Manhunt in the Wild West

by Jessica Andersen

  “You really are a cold bastard, Fairfax,” he told himself, feeling like hell as he raided her wallet for her remaining cash, which she wouldn’t be needing where he planned to stash her. “Cold, but effective.”

  He wasn’t feeling cold or effective as he cleared their hotel room and carried her to the truck for transport, though.

  He was feeling pretty much like a bastard.

  CHELSEA AWOKE in the daylight, in a different hotel room, one that was seriously run-down compared to their digs at the airport. The walls were dingy, with lighter spaces where paintings had hung. There was no TV on the bureau, although there were wires where one had been, no clock on the nightstand, none of the conveniences that usually came standard.

  Panic slapped at her. Confusion.

  How had she ended up in what looked like an abandoned motel, wrapped in a comforter she recognized from the airport hotel?

  She remembered fighting with Fax and threatening to turn him in. After that…the panic spiraled higher as she tried to remember what’d happened next and came up blank.

  Bolting up in the bed, she looked around, afraid that Muhammad had found them somehow, that Fax had been captured, too, or injured…or worse.

  When she moved, there was a jangle of chain.

  Terror locked within her as she looked at her right wrist. What she saw confirmed her worst fears: one end of a set of handcuffs was latched around her arm, the other on to a generous length of chain that ran beneath the bed, where it was fastened to something that didn’t give in the slightest when she tugged.

  She was trapped.

  “Help,” she whispered, her heart pounding up into her throat and choking her with terror, with tears. “Fax? Are you there?” Her voice quavered, cracking on the words.

  There was no answer, no sign of him when she looked around. But there was a spare blanket folded on a chair beside the bed, and a picnic cooler on the floor beside a bucket and a roll of toilet paper. The cooler proved to contain several days’ worth of food and water. A small stack of paperbacks sat on the nightstand, holding down a piece of stationary bearing the airport hotel’s logo.

  Pulse pumping, she reached for the note as a disturbing suspicion took root in her brain. Muhammad wouldn’t have left her food, a chamber pot or a note.

  Fax, on the other hand, would have.

  The note read:

  Chelsea, I’d say I’m sorry, but we agreed not to apologize anymore. Besides, I highly doubt an apology would suffice under the circumstances. So I’ll say only that this is the best way I could think of to keep you safe while I do what I need to do.

  Meeting you has been the highlight of some very dark years, and I wish it could’ve ended differently, but I chose my path a long time ago. You, on the other hand, still have choices left, so I’ll say this: you are not a wimp, Chelsea Swan. I don’t know who told you that you are, or why you believed them. I only know that you’re one of the bravest women I’ve ever met.

  It wasn’t signed, but she knew it was from Fax, just as she knew that he’d somehow knocked her out and brought her to some deserted motel, probably far outside the city and off the beaten track, figuring she’d be safely out of the way until after the parade.

  Rage flared. Disbelief.

  The son of a bitch had kidnapped her. Again.

  Chapter Nine

  Fax knew he’d done the right thing—his head and his heart both said so, damn it. He’d simultaneously protected both Chelsea and the job, buying himself room to do what needed to be done. But he couldn’t help thinking that the right thing was feeling very wrong.

  He’d left her as safe and comfortable as he’d been able to manage on short notice. What was more, back at the airport hotel, he’d used the business center computer to send a time-delayed e-mail that would go out to the Bear Claw PD if he didn’t log on within six hours, bumping it back another six. The e-mail, addressed to her boss at the ME’s office, with copies to Tucker McDermott of homicide and Seth Varitek of the FBI, gave her exact location up in the hills west of Bear Claw.

  If anything happened to him, she’d be rescued within a few hours.

  He’d done his best, it was true. But although he could justify it all he wanted, the end result was that not a half hour after losing himself inside Chelsea’s body, he’d left her handcuffed to a cheap motel bed, with minimal provisions and a bucket.

  That ranked pretty high on the bastard scale no matter how he looked at it.

