Taylor

by Irish Winters

  “You’re serious?” Mark’s voice rose. “You’re going to protect him? After what he did?”

  “I signed it, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah, but Boss. Crosland Webster,” Harley murmured, his fingers tapping the edge of the desk. “The man’s a walking waste of skin.”

  “Hell, I’m not hiring the prick. We keep his sorry ass safe, that’s all.”

  “So what’s up with Taylor?” Harley changed the subject.

  “Don’t know. Hasn’t come in yet. How’d he seem at the range?”

  “Good, I guess. He and Gabe squared off like always. You know those two, both sure they’re better than the other.”

  “And then what? Everyone drove their own vehicles?”

  “Sure. Like we always do. You don’t think his disappearance has anything to do with the nut job killing those two reporters, do you?” Harley asked. “The Chronicle Killer?”

  “I can’t see how. Right now it’s just an odd coincidence.” As soon as he said the word, dread slithered over his neck. Alex didn’t believe in coincidence any more than luck. “In the meantime, we’ve got a reporter to protect. Harley, take Gabe and see if you can locate Taylor. Maybe he’s broken down somewhere in that godawful truck of his. Mark, assign Izza and Steven to transport Webster to Quantico. Today if possible I’ve talked with Commander Ryan. He’s glad to provide room and board for our client as long as we need it.”

  Harley grinned. “Ryan’s got room in his brig?”

  “I’m obligated to protect Webster, not kiss his ass.”

  “Izza and Steven, huh?” Mark rubbed his chin and chuckled. “Yeah. That oughta work. Izza won’t take any crap, and Steven would as soon shoot him as look at him.”

  Alex allowed the first hint of satisfaction at signing the contract. “Exactly.”

  “What now?” Gabe asked.

  Harley sat on the curb with a panting dog on each side. Whisper, the huge black German Shepherd, sat at his right, leaned up against him like Harley was as good a resting place as any.

  Smoke, the Belgian Malinois, circled down to the gutter and back again, his tail wagging. They were two of the best trackers around. That they couldn’t detect Taylor except for this single location on the curb meant two things. Taylor had been here, and Taylor was gone.

  “Why do you think he would’ve pulled over in the first place?” Harley asked, scanning the businesses across the street. A quilt shop. Photography studio. Gas station. No one remembered seeing Taylor or his blue ʼ79 Dodge pick-up.

  Gabe shrugged. “There could be a lot of reasons. Maybe a dog ran out in front of him. Maybe he ran out of gas. Heck, maybe he spotted some chick and jumped out to get her number.”

  “I can see Taylor stopping for a dog all right. Not a girl. That sounds more like you. Taylor’s a loner.” Harley stared down the road, wishing for any clue. “The dogs tracked him to this exact spot. So he parked here, got out of his truck, and—”

  “Damn. Check this out.” Gabe kicked the leaves out of the gutter where Smoke stood. There lay a shiny new tire iron and jack.

  “And he had a flat tire. Okay. That makes sense. Or he stopped to help someone with a flat tire. So where’s his truck?” Harley turned a full circle looking. “I can’t see him leaving new tools behind. Something doesn’t add up.”

  “There’s more. Look here.” Gabe knelt, pushing more leaves out of the gutter. He raised bloody fingers to Harley’s view. “He’s hurt man. Taylor’s bleeding. Bad.”

  “What the hell?” Harley raked a hand through his hair, scanning the neighborhood again. No one had seen Taylor? Bullshit. A man doesn’t leave a puddle of blood behind and just drive away.

  “I’m taking a swab for DNA.” Gabe ran back to the Jeep for the crime scene kit.

  Harley wrapped the tire iron in a plastic evidence bag. Despite the fact they weren’t law enforcement officers, The TEAM’s investigations often covered the same scenarios. They needed to make sure.

  He called Alex. “Listen, Boss. Taylor’s in trouble.”

  Chapter Three

  Where am I?

  Taylor peered through the dark. With his cheek flat to the ground, the place smelled of concrete, dirt, and blood.

  Oh, yeah. Damn. Still in Hell.

  He pushed away from the ground and leaned against the wall. Dizzy and disoriented, he let his mind clear before he made another move. Sitting upright required work. It took balance he didn’t have. Coordination. Being pain free wouldn’t hurt either.

