PhD Protector

by Cindi Myers

  He sighted in on the driver, the man’s head clearly visible in the open window of the Hummer. Mark took another deep breath, held it, then depressed the trigger.

  He had heard men say that in moments like this everything happened in slow motion, but for Mark, time seemed to speed up. The driver’s body jolted from the impact of the shot, while the man on the other side of the car swung the barrel of his rifle in their direction. The man managed to get off one shot before Mark fired on him, too. Splinters of rock flew up, momentarily blinding him, but when his vision cleared, the man on the other side of the car was no longer visible and the vehicle was still.

  “You’ve been hit!” Erin spoke softly, but her words conveyed her horror.

  She reached for him, but he shrugged her off. “Don’t move,” he ordered. “There might be a third man in the car.” The motion sent pain shooting down his arm, and he felt the hot stickiness of blood trickling from his shoulder. But he blocked out the pain, focused on the Hummer. Nothing moved, though the rough grumbling of the idling engine drowned out any sounds that might have come from inside the vehicle.

  “Are they dead?” Erin asked.

  “I don’t know.”

  “How are we going to find out?”

  He didn’t know that, either. Now that the first rush of adrenaline was fading, his arm throbbed and he was having trouble thinking clearly. “One of us will have to go out there, I guess.”

  “I’m not letting you go.” Before he could stop her, she inched forward, but she didn’t, as he had feared, move toward the vehicle. Instead, she took the rifle from him and fired on the Hummer. The shots were wild, pinging into the back fenders and flattening one of the tires.

  Mark’s ears still rang from the blasts as he let out his breath in a rush. Nothing moved in or around the vehicle. He shoved to his feet, swaying a little as he did so. Erin moved beside him, supporting him. “You need to see to that wound,” she said.

  “When we’re safe.” He took a step forward, jaw clenched, determined not to falter or pass out. “We have to get out of here.”

  “How?” She looked toward the still-idling Hummer, which listed to one side on the flat tire.

  “We’ll have to walk.”

  When Mark stepped out onto the road, he braced himself for the onslaught of bullets. When no shots were fired, the second step was easier. “Wait here while I check the car,” he said.

  She opened her mouth to argue, but he cut her off. “Do you really want to see what’s inside there?”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. He took the rifle back from her and approached the car obliquely, gaze riveted to the interior, alert for any sign of movement. He saw the man outside the car first, and recognized the one Tank had addressed as Trey, sprawled in the road beside it, eyes staring vacantly at the sky.

  The driver, another familiar face Mark hadn’t bothered to name, slumped inside the car, his blood-streaked face resting on the seat, the gun lying across his chest. Mark reached inside the vehicle and switched off the ignition. In the silence that followed, he was aware of his own jagged breathing.

  He moved away from the vehicle and signaled for Erin to join him. “They’re dead,” he said. “But we need to get out of here. There are at least three guards left who are probably still looking for us.” And Duane had many more men at his disposal—foot soldiers he could send into the fray until Mark and Erin were either captured or destroyed.

  “Let me take care of your wound or we won’t get very far,” she said.

  He glanced down at his throbbing left arm, where a dark stain marked the sleeve. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he swayed.

  Erin helped him to a rock beside the road, where he sat while she helped him out of his coat, then tore off the sleeve of his shirt. The wound was a perfectly round hole in his upper arm, the edges swollen and dark blood welling. Erin winced, but said nothing as she walked around to his other side and began pulling at his unbloodied shirtsleeve.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “I need something to make a bandage to help slow the bleeding,” she said. “That’s all we can do until you see a doctor.”

  She managed to rip off the sleeve, then tore it into strips. She made a pad from some of the strips and wound another around the pad to hold it in place. With the final two strips she fashioned a makeshift sling, then helped him back into the coat, draping the left side over his shoulder. “How does that feel?” she asked.

  “Better,” he lied, and stood, fighting a wave of dizziness and nausea. “Let’s get out of here.”

  * * *

  ERIN RESISTED THE urge to reach out to support Mark, sensing he would push her away. He was in full-on tough guy mode right now, and maybe that was what was keeping him going. She tried to focus on safety ahead. Later, when she had put some distance between the events of the afternoon, she might be willing to contemplate how close they had come to death.

  A green highway sign announced they had reached the Windrow town limits, but all Erin could see was more rock and trees—not the bustling community she had hoped for. “Do you think it’s a ghost town or something?” she asked.

  “I see a building up ahead.” Mark put a hand to his eyes and squinted. “It looks like some kind of store.” He started walking again. “They ought to at least have a phone, and right now, that’s all I care about.”

  The store in question had a faded sign that read McCarty’s over the green wooden door. The rest of the building hadn’t seen a coat of paint in this century. A rusting newspaper box and a soft drink machine with “Out of Order” scrawled across the front with black marker took up most of the small front porch. The only attempt to spruce the place up was a dented milk can by the door into which someone had stuck a trio of fake sunflowers. The flowers drooped with a dusting of snow.

  Mark paused in front of the door. “Just a minute,” he said. He ducked around the side of the building. When he reappeared seconds later, he no longer had the rifle.