  “She’ll be safe there,” he told himself as he sent the stolen pickup hurtling back toward the city. “She’ll be safe and you can concentrate on the job.”

  Which was true. But it didn’t stop him from wishing there’d been another way. He’d spent too long in the hell of solitary confinement, and he was antisocial by nature. The next day or so was going to be torture for Chelsea, who needed to be surrounded with her friends and their chatter.

  Brooding, Fax drove straight to the ski lodge where the parade would wind up the following day. His eyes were immediately drawn to a raised stadium, where crews were working to hang banners and prep for the next day’s event.

  The schematics definitely didn’t match, but the sight of the raised seating—and the knowledge that all those seats would be filled the following day—kicked a shiver of unease through his gut, and a faint inner question of whether he might not be taking the idea of acceptable loss a little too far.

  Maybe Chelsea had a point. Maybe it was time to turn himself in and have faith that al-Jihad’s coconspirators were few and far between, that the good guys would be able to mount a workable op in the time remaining, or cancel the parade and concert, at the very least.

  Problem was, even if the local authorities believed him in the absence of any evidence that he was on their side, the moment al-Jihad got wind of an official response, he and the others would go deep underground, only to reappear someplace else, someplace where they weren’t expected, and where there was no possibility of preventing the attack and taking down the terrorist and his followers.

  Yes, Fax was making a decision he had no official sanction to make by not warning the Bear Claw PD about the threat to the city’s revelry, but he didn’t see any way around it. Not if he hoped to complete his mission, which was just as vital as it had been when Jane first put him undercover.

  He needed not only al-Jihad, Muhammad and the lemming in custody, he needed to ID their connections within the FBI and elsewhere.

  Anything less was failure.

  When he parked at the edge of the stadium lot, he saw that there were people everywhere, both workers and early-season skiers. The lot was jammed, and there were people standing around talking, or changing into and out of their gear rather than carrying it with them to the locker room up at the resort.

  Given the melee, Fax figured he was probably safe taking a look around.

  He donned the black cowboy hat he’d bought at a truck stop, keeping it low so it covered his ears and brow. He slouched in his heavy jacket as he exited the truck, and consciously altered his step as he headed for the stadium, on the off chance that either law enforcement or al-Jihad’s people had biometrics up and running.

  There was no question that the terrorists would have surveillance of some sort. It was just a question of what kind, and how long it would take them to figure out that Fax was poking around the stadium.

  He would be in and out before then. He hoped.

  Making a wide circuit of the stadium first, he counted the exits and tried to figure out which structural elements would matter most to the steel-and-cement building, because they would be al-Jihad’s targets.

  Once he had a pretty good idea what was going on outside, he headed for a quiet-looking entrance, figuring he’d grab a hammer or clipboard and look like he had someplace to be.

  He was two steps in when a blur came at him from the side.

  Adrenaline zinged and Fax ducked, spinning away and then coming in low, grabbing for his attacker.

  Too late
, he saw a second man coming in from the other side. Cursing, Fax went for his weapon, which he’d tucked at the small of his back beneath his jacket. A heavy weight slammed into him before he got the gun and his attacker bore down on his weapon hand with a shout of “Gun!”

  The second guy landed on him in a bruising scrum of knees and elbows and curses, and within ten seconds, Fax found himself kissing floor with both hands behind his back and a big guy kneeling across his kidneys.

  The click of handcuffs and the burr of a police dispatcher’s voice on a radio nearby let him know they weren’t al-Jihad’s men. Then again, so did the fact that he was still alive. It was a good bet Muhammad would’ve shot him on sight.

  Unfortunately, just because he’d been caught by the so-called good guys, didn’t mean he was out of danger.

  Far from it, Fax thought, fighting to slow his pulse and think rather than giving in to the urge to struggle. He might be able to take out one of the cops, but not both. He’d have to work his way out of the situation somehow.

  If he didn’t, al-Jihad might very well win.