  Television made getting shot look easy, even glamorous. The hero took a couple rounds and bounced back for more, all while saving a hot babe in distress. Maybe two. They’d kiss. They’d fool around. They’d ride off together in a sporty car or on some white stallion, maybe into the mists of time or the sunset.

  What a crock. A hole in a man’s body leaves him weak beyond belief, too weak to think of kissing a woman much less of doing anything else with her.

  And why am I thinking about a hot babe?

  At least the wall didn’t move, because everything else sure did. With trembling fingers, he took quick inventory of himself. His cell phone was gone from his pants pocket. So were his wallet, keys, pocket knife—and, of course, the shoulder holster with his semi-auto Ruger. He’d been dimly aware they were missing before, but the need to survive made them unimportant then. Not now.

  Whoever’d shot him left the clothes on his back and boots on his feet. Good enough. A man didn’t need much more than that to get going. Any minute now...

  He stilled, his tender back against the wall behind him. The cold concrete soothed. He didn’t hear air bubbles coming from the hole in his chest, so the shooter hadn’t hit his lung. Neither did he feel a broken rib in the area where the arrow had been, another plus. Amazing. Maybe that jerk wasn’t such a good shot after all.

  “Whoever you are, you bastard, I’ll show you. I’ll live. I’ll survive. I’ll hunt your sorry ass down. Won’t that be a surprise? I won’t be using no arrow when I do. Hell, no. I’m thinking fifty-cal. Let’s see you dig that out of your chest like I just did the arrow.”

  He ran his tongue over the sharp edge of a broken bottom tooth, not sure when that happened, but again a small price to pay in the scheme of things. It was a fight to stay upright and alert, but he was alive, and his plan had worked. The arrow was out. He was ready to move. Any minute now. Maybe.

  He dragged his torn shirt onto his lap. Between his teeth and the last of his sheer determination, he ripped it apart, leaving the sleeves, collar, and yoke in one long piece while he tore the rest into as many smaller pieces as he could. He had to stop the bleeding.

  With shaking fingers, he wadded the cotton fabric into firm packets the size of cotton balls. Between swearing and growling, he plugged the hole in his chest, pushing wad after wad of the cloth in as deep as it could go.

  God Almighty. Everything about this damned day hurt like hell.

  Finally done torturing himself, he swallowed hard and rested, as much for the cold relief of the concrete wall as its support. His teeth chattered. Sticky blood from his nose coated his chin and neck. Damn. He didn’t remember when that happened. Maybe when he’d been shot? When he fell? Didn’t matter. A bloody nose wasn’t the problem. Losing consciousness was. That’s when a wounded guy could bleed to death.

  Wadding more squares of the fabric into another tight plug, he stretched over his shoulder to the wound in his back. It took more energy, more growling, and sheer willpower, but at last he jammed enough cloth into the arrow’s exit hole. That’s what Marines did. They treated themselves on the battlefield because nothing got in the way of their mission, not getting shot. With an arrow. Or locked in a hellhole of a cell. Whatever.

  After another trembling break for air and strength, he tied the remnants of his shirt, the long piece of sleeves, yoke and collar, into a loop. It was a pitiful excuse for a sling, but once he angled his right arm into it, the simple ragged support went a long way toward providing pain relief.
Right then he was thankful for small things. Like sitting still and breathing without a stick of wood impaled in his chest interfering with every breath in, every breath out. He still hurt, but so be it. What’d the General used to say? Pain makes you a man? Hell it does. It makes you mad—after it kicks your ass.

  The barbaric attempt on his life still shocked Taylor. Who the hell used a bow and arrow to murder people these days?

  Brushing his left hand over the ground around him, Taylor located the pieces of that damned arrow. The shaft felt smooth and sleek, but the arrowhead itself was a different torture device altogether. He fingered the three barbs along each side of the wicked tip. This was no practice head. Whoever’d shot him meant him to die.

  Summoning his strength, he rolled to his side and pushed off the ground. He needed to understand the lay of the land. With halting steps, he circled the inside of the small building, feeling the concrete walls for reconnaissance as much as for physical support. Shuffling along, he came to a corner, then another.

