The man had no allegiance—to country or anything else. He was a total mercenary. And Rory had spent months worming his way into the Diego organization as a top-notch, take-any-risk pilot. His daring feats had earned Diego’s admiration and then his trust.
Rory had been situated in the catbird seat to feed information on Diego’s moves to Johnny, who was posing as a wealthy Texas oilman, interested in expanding his revenue stream into the guns and drug trade.
Things had been going perfectly. Until Rory inexplicably fed Johnny some bad information. In his guise as the Texas oilman, Johnny had taken a meeting in Bogotá with one of Diego’s right-hand men. The stated goal was an exchange of guns and drugs for cash. Johnny had the cash for delivery, but he’d been met with an ambush. Before he could even offer the money, two machine guns had opened fire. Johnny had barely escaped. He knew someone had blown his cover, and the most logical source was Rory.
Johnny’s suspicions had been confirmed when Rory failed to check in at his appointed time. Though agents in Project Omega operated with almost total autonomy, weekly check-ins were required. Johnny had survived the attempt on his life, and he’d been eager to make sure Rory was still in place. But Rory never called.
At first Johnny had been worried that Rory was actually dead, that Diego had put two and two together and figured Johnny and Rory both for federal plants. While Diego might not know about Project Omega, the high-level group of federal agents from all branches of law enforcement, Diego had to know that the U.S. government was interested in his illegal activities. Diego could easily have killed Rory and left no evidence for anyone to find.
But then there was the mysterious plane crash. Not one scrap of the wreckage was ever found in the impenetrable jungle, even though Johnny had personally conducted a search.
It was possible that Rory had died in the crash, but Johnny didn’t believe it for a minute.
When informants began to report sightings of Rory in developing countries, appearing momentarily in one disguise or another, then disappearing again without a trace, it was apparent to Johnny that Rory was on the run. Finally, news had leaked to Johnny from other sources that Rory had betrayed Diego—had in fact intercepted valuable information that could put dozens of U.S. agents and operatives at terrible risk. Word came that Rory was offering the information on the international market to the highest bidder.
And Rory, who had once been his partner and closest friend, was now his quarry.
Johnny had almost cornered Rory twice—once in Afghanistan and once in St. Petersburg—but he’d escaped both times. Rory was a master at self-preservation. He’d done the expedient thing to cover his tracks, even though it had meant leaving Stephanie to fend for herself.
Now Johnny and the Feds were after Rory—and so was Carlos Diego. Diego wasn’t the kind of man who let his employees get away with stealing from him. Carlos wouldn’t rest until Rory was found and made to pay.
Stephanie Ryan was the perfect bait to close the trap on Rory. Or, even worse, Johnny had come to suspect that Rory had actually hidden the information here at Running Horse Ranch. The barn fire was evidence that Diego had come to the same conclusion. Johnny only hoped that he could use her—and keep her safe from Diego.
As he moved around the rock-strewn ridge, he found the lack of evidence telling. A professional had been watching Stephanie.
Was it Rory or was it one of Diego’s men?
In a patch of sand Johnny at last found something. The partial bootprint was a perfect match for the tread of the print Familiar had found at the barn fire. Big print. Big man. It was likely Plenty, a monster of a man with a fondness for giving pain to others.
Johnny thought of Plenty Gonzalez. The stories circulating about the man’s brutality made strong people cringe. It was possible the tales had been manufactured to create an aura of dread around the mercenary. It was also possible that every word was true.
One such tale involved a rich South American businessman who’d cheated Diego. The businessman had gone to his elaborate and well-guarded beach home to find pieces of his wife in every room in the house.
Men like Diego and Plenty were capable of anything.
Johnny continued his search of the area, but found nothing else. Diego’s men were watching Running Horse Ranch. His sources were almost as good as the CIA’s. Money could, indeed, buy anything.
