0373447477 (R)

by Shirlee McCoy

  “It’s a calculated risk,” Malone murmured. “She knows what she’s doing, and she knows how to get out of trouble if she finds herself in it.”

  “She?”

  “Stella Silverstone.” Chance provided the name, a hint of something that sounded like irritation in his voice. “You should have checked with me before you sent her off in a bait car.”

  “I planned to. She took off while I was texting you,” Malone said, and he didn’t sound happy about it.

  “She and I are going to have a serious talk when this is over.”

  “I think I’ve heard that one before,” Malone grumbled. “How about you do this instead? Work on whatever problems the two of you have so you don’t keep butting heads when we’re on mission.”

  “We don’t butt heads.”

  “Right, because you avoid each other. It’s getting old.”

  “Not as old as this conversation.”

  Malone chuckled, the sound more annoyed than amused. “I figured you’d say that.”

  “And I figured that Stella would go running off again. I guess we were both right. Where’s our driver? I don’t want her getting too far ahead of us. Not with the trouble we’ve seen tonight.”

  “He had to answer a few questions.”

  “About?”

  Malone’s attention finally shifted, his gaze flitting to Quinn for a moment. “We can discuss it later.”

  That seemed to be code for something, because the conversation ended, time ticking away in silence. No tension in it. No resentment. The men seemed to know each other well enough to not be bothered by the other’s comments.

  Quinn, on the other hand, was bothered—by the silence, the stillness, the warmth of Malone’s thigh pressed close to hers. By the fact that she noticed it.

  The driver’s-side door opened, and August climbed in. He had a smear of dirt on his cheek, a twig in his short hair. Blood on his shirt? It looked like it—the dark stain on his shoulder as black as ink.

  “You’re hurt!” She tried to lean over the seat to get a better look, but Malone pulled her back.

  “Stay put.”

  “I need to see how bad it is.”

  “I’ve had worse,” August spat. “And I’ve already bandaged it. Now, how about you do what Malone says and sit back?”

  He shoved the keys into the ignition and rolled forward, the headlights off, the interior lights dimmed. He must think they were going to be ambushed. They must all think it. Why else would they be so tense? Why else would they insist she sit in the middle? Why else would they tell her not to lean forward?

  If a bullet were aimed at the car, it would go through one of them before it hit her. That was their plan, and knowing it didn’t make Quinn any happier about her situation. “I don’t like this.” She spoke into the silence, and August glanced into the rearview mirror, meeting her eyes for a nanosecond before he scanned the road again.

  “What?”

  “That the three of you are trying to stay between me and a gunman.”

  “We’re trying to stay between you and death,” August clarified, as if it weren’t already clear enough.

  “Stop the car. I’m getting out. Letting someone drive my car is one thing. Letting me cower in the center seat while you all put your lives at risk is another.”

  “I don’t think that you understand how dangerous this is.” Malone finally turned completely away from the window, his gaze so sharp, so intense that Quinn had to force herself to keep meeting his eyes.

  “I understand exactly how dangerous it is. That’s why I’m not going to let any of you do this.”

  “Yes. You are,” Chance insisted.

  “I thought you said you were agreeable?”

  “Most of the time. This isn’t one of them. There are three men trained in security in this car, and one woman who teaches kindergarten and, according to her brother, has never even taken a self-defense class. It stands to reason that the three will provide the firearm power and the one will use her brain to figure out how much sense that makes.”

  “I don’t agree.”

  No response.

  Not from any of the three men.

  She opened her mouth to repeat herself, and Malone leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, the warmth of his breath fanning her cheek. For a moment, she was back in time, sitting in Cory’s car during their first date, that little tickle of excitement in her belly because they were together. Only this guy wasn’t Cory, and the excitement had no business being there.

  Not now. Not ever, because she didn’t want to go through heartache again. Not the kind she’d had while Cory was suffering. Not the kind that came after.

  A guy like Malone might make her forget that, and then where would she be?

  “I was kidding,” he said quietly, his fingers gliding across her knuckles, that little shimmy of excitement filling her stomach again.

  “I know,” she responded, her throat tight with the memories of everything she’d lost, of all the things she missed.

  “Then, maybe you also need to know that everything really is going to be okay.” He repeated what he’d said before, what she’d said to Jubilee.

  Maybe it was. Hopefully it was.

  But, right then, it really didn’t feel like it.

  * * *

  Quinn fell asleep just as the sun crested the trees. No more tension in her shoulders. No more taut, tight muscles in her thigh. One minute, she was ramrod straight. The next, she was slumped over, her head resting against Malone’s shoulder.

  “She’s out,” Chance commented idly as he scanned a text message. “And Stella is sixteen miles ahead of us. Clear roads. No traffic, and no sign that she’s being followed.”

  “Too bad,” August muttered. “If she had a tail, we could drop Quinn off and go have a little talk with whoever it is.”

  “I was thinking the same,” Malone admitted. “Right now, we’ve got nothing to go on but speculation.”

  “We’ve got a dead gunman.” August rolled his shoulders, grimacing as he moved. “And, I’ve got a six-inch gouge in my shoulder.”

