by Irene Hannon
He scanned the screen. Hmm. No caller ID.
That was odd.
Punching the talk button, he called up his official voice. “Burnett.”
“We have a problem.”
It took him a second to place the voice. “Wayne?”
“Yeah. You need to get out here.”
“Where? Your farm?”
“No. To my other, more profitable business. Park in your usual spot—and make it snappy. I’ll meet you there.”
“What’s going . . .”
The line went dead.
Slowly Roger slid the phone onto his belt, dread roiling in his gut. He didn’t want to go anywhere near the man’s lab. The whole mess sickened him—especially his role in it.
Tension began to throb in his temples, and he wiped a hand down his face. Too bad that lab hadn’t blown up, as many of those volatile operations did. And if Wayne had happened to be inside . . . well, that’s the chance you took if you made meth.
But he couldn’t get that lucky.
Instead, the man was sucking him deeper into his illegal operation.
Roger drummed his fingers on the counter, the caffeine he’d ingested adding to his jitters. If only he could wish this whole nightmare away.
Since that wasn’t possible—could he at least ignore this summons?
No.
The answer came fast and definitive. Wayne wouldn’t have called him unless there was a serious issue—like Dana had stumbled across his lab.
And if that had happened, her life could be in danger while he dillydallied in his kitchen.
Heart pounding, he stuffed his off-duty pistol into a holster. Shoved some plastic restraints into his pockets. Grabbed his car keys.
He might not want any part of whatever was happening on Leo’s property, but if Dana was involved—and Wayne was offering him a chance to help find a solution that didn’t involve bodily injury—he had to take it.
Finn had no trouble identifying the taste on his tongue.
It was blood.
Everything else, however, was fuzzy.
Letting his Ranger training kick in, he methodically ticked off the items on his capture checklist.
Keep your eyes closed and remain motionless. Check. Not that he had much choice, with his hands and feet bound and a gag stuck in his mouth. But it was always better to get the lay of the land before alerting anyone who might be watching that you were regaining your senses.
Regulate your breathing. In. Out. In. Out. Slow and steady. Check. A change in respiration was a signal to a captor to be more vigilant—but trying to breathe normally with a cat urine/rotten egg/fertilizer smell invading his nostrils was a challenge.
Compartmentalize the pain. Check. That was a lesson he’d learned long ago, during the brutal Ranger training. Suppressing the familiar but intensified pain in his leg and the new, pulsing throb in his head wasn’t difficult. The predicament, not the pain, demanded 100 percent of his attention. His life could depend on the choices he made in the next few minutes.
Assess your situation and develop an action plan. That was the most difficult item to implement. How could you assess and plan if you couldn’t remember what had happened?
Forcing himself to concentrate, he rewound his memory to what he could recall—the hike through the woods on Phelps’s trail—and moved forward from there.
The man had been a piece of cake to follow, as expected, so there had been no need to get too close. The sound of him slogging through the brush had carried clearly in the quiet forest.
After about a quarter mile, the sound had stopped—suggesting he’d arrived at his destination. By Finn’s calculation, they had been on or near Dana’s land.
At that point, he’d gone into super stealth mode, creeping forward until he was close enough to get a view of the man through the trees.
He’d spotted the well-concealed shed within thirty seconds—and watched as Phelps removed assorted paraphernalia from his backpack, including blister packs of over-the-counter cold and allergy medications, charcoal lighter fluid, drain cleaner, coffee filters, and matches. The dead spots in the foliage around the area suggested toxic material had been dumped there, leading him to the obvious conclusion.
Phelps was operating a meth lab.
That also explained the noxious scent now assailing his nostrils.
And it wasn’t some thrown-together shake-and-bake setup, either. This operation was much bigger.
As for how he’d ended up busted and all trussed up . . . that memory came back too—in painful and embarrassing detail, even if it was a testament to his well-honed covert reconnaissance skills.
He’d edged in close and hidden himself among the underbrush, intent on his surveillance. The deer nibbling upwind on some foliage hadn’t seen him—nor had he spotted the deer—until the doe finally lifted her head and they found themselves almost nose to nose. It was hard to say who had been more startled.
But once the deer got a whiff of him, the situation had gone downhill fast.
The doe had reared back, then bounded away—straight toward the lab.
Phelps had jerked their direction.
As the doe crashed through the brush, Finn had scrambled to distance himself from the deer and dive for cover, hoping the man would assume some innocuous annoyance had frightened the easy-to-spook animal.
Too bad he hadn’t seen the trip wire that had triggered a blinding, choking discharge of tear gas or some similar irritant.
Before he’d been able to recover enough to see, his head had exploded—and the world had gone black.
Gritting his teeth, Finn struggled to steady his respiration and corral the urge to lash out and kick something. After surviving attacks from extremists, roadside bombs, and high-risk reconnaissance missions behind enemy lines in the Middle East, this had not been his finest hour.
