing Beatrice’s hand and pulling her to her feet.
“Come on, Nana. We’ve got to hurry.”
The door was still open, and they were so close to escaping. She thought she heard footsteps pounding up the deck stairs, thought she saw a shadow darting toward the door. Chance?
Someone ran through the room in front of her, slamming the door shut before she and Beatrice could reach it. Camden was there, an old-fashioned derringer in hand.
“You just keep getting in my way, don’t you?” he shouted, lifting the derringer.
She knew. Saw it in his eyes.
He was going to pull the trigger. She shoved Beatrice away, diving toward him, her hand on his wrist as he fired.
The report rocked them both, the bullet slicing a path through Stella’s upper arm. She fell sideways, her hand still on Camden’s wrist. Her shoulder hit the wall. Her head followed. She saw stars, but she didn’t release her grip.
Beatrice screamed, the sound mixing with the ringing in Stella’s ears, the wild pounding of her heart. Something else was pounding. She didn’t know what. Couldn’t concentrate on anything but gaining control of the gun.
She yanked Camden’s arm sideways, twisting his forearm until he dropped the gun. She reached for it, would have had it in her hands, but Derrick was up, groggy but moving. He kicked the gun away, snatched Stella up by the front of her shirt.
“I don’t like being messed with,” he spat.
“Neither do I.” She drove her fist into his throat, heard him gag as he fell back.
She swayed, saw the blood dripping from her left arm, pooling on the wood floor. She needed to stop Camden now. Ten minutes from now, she might not be able to. She took her gun from its holster, raised it.
“Don’t,” Camden said, his voice deadly ca
lm, and she realized he had the derringer in his hand, the barrel pressed against Beatrice’s temple. “You even breathe funny, and I’ll kill her.”
“If you kill me, you’ll never get my bank account information,” Beatrice said, her voice shaking.
“It’s a little late for that, Granny,” Derrick snapped, moving past Stella, his gaze never leaving her face. “Your granddaughter has just cost you everything.”
He was afraid.
She could see it in his eyes.
“You cost yourself everything. Greed does that to people. It makes them stupid,” she said.
“Shut up. Both of you!” Camden barked, the derringer wavering, his attention jumping to the small window. Had he seen something there?
Stella didn’t look, but she felt it—the energy humming in the air, the feeling that something big was about to happen.
“Put your gun on the ground,” Camden demanded, easing through a narrow doorway that must have led to the living area. “Any sudden movements and Beatrice dies,” he warned.
She could have taken the shot, but she was bleeding heavily and dizzy from it.
She didn’t want to miss. Didn’t want to hit Beatrice. She set her Glock on the floor.
“That’s better.” Camden nodded, the derringer dropping a little more, the barrel no longer against Beatrice’s head. “We’re going out the front door. You follow, she dies. You call the police, she dies. You cooperate, and you might get a few more years with her.”
“Right. So don’t try anything funny,” Derrick said.
As he reached for the Glock, all the energy Stella had been feeling suddenly exploded.
The window shattered, and Derrick fell back, blood staining his shoulder and chest.
Stella was already moving, pulling Chance’s gun from the ankle holster, aiming for Camden. He had the derringer up again, pressed against Beatrice’s cheek, his arm around her waist.
“Nobody move,” he said, and the world seemed to stop. The back door was open, and Dallas and Simon were there, guns drawn, expressions grim.
“I just want to leave here,” Camden continued conversationally. “I don’t want trouble. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“Then let the lady go,” Simon suggested. “And walk right on outside.”
“Into whatever trap is waiting for me? I don’t think so.” He backed up, the gun held against the side of Beatrice’s face. She didn’t flinch, but Stella could see the whiteness of her skin where the barrel pressed into flesh.
“You’re only digging yourself deeper into a hole,” Stella said, and she was surprised to hear the thickness of her words. She felt light-headed and woozy, blood still dripping down her fingers. “If you let her go now, you won’t face as many charges.”
“In for a penny. In for a pound. That’s one of the only things my mother ever taught me.” Camden’s harsh laughter echoed through the room. “Put your weapons down. All of you. If you don’t, I will kill Beatrice. I promise you that.”
“You really think you’re going to make it out of this cabin alive?” Dallas said, taking a step forward, setting his gun on the kitchen table.
Camden still had the derringer, he still had Beatrice and, for the moment, he was still the one in control.
He wouldn’t be for long.
Stella knew that.
She trusted that.
Chance was somewhere, and when he showed up, the odds would flip in their favor.
“I said put the weapons down,” Camden growled, and Simon finally complied, setting his Glock on the counter as Stella put her weapon on the floor.
“Good. Now where’d your other buddy go?” Camden asked, backing away, his gaze darting from one person to another, trying to track everyone’s movements as he eased into the living room.
Stella followed him.
Cold air swept in from the open front door, the frigid breeze hitting her square in the face.
Camden must have felt the cold, too.