  “You need medical attention?”

  “No.”

  “Says the man who is still bleeding.” Chance typed something into his phone. “Stella is looking for a place to pull over. Since she’s a nurse, she can take care of the shoulder and I’ll take care of the Jeep.”

  Malone wasn’t surprised by the suggestion.

  Chance and Stella might be at odds, but HEART was a family, the thread that connected the members unbreakable.

  “I’m not bleeding.” August touched his bloodstained sleeve. “Much.”

  Chance ignored the comment, his attention focused on his phone. “She said she’s pulling off. Look for a boarded up farmhouse. North side of the road. Collapsing barn. It’s the only building for a few dozen miles.”

  It didn’t take long to cover the distance. Early Sunday morning, and the road was empty, the sun splashing against the blacktop and trees. Already, the leaves were beginning to turn, dull yellow and brick red interspersed with muted green. Thick trees gave way to farmland—acres of yellowing cornstalks stretching as far as the eye could see. It reminded Malone of home. Or of what home had once been. The farm his grandfather had worked, that his father and uncle had taken over. Now his brothers and cousins ran it, plowing and planting and harvesting the way the family had done for generations.

  Granddad would be proud.

  Malone was, too. His siblings had turned out well. His cousins were doing great. Malone would like to think that he’d had something to do with it. When he returned to the farm, he always felt as if he was going home, and being with his family always reminded him that the things that mattered most were often the things that were easiest to neglect.

  He touched his scar, the corded flesh a harsh reminder of just how quickly things could change and just how quickly they could be lost. He was supposed to be sitting in his kayak, contemplating that and making decisions about just
where he planned to go with his life.

  Quinn shifted, her hair brushing his neck, the locks silky and soft. A widow at a very young age. She hadn’t said how her husband died, and he hadn’t asked. The question seemed too intimate, but he wanted to know. That surprised him. He’d spent the past few years going from one mission to another. He hadn’t spent a lot of time getting to know the people he was rescuing. He hadn’t thought it was necessary.

  His grandfather would have corrected that assumption. He’d have said that investing in other people’s lives was always important, getting to know them always mattered.

  The thing was, there was a lot more to living than completing missions. Malone had always known that, but the last few years, he’d lost sight of the truth.

  That’s what the life he’d been living had done to him. It had turned him into someone who only asked questions when it was necessary. It had changed him into a person who didn’t know a whole lot about small talk or normal life.

  Or maybe his military experience had done that. Losing his buddies, watching them die while he survived, had made him crave escape like other people craved ice cream. He took mission after mission because of that, assignment after assignment to keep himself from thinking about it too much.

  A month ago, Chance had told him he was going to reach the finish line full speed, look back and realize that he’d been sprinting through a million blessings that he’d never even noticed.

  That’s what the vacation had been about—seeing the blessings instead of just the racetrack.

  “I think that’s it,” August said, gesturing to an old house that stood at the back edge of open land, a huge decaying barn a few acres behind it. White clapboard siding stained gray with age, boarded-up windows, dry tangled grass: the place looked as if it had been abandoned decades ago. A crumbling driveway had once cut through the front yard. Now it was overgrown with withered dandelion stems and sharp-bladed brown grass.

  August turned onto it, the bumping jolt of going from pavement to grass waking Quinn. She straightened, her cheeks still pink from sleep, her hair falling wild around her face.

  “Please,” she muttered, “tell me that I wasn’t sleeping on your shoulder.”

  “I’d like to, but it would be a lie.”

  “Great. Perfect. Another thing to add to my list.”

  “What list?”

  “Things that have made this day stink. I’m keeping it right next to my list of things that made my day great.”

  “You have a list of things that made your day great?”

  “Of course.”

  “Maybe I should rephrase that—you actually have things that made today great?”

  “I saw my brother for the first time in a couple years. I met some interesting people who seem determined to help me with a problem. I also... Actually, that may be it. I’d probably have more, but I’ve been a little distracted running for my life.”

  “A little?”

  “A lot. Where are we, by the way?”

  “Central Pennsylvania.”

  “At a house that looks like it’s been abandoned. I’m assuming there’s a reason for that. Other than we need to make a pit stop.”

  “Your brother needed medical attention,” Chance offered. “We’re pulling over to make sure he gets it.”

  “Pulling over at a hospital might be a better idea.” She leaned over the seat and pulled up her brother’s sleeve, revealing a deep gouge in his bicep, the wound seeping blood. “You’re going to need stitches.”

  “It’s not on my schedule for the day.”

  “Is a raging infection on your schedule for tomorrow?”

  “No infection would dare show its face after Stella dressed a cut,” Malone interrupted. “She’s a former military nurse. She knows how to triage a wound.”

  She also knew how to show up where she was supposed to be, and she should be on the property. Malone didn’t see any sign of Quinn’s Jeep. “Has she texted you again, Chance?”

  “The last text said she didn’t know why we were taking so long.”

  “Sounds like Stella.”

  “Yeah, but this isn’t like her. She should be here.” Chance scanned the area. “Can you drive this around to the back of the house?”