  “Up you go,” said the guy who’d been kneeling on Fax’s kidneys. He got off and hauled Fax to his feet and started reciting the Miranda warning.

  Fax got a good look at the other man, who was a tall, slick-looking guy in a pale gray suit that’d barely wrinkled in the struggle. He was wearing a nine-millimeter under his arm and an FBI badge on his belt.

  There was something about him that didn’t ring true. Maybe it was that his suit was high-end but his dark brown hair was overgrown past an expensive-looking cut, as though something had happened recently to put this guy off his game. Or maybe it was the look of quiet desperation in the back of his hazel eyes, one that said he wasn’t totally in control of the situation.

  Whatever the reason, the FBI agent gave Fax a seriously bad vibe. He’d bet money that Mr. FBI was one of al-Jihad’s men.

  Fax’s mind raced as he tried to figure out his next best step and came up pretty much blank.

  “Come on,” the guy behind him said, nudging Fax’s heel with his toe. “Next stop, Bear Claw PD.”

  Question was, would the FBI agent let him make it that far, or was he planning on carrying out al-Jihad’s kill order right away?

  CHELSEA WORE HERSELF OUT struggling futilely against her bonds. She hated being stuck in the drab room, knowing that if Fax wasn’t yet in jeopardy, he would be soon.

  She let her head hang as tears stung her eyes. “Damn it, Jonah.”

  She’d begun the day making love with him. She hated that she was going to end the day cursing him. But what else could she do? She couldn’t forgive the way he’d knocked her out, and the way he’d left her alone.

  Worse, as the day dragged on, she started to wonder if he was coming back at all. What if Muhammad had caught up to him? What if he was already dead?

  She tried to tell herself the tears that pressed at the thought were because she was afraid of being stuck indefinitely, but in reality they were partly for Fax, too. He might be the selfish bastard he saw himself as, but that didn’t make him any less a hero to the people he was trying to save. And that included her.

  He came off as cold and uncaring, but he’d cared enough to protect her, over and over again. And his note had gone even further. What he’d said about her being strong had mattered; it had made her consider exactly where and when she’d started thinking of herself as a wimp.

  Trying to be as self-analytical as she knew how to be, she’d thought back and tracked it to her teenage years. It wasn’t that her mother had called her a wimp—never that. It was more that anytime Chelsea had asked about her parents’ divorce, her mother had gone on and on about how she’d tried her best to keep the marriage together and failed. She’d made Chelsea promise not to really, truly commit to a man unless she was sure he would work as hard as her to make it last.

  Over the years, that had evolved into a sharp maternal pressure against failure, not just in relationships, but in everything. And so, Chelsea had realized as the shadows lengthened and the day turned to dusk, she’d started picking goals she knew she could meet, and she’d started giving up on things that seemed to come with a high probability of failure.

  Like the FBI. And her love affairs.

  She wasn’t a wimp, she realized. She was terrified of failing.

  Was that it? she wondered. Was it really so simple? What if—

  The sound of tires crunching on gravel derailed that train of thought in an instant.

  She whipped her head around, craning to see through the small crack between the drawn blinds and the window frame. The truck—assuming it was Fax—was out of view, leaving her to tense as she heard a car door slam.

  Then another, and a third.

  Panic flared, hard and hot, and she yanked at her bonds, realizing that while Fax had been trying to keep her safe by holding her in place, he’d also made her an easy target.

  What if Muhammad had caught him but not killed him right away? What if he’d tortured him for her whereabouts first?

  Her stomach roiled and her heart hammered up into her throat as three sets of footsteps approached the motel door. Seconds later, there was a loud slam and the door flew inward under the force of a man’s kick.

  Chelsea screamed, unable to stay quiet and still, unable to do anything but shriek in horror as three figures lunged through the door and bolted toward her, moving fast, their hands outstretched.

  “Chelsea!” Those hands grabbed at her, tugging at her bonds. “Oh, my God, Chelsea, are you okay?”