  The place was small, maybe ten by twelve, the size of a shed, but a shed made of concrete blocks? The only concrete sheds he’d seen before stored ammo, but this was no ammo dump. The smell was all wrong.

  With a wave of his hand, he stepped away from the wall. Something solid and furry brushed against his free hand. It bumped his shoulder. What the hell? Another body? Feels like it. Another victim?

  Apprehension tap danced up the back of his neck, daring him to reach out and find out once and for all. Tentatively, he did. His fingers met fur, not human skin. Animal carcass. Maybe a deer or a steer hanging from the ceiling to cure. Not a man. Damned good to know.

  He swallowed some of his panic away. He’d never hunted four-legged animals before, but okay. A game shed explained the concrete blocks and the cooler than normal temperature, as well as the cloying sweet scent of blood and meat. A fresh kill if his clogged nose served him right. Again, perfectly understandable. Shooting animals for food was one thing. People, something else.

  “Sorry,” he muttered to the beast at his fingertips.

  At last he came to the wooden door. It didn’t fit the door jamb snug like it should have. The hinges were loose. He jiggled the knob, but it was locked. Figured.

  With a deep breath, he leaned his left shoulder into the door. It creaked, so he pressed his full weight into it, and sure enough, the thing popped open. He fell. The momentum landed him on his face with little time to protect his right side. A jolt of pain swarmed over him, but—he was out. Lying on his back, he cradled his arm and caught his breath. It was maybe thirteen hundred hours.

  So this is where the Chronicle Killer lives.

  A country-style lawn sprawled around him, nothing mowed, mostly grass, weeds, a few flowers. The shed with the deer carcass sat between a small house and a medium-sized barn. No cars in the yard. No lights on inside the house, but the wooden chairs and flower boxes on the porch told him someone lived there. Had to be the killer. He’d be back to finish the job. Bastard still needed to slice his latest vic’s tongue.

  Me. Stuff a few rags down my throat. Not going to happen. Get up, Armstrong. Move it. Get undercover. Now.

  The one thing a good sniper instinctively knows is how to disappear, so that’s what Taylor did. Slowly. He might not get far, but he could get far enough. A drink of water could wait. Safety couldn’t.

  Every step jolted. His heart pounded like a beast, but—where the hell’s my truck?

  He lurched his way behind the barn before he stopped for a quick rest. He’d find his truck later. Lightheaded and parched, the scenery faded in and out of focus, but so what? He’d been thirsty before. He stumbled into the dense Virginia undergrowth. Might fall down. Oh, well.

  Taylor strived for logic. He needed to recall how the hell this went down. Today was weapons certification day. Ember Dennison was there. She kept the records for The TEAM. Harley Mortimer had just returned from an Afghanistan. He kept teasing her because, well, that’s what Harley did best.

  Who else was there? Everyone not on assignment. Gabe Cartwright. Mark Houston. Izza Maher. The two new recruits, Steven Cross and Charles Oakes. Connor and Rory were overseas. Singapore, again.

  Taylor’s mind drifted. Why was Zack not there? Questions would have to wait. He had more important things to take care of, like staying alive.

  But how’d I get here? Got in my truck. Left the range, and, oh, yeah. The drive-up window at the donut shop. His order. One tall coffee. Three dozen raised and glazed. A dozen chocolate cake donuts for the ladies. Then what?

  Damn, the grinding pain in his shoulder made it tough to focus. He staggered on, more intent on remaining upright than remembering. It didn’t matter. One foot in front of the other. Escape. Evasion. Survival.

  His tired brain supplied the missing details anyway. Flat tire. The searing vibration of an arrow suddenly sticking straight out of his chest. The shock. The damned thing had to have come through his open driver’s side window to hit him where it had. He’d dropped to the curb. Scuffed his knees. Hit his head on the running board. That must’ve been when he’d banged his nose.

  The event replayed. He remembered gasping for air, thinking his truck would run out of gas while he lay in the curb dying. Some guys appeared out of nowhere. They pulled him to his knees and dragged him into the bed of another truck. He’d actually been grateful for the help. Yeah, right. Help nothing. It was attempted murder. Carjacking. Kidnapping.