  “Sure.” August accelerated through a patch of grass, the SUV kicking up a cloud of dust. When it finally cleared, they’d come to a stop in a desolate yard—rusted swing set, dried-out plants, a garden area filled with choked weeds.

  Still no sign of the Jeep.

  “You’re sure this is the right place,” August asked, turning off the engine and opening his door. He’d lost a lot of blood, the bandage beneath his shirt now soaked with it.

  Chance frowned, scrolling back through the texts. “She said an old boarded-up house with a crumbling barn behind it. First one we’d see.”

  “This has to be it then.” Malone climbed out of the vehicle, that feeling sweeping over him again—the one that said danger, be on your guard, trouble ahead. His skin felt tight, the hair on his nape standing on end.

  Nothing moved in the cornfield behind the house. No birds. No squirrels. No rabbits scurrying through the abandoned garden. The world had gone still, and he stilled, too, listening to the silence, to the soft swish of grass in the September breeze. He could feel rain in the air, smell rich loamy earth and decay.

  Quinn grabbed his hand, her fingers warm and dry, her skin soft as she tried to pull him into the vehicle. “You guys need to get back in the car. Something’s wrong.”

  No one responded. Chance had exited the vehicle, and he closed the door with a quiet snap that sent a lone bird flying from a gnarled oak. It cawed raucously, the sound sending a chill of warning through Malone’s blood.

  He stepped away from the SUV, motioning for August to move into position to block Quinn. She’d try to follow. He could almost guarantee that.

  Chance moved in beside him, matching his pace as they headed toward the cornfield. It was the only place a Jeep could be hidden on the property. Everything else was too bare, too open.

  “We’ll split. You head east. I’ll go west. Look for tire tracks. You find them, signal. We’ll move in together.” Chance split to the west, and Malone skirted around the edges of the cornfield.

  No tracks. No sign that anyone had been there.

  Stella was smart, though. She wouldn’t have wanted to leave a trail.

  He surveyed the property, looking for signs that she’d taken another route. In the distance, a road bisected the property. He could see just a hint of it, the blacktop gleaming in the sun. Had she used that as her access point?

  He reached the edge of the cornfield, his gaze tracking the trajectory of the road. It curved around the property—first north and then west. If Stella had entered the property that way, she’d have ended up at the back of the cornfield, driving across grass and dirt to reach the house.

  Unless the house wasn’t where she’d been heading.

  The old barn was at the back of the field, jutting up toward the blue sky, its brown-gray boards sagging, its roof caved in. He moved toward it, finally catching glimpse of what he was looking for—tire marks. They cut deep into the earth, revealing dark soil and bits of gravel. He followed the tracks to the double-wide doors of the barn. They yawned open, the floor of the barn littered with hay and abandoned farm equipment. No Jeep, but he could see that the other side of the barn dumped out into the cornfield—only a stretch of three or four hundred feet between it and the first stalks.

  Had Stella gone there?

  If she had, why?

  A soft whistle broke the eerie silence. He whistled back, signaling for Chance to come to him. They’d done this kind of thing hundreds of times before—reconnaissance of an area, the two of them moving in sync as they surveyed a building, a piece of property and, now, an old barn.

  Seconds later, Chance appeared in the barn doorway, his face grim. They didn’t speak, just moved through side by side, exiting at the far end, steppin
g out into bright sunlight and the subtle scent of smoke.

  “Where’s that coming from?” Chance said, breaking the silence. There was no panic in his voice. There never was.

  “I don’t...” His voice trailed off as a plume of smoke snaked up from the western edge of the field. “There,” he pointed, but Chance had already seen it.

  “That can’t be coincidental.”

  “Neither can that,” Malone said, pointing to another plume, this one billowing up from the area he’d just walked. “They’re flushing her out.”

  “Stella?”

  “Who else could it be? I’m going in. You go back to the house.”

  “We’re both going in. August knows how to take care of himself and his sister.” He hoped, because he’d made keeping Quinn safe his business, and he never backed down once he made up his mind to do something.

  Chance darted into the cornfield, following a trail of broken and smashed stalks. Smoke snaked through the plants, curling up toward the sky in twirling black fingers. Malone could see flames eating along the plants a hundred yards away, the blaze moving rapidly.

  Not good.

  Chance had to know it, but he was plunging forward anyway, his focus on the tracks and whatever he was hoping to find at the end of them.

  Stella alive. Unhurt.

  That was the goal, but she’d never gone radio silent for this long. Not without forewarning.

  “There!” Chance shouted, his voice hoarse from smoke and running, and Malone could see it—the Jeep, surrounded by corn stalks, the driver’s door open.

  “Stella!” he shouted, racing toward the vehicle a step behind his boss. Her purse was on the seat, her cell phone lying on the ground near the open door. Chance grabbed the purse, checking its contents. “Firearm is missing.”

  Malone snatched up the cell phone, saw an unsent message, partially written. Blue Toyota Camry has passed the house twi

  “Looks like she spotted someone and planned to send you a text. She got interrupted.”

  “And now she’s somewhere in this mess,” Chance muttered. “Go back to the house,” he continued. “Get August and Quinn out. I’ll contact you when I have Stella.”