If nothing else, though, he did have some answers. Wayne Phelps was operating a meth lab on Dana’s property—and ten chances to one he was the perpetrator of the vandalism. The man wouldn’t want to risk her stumbling across his operation. They’d been correct in their conclusion that someone had been trying to chase her away.
But how and why was the chief involved?
That, however, was a mystery to solve later. His top priority at the moment was to get himself out of this mess.
After several more minutes passed with no sign of Phelps nor any sound to suggest he was close by, Finn half opened his eyes.
Everything was dark save for a faint horizontal band of light a few feet away, at ground level. The bottom of the door to the shed he’d spotted, perhaps. Phelps must have stashed him in the makeshift lab.
He continued to listen, straining his ears for any sound that suggested the man was nearby, but all was quiet. It was possible he’d gone to retrieve more supplies while his unexpected visitor was too out of it to be a threat.
Whatever the reason for the man’s absence, he’d take it. He needed every minute he could get to free himself from the ropes binding his wrists and prepare for his next encounter with the market-garden-farmer-turned-meth-cooker.
Because a man who booby-trapped the approach to his operation . . . who set a fire that could have had fatal consequences . . . who knocked out an unwelcome visitor and secured him in an unstable area prone to dangerous explosions . . . wasn’t likely to think twice about taking much more drastic measures to keep his business secure.
Up to and including murder.
So before Phelps stuck his head back inside his lab, Finn was going to do everything in his power to be ready and waiting to give the man a welcome he’d never forget.
Roger pulled in behind Dana’s cabin, set the brake on the cruiser, and drummed his fingers on the wheel.
Should he have gone directly to meet Wayne, as the man had demanded?
No.
If he could confirm Dana was safe first, whatever crisis had freaked out his unwanted partner in crime might be more manageable. As long as lives were
n’t at stake, and no witnesses were able to identify either of them, they ought to be able to deal with whatever had come up.
Dana appeared in the window as he slid from the car, and he held on to the door to steady himself as his legs went shaky with relief.
Yes!
She was okay.
When he lifted a hand in greeting, she waved back—but instead of opening the door, she raised the sash a few inches.
“Good morning, Chief.”
“Dana.”
“What can I do for you?”
Even if her behavior hadn’t already communicated her caution, the wariness in her features—and in her tone—screamed distrust and apprehension.
McGregor must have shared his suspicions with her.
Not unexpected, given how those two seemed to have hit it off.
“I thought I’d swing by on my way to Potosi, make certain everything was okay.” He summoned up a stiff smile. “No more visits from the vandals, I take it?”
“No.” She leaned her forearms on the windowsill. “I heard you caught the two teens who’ve been hitting the picnic grounds, though.”
“Yes.”
“Then maybe all will continue to be quiet here.”
She was baiting him. McGregor didn’t think the vandals were one and the same, and he’d surely shared that theory with Dana.
“I think we’re dealing with a different set of perpetrators here. So we’re keeping this on our radar. We’ll get a break one of these days.” Roger kept his manner casual and conversational. “Have you thought any more about temporarily relocating to your grandfather’s place in St. Louis?”
“I’m considering it, once Finn leaves next week.”
That was the best news he’d had all day.
If he could help Wayne deal with whatever crisis had come up and convince the man to hold off on his cooking a little longer, perhaps everything would smooth out and life could get back to normal.
Or what passed for normal these days.
“I think that would be wise. I can keep you apprised of any developments by phone.”
“Thanks.”
“Well . . .” He gave the cabin and surrounding area a sweep. “As long as everything here appears quiet, I’ll get out of your hair. Enjoy your Saturday.”
“You too.”
He returned to his car, put it in gear, and crunched back down the road, feeling more upbeat than he had in weeks. Dana was safe—and seriously thinking about vacating the premises in a few days. Wayne should be able to push off his customers that long.
Whatever crisis had prompted him to call this morning, they’d find a way to deal with it.
After all, Dana had been the major threat all along. If she wasn’t the problem, how bad could this be?
Dana waited until the chief’s car disappeared in a cloud of dust, then let the curtain drop back into place.
That had been strange.
She wandered over to the sink to get a glass of water, fingering the whistle around her neck. Since the dock incident, he’d kept his distance—except at night. What had prompted a daytime visit?
Too bad Finn wasn’t around. It would be interesting to get his take.
She glanced at the clock over the table as she sipped her water. Ten-forty-five. That meant he’d be here soon to give her the promised report on his morning before driving north for lunch with his brothers.
Chances were, though, it had been a total loss. The whole Wayne Phelps theory seemed like a long shot.
Still . . . Finn wasn’t the type to waste time or effort on wild goose chases. If he thought Phelps was worth investigating, it was possible he was involved somehow.
Chief Burnett remained a wild card too. Pops had trusted the man implicitly, and she’d always held him in high esteem. But now . . . some nuance about Burnett felt off. Strange vibes continued to waft through the air in the wake of his surprise visit.