  The one guy looked vaguely familiar, the sonofabitch. Average weight and height. Dark hair. Brown eyes. He’d said something. Taylor couldn’t remember the words, but the distinct impression remained that the man—cried?

  Weird. The Chronicle Killer had a soft heart? Really weird.

  Walking proved smart. Before long, Taylor came to the edge of an asphalt parking lot bathed in the green neon light of Fred’s Bar and Grill. Three pick-ups and two sedans parked close to the building. A white propane tank sat behind it and an aluminum icebox stood beside the door. A red and yellow beer sign flashed on and off in the window.

  Taylor watched while he caught his breath, weighing the odds of running into the Chronicle Killer and his buddy in that bar. Anything was possible, but damn. He needed serious help. Walking had done him in. His wounded arm ached like a sonofabitch. Hell, his whole body ached, and he was bleeding. He’d had enough of the gnats and bugs in the undergrowth, too.

  A sheriff’s cruiser turned into the parking lot. Two officers exited their vehicle. One joked about the latest high school baseball games. The other lamented the meatloaf Fred served.

  Good enough. Now or never. Taylor clutched his right arm and ducked out of the trees. These guys were safe. He’d made it. He opened his mouth to call out when—

  “Oh, no, you don’t,” a voice muttered behind him.

  Taylor heard the thud echo in his skull. The ground came up to meet him. Again.

  Gracie caught Taylor as he fell, scared to death he’d gotten so far. Fred’s Bar and Grill was a good ten miles west of the gravel road that ended at her place. If he’d walked another ten, he would’ve hit the interstate and freedom. How could she have helped him then? How could she have kept him safe?

  It had taken her all afternoon to find him. Night was imminent. But what a beast she was to hit an already injured man. Guilt brought tears to her eyes. For his own good, or not, this was the worst thing she’d ever done.

  “Oh, my dear sweet Taylor,” she cried, cradling his poor banged head in her lap, the head she’d just hit with a sturdy branch. “I’m so sorry. As God is my witness, I’ve never meant to hurt you. I’m so, so sorry.”

  Damn it. I sound as bad as Luke. He wasn’t far behind, at least he’d better not be.

  Gathering Taylor’s limp body against her, she smoothed her fingers over his bare chest and diagnosed the damage Luke’s arrow had done. Tears flooded her vision. Poor Taylor, the boy and man she’d watched from a distance since forever, lay bloodied and grimy in her arms.

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nbsp; He huffed steady breaths into the front of her blouse like a racehorse that had run too fast and too far. The fall had knocked a clot of bloodied cloth from the exit wound in his back. How awful! It looked like pieces of a white cotton shirt. His shirt.

  She couldn’t believe it. He’d stuffed parts of his clothing into his wounds to keep from bleeding to death. It declared his awesome determination and fighting spirit, but—

  God, help me. What have I done?

  She lay in the dirt with his weight pinning her, applying pressure to his bleeding wound and crying for her part in this tragedy. The more her eyes swept over his battered body, the faster her tears fell. This was not how she wanted to hold him. In love and friendship, yes. Never as an assault victim at her hand.

  God, Luke! What were you thinking? What was I thinking? What kind of people are we?

  “I did this to you. I hit you. I’m no better than Luke. I’m so sorry.” Sobs choked her apology. Taylor needed emergency care, but for now she was all he had. She couldn’t even do right by him by taking him to a real doctor, not with Peter’s blood hunt unfinished. All Taylor would get was a trained and certified nursing assistant who could never repent enough for the harm she’d caused.

  The moment overwhelmed. Here she was, holding the man she’d watched from afar, but had never been able to touch. He was a good twice her weight and his own man. Bare-chested, sprinkled with angry red insect bites, a sturdy Marine with the strength of ten, at least in her estimation. All she could do was hang onto him and cry.

  At last Luke crouched at her side, one hand to her shoulder. “I’ll carry him.”

  “Look at what you’ve done,” she snapped, her anguish raw and ready. “How could you do this to Martha’s only child? This is not how he should’ve found his tribe. Is violence all you White Hawks understand?”

  Luke bowed his head. “You’re right. I panicked, but he’s a big man. What else could I have done?”