  “What did you do with the gun?” she asked.

  “I hid it in the bushes. I didn’t want the store clerk to think we were robbers.”

  “Good idea.”

  He started for the door again, then froze, reaching for the doorknob.

  “What’s wrong?” Erin asked.

  He nodded toward the newspaper box. “What’s the date on that paper?”

  She stared at it, the headline visible through the mesh door momentarily stopping her breath: Domestic Terrorist Group Claims Nuclear Bomb.

  Mark bent to study the paper more closely. “It’s today’s date.”

  Erin crouched beside him and read aloud the story beneath the bold headline: “‘A group calling themselves the Patriots, believed to be based in the US, has threatened to detonate a nuclear bomb within twenty-four hours if their demands are not met.’” She looked up at Mark. “I can’t read any more.”

  Mark jerked the handle of the machine, but it refused to budge. “Maybe we can find out more inside.”

  Erin stood, nausea rising in her throat. “You told me the bomb wasn’t real,” she said.

  “It’s not.” His face was pale, but his eyes blazed. “There’s no way he could have armed what I gave him. Not this soon.” He took her elbow. “Come on. We’ve got to call my brother and find out what’s going on.”

  The interior of the store smelled of pipe tobacco and old dust, but the heat blasting from a wall furnace made Erin feel better as soon as she stepped inside. A man with a frizz of iron gray curls and a bushy mustache looked up from behind the front counter as Mark closed the door behind them. “I didn’t hear a car pull up,” the clerk said.

  “It’s down the road a ways,” Mark said. “We had a little trouble and we need to use your phone.”

  Erin had thought they would
tell whoever they encountered the truth—that they had been kidnapped by a madman, held prisoner in a remote cabin and escaped, after enduring a shootout with armed thugs. But she could see how deranged that might sound to a stranger, so she followed Mark’s lead. “We just need to call my friend’s brother to come pick us up,” she said.

  The old man stared at Mark’s bandaged arm beneath the coat. “You in some kind of accident?”

  “Yes, and I need to call for help.”

  The old man’s expression didn’t soften. “I haven’t seen you two around before. Where are you from?”

  “We’re visiting the area,” Mark said.

  “Don’t you have cell phones you can use?”

  Erin bit back a groan of frustration. Why was this guy being such a pain about a simple request to use the phone? “We lost our cell phones,” she said.

  “What did you say your names were?”

  “We didn’t.” Mark’s expression was tight. Erin couldn’t tell if he was in pain or merely annoyed.

  “Please.” She leaned across the counter toward the old man and gave him her most pleading look. “My friend is hurt and we really need help. We just need to use your phone for a few minutes.”

  He studied them a long moment, his expression unsympathetic. “All right,” he finally said. “Come with me.”

  He led the way to a back room that was evidently used for storage. “The phone’s back there,” he said, pointing into the shadows.

  “Back where?” Erin leaned forward, trying to see.

  “It’s on the rear wall.”

  Mark started into the room and Erin followed.

  The door slammed, plunging them into darkness. “Hey!” she yelped.

  Mark pounded on the door. “What do you think you’re doing?” he shouted. “Let us out of here.”

  “Do you really think I’m that dumb?” Was the old man really chuckling? “A couple of guys stopped by this morning, said they were with the FBI and they were looking for a pair of fugitives. You two fit the description they gave me to a T. They said there was a big reward for your capture. So no, I’m not going to let you go.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Mark squeezed Erin’s arm, as much to reassure himself as to comfort her. Of all the places they might have ended up needing help, they had to wind up with a crazy man. “What did the two men you spoke with look like?” he called through the door. “Did they show you credentials?”

  “They didn’t need credentials. Who would make up a story like that? They were dressed in black and had big guns. They said you two were dangerous subversives who were part of this group that wants to blow up the country.”

  “We’re not!” Erin protested. “They were lying.”

  “A guilty person would say that, wouldn’t they?” The clerk’s voice rose with indignation. “I’d rather take the word of the law than you. They left their card. It says Federal Bureau of Investigation, right there in black-and-white.”

  “They weren’t real agents if they didn’t show you their badges and identification,” Mark said. “I know because my brother is with the FBI.”

  “Sure he is. And I’m a monkey’s uncle. I’m not as dumb as I look, mister. They said there’s a big reward for the person who turns you in. I’m going to call them right now, and then I’m going to start planning my vacation.” His footsteps retreated.

  Mark pounded a fist against the door in frustration, but all this did was send a shock wave of pain through him. “You’re making a mistake!” he shouted. “Let us out!”

  “We’re the good guys!” Erin said. “Please, let us out!”

  In answer, rock music blared, the pounding of drums and screech of guitars drowning out their calls for help.

  Light suddenly flooded the space. Surprised, Mark turned to Erin.

  “There’s a switch here by the door.” She raised her voice to be heard over the blare of music and gestured to the light switch. “No reason we have to fumble around in the dark.” She leaned toward him, frowning. “You’re white as a sheet. Please sit down before you fall down.” She took his good arm and led him to a stack of cases of soft drinks and pushed him down. She settled beside him. “How are you feeling?”