Thank goodness he hadn’t hung around or asked to come in. That would have really freaked her out.
Suppressing a shiver, she dumped the rest of the water in the sink and started back toward the table to resume her editing.
At her chair, however, she hesitated. Prickles of apprehension continued to vibrate in her nerve endings. Maybe she was overreacting, but why not take a page from Finn’s playbook and follow her instincts?
Without further debate, she detoured to the living room and picked up the Winchester from beside the door. Carried it back to the kitchen. Propped it beside the table as she took her seat. With Finn away, the whistle wouldn’t be of much use. Having the gun close at hand should give her a bit more peace of mind.
Though truth be told, any peace of mind it did produce could be a sham. Yes, she knew how to load and shoot the rifle. And yes, she’d once been a very accurate shot.
But shooting at empty soda cans was a whole lot different than shooting at a person.
And no matter how critical the situation, she had no idea whether she’d be able to pull the trigger on a real live human being.
She could only pray it wouldn’t come to that.
21
He almost had the cord binding his wrists loose enough to slip off. Another twist . . . another . . . one more . . . there!
His hands were free.
Finn shook off the rope and flexed his fingers to restore circulation, ignoring the burning in his wrists where he’d rubbed the skin raw.
As soon as his hands were functional, he ripped out the gag and went to work on the rope around his ankles.
That was dispensed with much faster.
Once on his feet, he patted himself down, sucking on his cheeks to activate his salivary glands and lubricate his parched mouth. Cell phone, binoculars, wallet—all gone. As was his Beretta, of course.
First order of business: find a weapon.
Prowling through the dim lab, he assessed the equipment. Big plastic buckets. Gas-grill-sized propane tank. Coffee filters. Duct-taped piping. Plastic tubing.
He homed in on the tubing.
That could work.
Moving in close, he peered at the setup in the darkness. He was no meth expert, but as far as he could tell, nothing was cooking.
Based on all the stuff Phelps had hauled in today, however—and was perhaps continuing to haul in at this very moment—that was about to change.
Working more by feel than sight, Finn managed to secure a length of the flexible tubing without making much noise. Once he had it in hand, he crossed to the door, groped for the handle to determine which direction it opened, and put his ear to the wood.
Now he could pick up movement outside. It sounded agitated. Angry. As if someone was striding around, trying to work off restless energy—or a head of steam.
Too bad he couldn’t crack the door to see what was going on. But if Phelps spotted him, realized he was no longer tied up, the man would get the upper hand.
Not going to happen again.
Finn wanted the advantage on his side this round.
So he’d have to sit tight and wait for his captor to enter the lab, no matter how much the delay taxed his patience.
And if the element of surprise worked as he hoped it would, Phelps would get the shock of his life.
Finn should have been here by now.
Giving up any pretense of working, Dana rose from the computer and began to pace. He’d said he’d be back by eleven, and it was ten after. He might cut things close after living on the edge for years as a Ranger, but he’d never once been late for any of their scheduled get-togethers.
Could he have had a flat tire?
Hit a deer and skidded off the road?
Run into some serious trouble at Phelps’s place?
Her heart stuttered at the last possibility. What if Wayne Phelps was involved in the vandalism at her place? A guy who did that kind of damage—and took chances with people’s lives—was dangerous. And while Finn seemed well able to take care of himself, there was always a chance something could go wr
ong . . . like on the mission where he’d almost lost his leg.
She sucked in a breath, fighting back a sudden wave of panic. If she kept this up, she was going to hyperventilate.
Calm down, Dana. Don’t overreact. He might be in the middle of some critical surveillance and doesn’t want to leave yet. If he’s within cell range, it’s possible he’s already alerted his brothers he’s going to be late. He may even have left you a message and expects you’ll check your voicemail if you don’t hear from him.
Her breathing smoothed out.
Better.
And it stayed better until the clock hit eleven-thirty and her little pep talk wore off.
Time to ramp up her cell.
After retrieving her phone from the charger, she opened the front door and peeked out. Save for the chirp of birds, all was quiet, as it had been the entire morning. A quick trip down to the lake in broad daylight should be safe.
Convincing her thumping heart of that as she jogged down the incline toward the water, however, proved impossible.
Once on the dock, she kept an alert eye on her surroundings as she punched in her voicemail passcode.
Nothing.
No text, either.
Finn hadn’t tried to contact her to explain why he was delayed.
The red alert began to flash with increased urgency in her mind. He wasn’t the type to cause anyone he cared about to worry—and he knew by now she’d be fretting and anxious.
She tried calling his cell number.
Instead of ringing, it rolled immediately to voicemail—as if he’d turned his phone off.
Not like him, either.
She wiped the palm of her free hand down her jeans. Calling 911 wasn’t an option—but she did have Mac’s number stored in her phone. Why not touch base with him, see if he’d heard from Finn?
Fingers trembling, she scrolled through until she found the number Finn had given her. Placed the call. Tapped her foot as it rang.
Once.