  The words penetrated, as did the identities of her attackers…or rather, her rescuers.

  “Sara?” Chelsea’s voice broke on surprise, and a jolt of fledgling hope. She looked from her boss to the two men who had accompanied her. Familiar, trustworthy men. “Seth? Tucker? What—” She broke off then, because it was too huge to say aloud, her surprise too great.

  To her embarrassment, she started sobbing, stuttering questions and explanations that made no sense, her words tumbling over one another as her brain tried to deal with the realization that her friends had found her, that Fax had somehow let them know where to go. Which meant he wasn’t coming back for her.

  The thought shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

  “We’ve got you,” Sara was saying, holding her and stroking her, and saying her name over and over while Tucker crouched down and went to work on the cuffs, quickly releasing her from her bedside imprisonment.

  Seth had been the one to kick in the door, but now he stood back, watching her.

  He knew something, Chelsea realized. Or else he thought he knew something and he was looking for confirmation. But what was it? Had he found out something about Fax’s undercover work, or was he trying to figure out whose side she was on?

  “Come on.” Tucker held out a hand. “Let’s get you out of here.” He pulled her to her feet and Sara draped a coat over her shoulders—this one was burgundy wool and too large all over, reminding Chelsea that she’d been wearing another of Sara’s coats when she and Fax first met. The memory brought a fresh burst of tears.

  Get a grip on yourself, she thought fiercely, reining in the weepies through sheer force of will. You’re tougher than this.

  And, she realized with a small start of surprise, she was.

  Only days earlier, she’d thought of herself as a small person capable of doing only small things, but somehow in the midst of the fear and sneaking around Fax had put her through, she’d gained a new degree of mettle.

  Or so she hoped, because she was about to do something the old Chelsea never would’ve contemplated.

  She stopped as they passed Seth. Looking the FBI agent in the eye, she said, “Where is he?”

  “We have him in custody.”

  Nerves shimmered through her, alongside a kick of relief that at least he was alive. For the time being, anyway. “‘We’ as in the Bear Claw PD or the FBI?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure which answer would
be preferable.

  “What do you know, Chelsea?” Seth asked softly, his eyes intent on hers. “And I don’t mean what have you guessed or what has he told you, but what do you really know for certain?”

  She hesitated, because she didn’t know the FBI agent as well as some of the others, and what she did know suggested that while he was a strong personality and went his own way when necessary, he typically worked within the confines of his position. He was a company man, and she was about to ask him to work way outside the limits.

  What she needed could potentially get Seth—and the rest of them—fired if it didn’t work out as planned. Worse, they’d probably all go to jail.

  She took a deep breath, then stepped off the deep end, into a half-baked plan that not only had the potential to fail, it probably would. But the thing was, she didn’t care anymore. Fax was worth the risk. “I’ll tell you everything, I promise,” she said. “But first I’m going to need your help.”

  IT WASN’T UNTIL FAX found himself back behind bars that he realized two things: one, it was far more difficult to plan a valid-seeming escape without gadgets and outside help; and two, the only thing that’d kept him sane during his incarceration was the knowledge that someone out in the real world knew he wasn’t actually a criminal.

  Before, he’d been in jail because he’d chosen to be for the greater good. He’d had an excuse to feel noble and martyred.

  Now, as the holding-cell door clanged shut and the guard locked him in alone, he just felt like a failure. He’d helped three deadly terrorists escape back into the world at large and hadn’t been able to complete his mission.

  He’d blown his cover by trusting the wrong person. He had six civilian lives on his conscience—three guards—not counting al-Jihad’s accomplice—one morgue attendant and the two cops who’d been guarding Chelsea had all died as part of his botched mission. And what did he have to show for it?

  Not nearly enough. He’d only identified one potential terrorist contact within federal law enforcement, and only then because the guy had come after him at the ski lodge. The agent’s ID tagged him as Michael Grayson, a midlevel operative out of the Denver office, but that was all Fax knew.