When Johnny got back to the ranch, he’d find an excuse to drive into town. It was time to place a call to his supervisor. Hance Bevins needed to know about the barn fire. Additional agents had to be dispatched to the area. Things could turn ugly in a flash, and Johnny wanted backup at the ready.
BLACK JACK TROTTED to the paddock fence when Stephanie approached. Her heart lifted at the change in his attitude. Maybe, just maybe, he was really coming around.
She snapped on a lead rope and took him to the barn where she cross-tied him and groomed him again. Horses enjoyed the stroke of a good brush through their hide, and Black Jack was no exception. He preened as she groomed him with the stiff brush.
She put a lightweight saddle on him and let it rest. He’d been ridden before. It wasn’t like taking a green horse and teaching him to accept the saddle and bridle. This was, in fact, harder, because Black Jack had been hurt, and she had no clue what he might identify as a source of pain. Some horses locked in on the saddle or bridle as the instrument of pain. Others zeroed in on the human.
But Black Jack gave no objection as she carefully cinched the saddle. Just tight enough that it wouldn’t slip if he did something unfortunate. A loose saddle was dangerous—it could slide under the horse or tangle around his back feet and cause serious injury.
Once the saddle was tight, she hesitated. Saddle first. Bridle later. She’d work him and see if the jouncing of the saddle upset him.
They went to the round pen and Black Jack walked out like a perfect gentleman. He took his position by the rail and went to work, walking, trotting, catering and whoaing on command. He worked as if he were the best-behaved horse in the universe, and Stephanie’s heart soared at his potential and beauty.
Familiar came out of the bunkhouse and sat beside the round pen watching. For a moment, Stephanie even forgot the barn fire and the nightmare of what could have been lost. She was totally in the moment with Black Jack, her attention absorbed by the work at hand.
She finished the session, stopped him and then asked him to walk toward her. This was a matter of trust. Before, he’d tried to kill her. Now she was putting herself in harm’s way, if the stallion chose to attack.
He stopped a foot from her and put his head down for a rub. “You are the best,” she whispered as she rubbed his star and scratched behind his ears.
In a split second, his head came up and his nostrils flared. The change was so sudden, so unexpected, that Stephanie didn’t react quickly enough. Before she could get out of his way, Black Jack shouldered her to the ground.
He gathered himself and in one mighty leap, cleared the railing of the round pen. Stephanie scrambled to her feet and made a grab for the trailing lunge line, but she missed it by inches.
Black Jack was free and running as hard as he could toward the road.
“Oh, no!” Stephanie ran out of the round pen toward her vehicle. Black Jack was headed straight to danger. She had to stop him.
She was almost at the truck when the first shot sounded. A bullet hole appeared in the front fender of her truck only inches from where she stood.
She dove to the ground with Familiar beside her.
Peeking around the corner, she tried to find the shooter, but all she could see was Black Jack running like the hounds of hell were after him.
“Meow!” Familiar cried, nudging her toward Johnny’s truck and trailer. It was a good plan. If she could get there, she could make it to the house where Rory had stashed some rifles.
She didn’t much care for guns, but they were a necessity on a ranch.
As she ran between the trucks, another shot
rang out. Familiar stood on both back legs and tried to open the door of Johnny’s truck.
“Come on,” she said to the cat. “There’s no time—”
“Meow!”
The cat was so insistent that she opened the door. Familiar leaped in and rooted Johnny’s jacket away from what looked like a high-powered rifle. Beside it was a deadly pistol.
“Holy crap,” Stephanie said. “This is an arsenal.”
And exactly what she needed.
She grabbed the rifle and took her position behind the vehicle for protection. With the major scope attached, she scanned the horizon. To her utter amazement, she saw a man running. Running hard. And hard on his trail was a furious black stallion.
Black Jack wasn’t running away from her. He was chasing the man who’d tried to shoot her.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she said, following the action through the scope.
The man leaped into the bed of a dark pickup and the truck churned dirt as it spun away. Black Jack followed for a moment, then circled and headed back to the ranch.