  He felt like leftovers that had sat in the sun for too long, but saying so would only worry her. He gestured for her to lean close enough that he didn’t have to shout over the blare of AC/DC. “The phony agents the old man talked to must have been Duane’s men,” he said. “He probably sent them to talk to everyone around here as soon as he learned we had escaped.”

  “Why is he trying to pass that bomb off as real if it isn’t?” she asked. “And why now?”

  “I don’t know,” Mark said. “Unless he feels like federal agents are getting too close to discovering him and this is a last mad dash for power.”

  “What are we going to do?” Erin asked. “If Duane’s men show up here there’s no telling what they’ll do to us.”

  Mark had a good idea what Duane would do to them, and it wasn’t pretty. By now the leader of the Patriots had to have figured out the bomb Mark had made was a dud, even if he was trying to persuade others that it was real. He would want revenge on Mark for trying to trick him, and Mark knew he wasn’t a good enough actor to convince Duane that he was still on his side, so the madman would eliminate him. And the fact that Erin was his stepdaughter apparently meant nothing, so Duane would likely kill her, too.

  “We have to get out of here before Duane’s men show up,” he said.

  “How do we do that?”

  He stood and began walking around the room. Cartons of toilet paper and cases of soda sat side by side with an old tobacco display, a kid’s toboggan, a broken barbecue grill and even a set of balding tires. The room was windowless, though two of the walls were fashioned of painted cinder block, which indicated to Mark that they were probably outside walls. He looked up at the ceiling and his heart jumped as he recognized the outline of what might be a hatch leading to the attic. “Help me drag these tires over here,” he said, tugging at the stack.

  Erin rushed to help him. She followed his gaze to the ceiling hatch. “Do you think that leads outside?” she asked.

  “It probably leads to the attic,” he said. “But from there we might be able to access the roof, or another part of the store. It’s the only exit besides the door, so it’s worth a try.” He scrambled onto the stack of tires, which put him within arm’s reach of the hatch. But lifting both arms over his head was impossible. His shoulder muscles cramped in agony when he tried to raise his injured limb. He settled for shoving at the hatch with one hand. At least he didn’t have to worry about anyone hearing them, with that music turned up to full volume. The hatch moved easily, and he shoved it aside far enough to allow a person to climb up into the space.

  But that person wouldn’t be him. With only one good arm, he wasn’t going to be able to lift himself up there. He looked down at Erin, her anxious face upturned to him. “You’ll have to climb up there and go for help,” he said.

  “I can’t leave you!”

  “You have to!” He squatted and took her arm. “And you need to move fast, before Duane’s men get here.”

  “Where am I supposed to go?” she asked.

  “Follow the road to the next town. There’s bound to be one. Stay out of sight of traffic. You don’t want to run into Duane’s men headed here. Find a police station or a fire station or somewhere official, and call the number I’m going to give you.” He glanced around them. “Find something to write with and I’ll give you my brother’s number. Once you tell him what’s going on, he’ll take over and send help for me.”

  “What if Duane gets to you before I can reach your brother?” she asked.

  “I’ll fight him. I’m not going to give up after coming this far. Now hurry.”

>   She found a Sharpie and tore a piece of cardboard from one of the cartons. Mark wrote “Luke Renfro” and Luke’s private number on the cardboard and handed it back to her. “Put that somewhere safe and climb up here. I’ll boost you into the attic. Take whatever exit you can find, and once you get outside, start moving away from here as fast as you can. When Duane’s men arrive, I’ll stall them as long as I can.”

  She climbed onto the tires with him, the uneven platform forcing her to stand with her body pressed to his. “I don’t want to leave you,” she said, her hands braced against his chest.

  “Right now, you’re the only one who can save us.” He clasped her close and kissed her, a fierce embrace that he hoped told her all he didn’t have words to explain—how much she had come to mean to him in their short time together and how much he hated for them to part. He had his doubts about her being able to summon help before Duane did away with him, but at least Mark would die knowing she was safe.

  He tasted the salt of her tears and broke the kiss. “Don’t cry,” he whispered, and wiped her cheek with his thumb.

  She ducked her head. “I’d better go. Give me a boost.”

  Awkwardly, relying on his good arm, he helped her scramble onto his back and from there into the attic. Once she was safely away, he slid the hatch back in place, then shoved the tires into the corner. When the clerk and Duane’s men did arrive, Mark wanted to give Erin as much time as possible before their pursuers figured out she had escaped.

  With a groan, he sank to the floor, legs stretched out in front of him and back against a stack of boxes. All he could do now was wait, and pray that Erin, at least, reached safety.

  * * *

  ERIN CROUCHED IN the dark attic, the loud rock music from the front of the store vibrating the floorboards beneath her. The attic smelled of dust and mice. She suppressed a shudder, hoping no rodents were in residence at the moment. As her eyes adjusted to the dimness she could make out cardboard boxes shoved against the wall and a stack of old suitcases next to a metal floor lamp. The light seemed brighter to her right, so she moved in that direction, crouched over to keep from hitting her head on the rafters, and stepped carefully on the joists. The last thing she wanted was to crash through the ceiling onto the clerk’s head.