He whirled toward the open door, his grip on Beatrice loosening. That was all Stella needed. She tackled him from behind, rolled with him as they landed on the ground. And then he was over her, the gun under her chin, his eyes blazing.
“You should have stayed away,” he panted. “You should never have tried to take what belonged to me!”
She expected to feel the bullet ripping through her flesh, feel her life slipping away.
Instead, she felt the weight of Camden’s body as he fell on top of her, heard the clatter of the derringer as it dropped to the floor. Felt warm blood sliding down her neck.
Camden’s?
Hers?
She tried to shove him away, but her arms were weak, her muscles unresponsive. She felt groggy and a little confused. Not quite sure what had happened. Camden’s body had forced the air from her lungs, and she couldn’t catch her breath. Couldn’t move him.
And then he was gone.
Pulled away by someone.
By Chance.
He was leaning over her, his brow creased with concern, his hand shaking as he brushed hair from her forehead. “It’s okay,” he said.
“Then why do you look like it’s not?” she managed to say.
“Because you’re bleeding like a stuck pig, that’s why.” He slid out of his jacket, pressed it against the wound in her upper arm.
“Where’s Beatrice?”
“Simon brought her outside.”
“Is she okay?”
“I didn’t see any injuries.”
“She needs a coat.” She shoved at his hand, trying to push him away so that she could stand. “I’ve got to find one for her.”
“I told Simon to bring her back to the hospital.”
“I thought you said she wasn’t injured.”
“She’s still sick, remember,” he said gently, and she could see the fear in his eyes. Fear for her.
“I need to see her.” She sat up and then realized what a mistake that was. Her head spun, darkness edging in until everything was gone, and it was just her, lying against a warm chest, someone whispering in her ear.
“If you die on me, I’m going to kill you, Stella.”
She would have laughed if she could have, would have opened her eyes and told Chance exactly what she thought of him—that he was the best thing that had happened to her in a very long time and that she wasn’t sure why it had taken her so long to realize it.
That she loved him, with everything she had. That she was his.
Only her eyes wouldn’t open. The words wouldn’t come, and she felt herself drifting as voices filled the cabin and the darkness swept her away.
FIFTEEN
One man dead.
Another man wounded.
Stella wounded.
It wasn’t the outcome that Chance had been hoping for, but it was better than the alternative: Beatrice dead, Stella dead, more hearts broken, more families lost.
His family lost.
That’s what it would have felt like because Stella was a part of him. He’d known that for years, but he’d finally accepted what it meant. Not just teamwork. Not just trust or respect or affection. A deep-seated connection that nothing could ever break.
He pressed his jacket against Stella’s arm, his grip tight. He didn’t like her pallor, the amount of blood that she’d lost, the fact that she’d slipped into unconsciousness.
His phone buzzed, and he knew it was Trinity asking for an update. Simon would fill her in. He was on the way back to the hospital with Beatrice, and he’d said he would contact Trinity and tell her to meet him there. Dallas was a few feet away, being interviewed by a couple of deputies. He’d fired the shot that had taken Derrick down, and that had provided the distraction that had gotten Chance in the front do
or.
That had been the plan, and it had gone off almost flawlessly.
Almost.
He scowled, eyeing the blood that splattered the floor beneath Stella’s arm.
“You’d better get through this,” he muttered.
She didn’t respond. Just lay still and pale and silent.
That worried him.
A lot.
Because Stella was always moving, always ready, always fighting.
He kept his jacket pressed to her arm as rescue personnel swarmed the cabin, checking pulses, triaging wounds. Two EMTs were crouching beside Camden, calling information into their radios.
He could have told them not to bother.
The bullet he’d fired had gone straight through Camden’s head. Not something Chance was proud of. Taking a life was never the right thing, it was never the easy thing, but sometimes it was the only thing.
If he hadn’t acted, Stella would be dead.
There’d been no doubt about that. Camden’s finger had been on the trigger, and he’d been ready to fire.
A split second to act.
That was all that Chance had, and he’d taken the shot, firing the way he’d been trained—accurately, without hesitation.
“What do we have here?” A young EMT knelt beside him, gauze pads in his hand, gloves on. “Mind if I take a look?”
Chance released the pressure, peeled back his jacket so the guy could poke at the wounds. It looked like the bullet had gone right through Stella’s upper arm.
“She’ll need to get this cleaned and dressed. Have an X-ray to see if the bullet hit the bone.” The guy pressed gauze pads to the entrance and exit wounds, wrapped them tightly.
“Let’s start an IV,” he called, and another EMT rushed over.
Chance waited impatiently while the IV was started, watching as blood seeped through the gauze. He wanted to nudge the EMTs away, take care of things himself. He’d run IVs before. Stella was the one who’d taught him how. She probably wouldn’t be happy if he practiced on her, though. She’d told him he was the worst student she’d ever had. The memory would have made him smile if the situation hadn’t been so serious, if she hadn’t been just as still and silent as when he was holding the jacket to her wound.
The Christmas Target Page 18