Stephanie saw with some relief that the lunge line had broken and was no longer trailing behind the stallion. She lowered the rifle and waited for the horse to come back in the barnyard. He trotted to the gate of the round pen and stopped, as if waiting for her to resume his work.
“We’re done for the day,” Stephanie said as she caught hold of his halter and patted his neck. “You are some kind of guy, you know that?” She put her cheek against him, feeling the heat of his exertion.
She knew how remarkable every living creature could be, but this horse had still astounded her. In a matter of days, he’d gone from fearful attacker to bold protector.
“And I promise. Whatever it takes, I’ll keep you safe from Rupert Casper.”
Black Jack turned and uttered a soft whinny. He swung his head back and gave Stephanie a nudge. She was caught off balance and nearly fell. When she righted herself, she saw Familiar standing at the door of the bunkhouse, watching her.
The cat was acting strange, but then so was the horse. And so was Rupert Casper. Why would he send men to shoot at her?
“Meow.” Familiar now stood at the door of Johnny’s truck. She’d left it open when she’d gotten out the rifle. The rifle, and the handgun…Johnny was certainly well armed for a rodeo rider.
And maybe that was what her problems were about, she thought as she walked to the truck. Black Jack might not be at the root of the attacks. Rupert Casper might not be the source of her troubles.
The terrible thing was that Rupert Casper was a known quantity. She could almost predict what he might do. But Johnny—he was a total wild card. If some thugs were after him—thugs willing to burn down a barn with horses in it, much less take a potshot at her—they’d take it as far as necessary to get what they wanted.
But what did they want?
She slammed the truck door and walked into the barn. Johnny had ridden out to the north. She’d track him and get the answers she needed to defend the place and the creatures she loved.
JUDGING FROM THE expression on Miss Cowgirl’s face, she’s had an epiphany. After the barn fire and nearly being shot—all within twenty-four hours—she’s put it together that Johnny Kreel isn’t who he says he is. And it looks like she’s going to ride the range to find him and attempt to get the truth.
I so hate riding horses. There’s this whole fight-or-flight thing that goes on whenever a horse senses a cat on its back. Even a domestic cat. I mean, even though I was raised in an alley, my mother and I never ate horse. While we were often hungry, we had standards. Equine was not on the menu, though more than a few times I’ve sampled the delicacies of rat. Properly prepared…No, not even the glaze of memory and the efforts of my beloved mother can put a happy patina on those days of desperation. Rat is not tasty, no matter how well prepared. And living in an alley, we had no way to prepare anything.
My life with Eleanor and Peter, my adopted humanoid parents, is paradise. I only wish my mother had lived to share it with me.
My, my. My mood is certainly melancholy. Must be the thought of climbing up on that horse. But there’s no getting around that. I’m not about to let Miss Cowgirl take off across the flatlands on her own. She needs my noble protection, though I must admit that Black Jack performed ably. Who would have thought that devil would care about Stephanie? Just goes to show that his heart isn’t totally hardened.
Here she comes, leading Flicker. At least this is one of the shorter horses. Not so far to the ground, should something go wrong. And she seems to be a tractable little horse, ready to jog along at a steady pace without any of the galloping and bucking stuff.
I have to convince Stephanie to take me. She’s going to resist. That’s the biped way—to say no. It’s a defense mechanism, I think. Humanoids have never been able to decide if they’re fight-or-flight creatures. They take one course of action, then the other, then double back. They’re bipolar when it comes to matters of survival. Which is why they meet each new situation with one attitude—no.
But I’ll wear her down. And I’ll be on the back of that saddle when she rides after Johnny. It’s in my job description.
Chapter Eight
Johnny was almost back to the ranch when he heard gunshots. His legs tightened on Cimarron, and she leaped forward at a dead gallop. As they rode hard for home, his fingers found the small handgun he kept strapped to his ankle. He’d left his more powerful weapons in his truck, but he always carried some form of protection.
He tore into the barnyard just as Stephanie, with Familiar riding shotgun, came trotting past the corral on Flicker. Her first expression at seeing him was relief, but it quickly turned to suspicion and anger.
The cat, so to speak, was out of the bag. Somehow, Stephanie had gotten wind that he wasn’t who he’d said he was.
Watching her expression, he tried to determine how betrayed she felt.
His first impulse was to explain, but he didn’t. He dismounted, walked Cimarron beside his truck and began to untack her. Stephanie’s saddles had burned in the barn fire, but Johnny always carried two or three with him. He stowed the gear in the tack compartment of the trailer, working silently, waiting for her to start the conversation.
“Who the hell are you?” she finally asked.
Even Familiar glared at him. The cat had jumped from the back of the saddle onto the hood of his truck.
“What happened here?” He ignored her question and pointed at the bullet hole in his truck.
“Someone shot at me when I was working Black Jack.” Stephanie hurled the words at him. “The horse could have been killed.”
“Or you could have.” Johnny removed Cimarron’s bridle and slipped a halter on her.
“Either or both of us. And I don’t think it’s Rupert Casper doing the shooting.”
He didn’t acknowledge or deny her statement. He had to find out what she knew before he admitted to anything.
“Now I’m going to ask you one more time, and if I don’t get a straight answer, you’re going to pack up and get off my property.” She paused only a second, and when she spoke, her voice was harsh. “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m a federal agent.” He watched the impact of his words. They were like slaps. Her face reddened and he could see her temper rising.
“A federal agent posing as a horse trainer?” She shook her head. “That’s rich. You must really take me for a fool.”
He reached into his back pocket, brought out his badge holder and tossed it to her.
She flipped it open, her expression going slack. “This says you’re a federal law officer, but it doesn’t say with which agency.”
He nodded. “I don’t work for an agency. I work for a project. And that’s all I can tell you.”
“What are you doing here at my ranch?”
That was the tricky part. He wanted to come clean and just tell her about Rory. But too much, too fast would alienate her.
“Rory Suss
ex was my partner.”
He stepped forward and caught her elbow when she looked as if she might fall to the ground. “Come on off the horse.” He eased her down, and she made no protest. As he waited for her to ask questions, he removed Flicker’s saddle and turned the little mare loose in a pasture.
When he finished, Stephanie had regained her equilibrium. “You knew Rory? You’ve been here for two days, and you never mentioned that you knew my dead fiancé.”
He sighed. “I couldn’t. I shouldn’t have now. But there are some things you need to know if you’re going to survive this. The people who burned the barn and shot at you—they think Rory stole something from them. They’re here to reclaim it.”
“And why are you here?”
He hesitated. “The U.S. government wants it, too. But I’m also here to look out for you.”
“Right. You promised Rory, didn’t you?” Her tone was rife with sarcasm.
“No, I didn’t promise Rory. We were partners, but in the last year, we’d grown apart. Before he…I’d begun to suspect that Rory was playing both sides against each other. Then he disappeared and now you’re in a bad situation. I’m afraid there are people who believe Rory hid something here at the ranch. Something valuable. Someone needs to help you.”
“Well, you can take your magnanimous butt, put it in the seat of your truck and drive yourself right off this property. Now. I wasn’t in any danger until you showed up. All of this has to do with you, not me. Rory didn’t give me anything that anyone would want. Just some memories and a few dreams, obviously all of which were lies.” Her voice thickened and she wiped at her eyes. “Get off my ranch.” She wheeled and stalked off toward the house.
The black cat cast a green glare at him before he, too, left, hurrying after Stephanie.
That certainly went well, Johnny silently berated himself. He’d bungled the job. Instead of leaving, though, he examined the bullet hole in his truck. High-powered rifle shot. If it had hit Stephanie, it would have killed her.
Familiar Showdown Page 7
