Angel of Mercy & Standoff at Mustang Ridge

by Heather Graham

  Things wouldn’t be the same. He wouldn’t have a chance to be alone with Wendy again. Not as a pair of castaways in a strange paradise, isolated from the world. Today he would have to accept Eric’s help, and he didn’t want Wendy along with them. It was too dangerous. He had never known that Suarez had been watching him and Eric in the airboat the other day. Even if Suarez hadn’t been able to come close enough to recognize him, he had seen Brad and Eric. To Brad, that was unnerving. He decided that Wendy should spend the day in the village with Willie and Mary. She should be safe with the family. Brad was certain that Willie knew how to protect his loved ones.

  It was almost over. The realization hurt so much that he could hardly stand it. Hell, he’d known he had no right touching a woman like Wendy. They’d both said that they could take what came. They had both claimed to be adult, mature—willing to accept an affair for the time that they had together.

  She had warned him not to care too deeply, just as he had warned her. And now here they were, at the end of it all....

  And he felt like doubling over with pain, it hurt so damned much. Pain chewed at the walls of his stomach—and his heart.

  She cared for him. He knew that. But he also knew that she didn’t want a life with a man who lived in danger. She definitely didn’t want a life with him. So that was that. There was a real world, and he had to return to it. He had a job, and he’d always known that it wasn’t a job that was conducive to...

  Marriage.

  He wanted to marry her. He wanted her beside him when he woke up in the morning. She was a radiant angel, and he knew that she would be every bit as beautiful to him in fifty years. He wanted her all to himself for a while, and then he wanted to have that baby with her that she had once wanted and could surely want again.

  But he had no right. His job was a necessary one, and he was good at it. He had no right to want her to suffer for him.

  Maybe he owed them both the honesty of the depths of his feelings. She had told him this morning that nothing had changed in their lifestyles. But the feelings between them had grown. She might have denied them a future with her words, but her kiss had said otherwise.

  When he saw Eric smiling at him through the glass, Brad realized that he had been standing at the door for several long minutes.

  This was idiotic. The idyll might be over, but Michaelson was still out there. And he had to be caught.

  Swallowing hard, Brad impatiently turned to leave the office. Eric excused himself to Mac and came over to Brad, looking at him expectantly.

  “There’ll be some backup here tonight. We’re still going to lie low, because we want to catch Michaelson with the goods. I want to keep my eyes open for Charlie Jenkins today—then I need to meet some men here tonight. They’re sending a few to keep an eye on the shack, and—” He paused. “And a few to keep an eye on Wendy’s place. Purdy agreed that we’ve put her into the path of danger. She needs some solid protection until this is really over.” Brad didn’t have to admit that he was too emotionally involved to be effective himself. Though he and Eric were a good pair, they’d be better off with some objective help around. “Would you mind taking a ride back out by the shack?”

  Eric shook his head. “Not at all. What about Wendy? I take it you don’t want her home alone, and I don’t think she should be along with us.”

  “I thought we’d take her to Willie’s.” He grimaced. “She’s not going to like it, but...” His voice trailed away and he shrugged. “We might as well get going.”

  Eric nodded, turning to look toward the canal. Suddenly, a frown compressed his features in hard lines. “I don’t see her.”

  Brad’s entire body seemed to constrict as he stared across the gas pumps toward the road. A car whooshed by, moving fast. He turned toward the canal. He had just seen her. He had been looking out the window while he had been talking to Purdy, and he had seen her standing there. Her hair had been loose on her shoulders, catching the sunshine. Her hands had been jammed into her pockets, her boot heels dug impatiently into the ground as she waited. She had been there, just moments ago.

  He and Eric started to run at the same time. They reached the canal and the high grass together, sloshing their way into the water. His heart in his throat, Brad prayed that he would not find her. There’d be a bullet in her heart if Michaelson had found her. She’d be facedown in the swamp if she’d met with a cottonmouth or a diamondback. No, no, Wendy was too smart and too savvy to panic at a snakebite. She would have called for help. She would have known what she was doing. It had to have been Michaelson....

  They didn’t find her in the water. Brad tried to breathe, he told himself that he had to breathe. As Eric stared at him with his curious lime-green eyes, Brad noticed that behind the stonelike mask of the bronzed warrior, Eric was fighting a raw, clawing fear himself.

  “Look at the road.”

  Brad did so. He saw where her boots had been dragged against the earth; he saw the scuffle of footprints.

  “Michaelson,” he swore in anguish.

  “I don’t think that he’s killed her,” Eric said tonelessly.

  Brad shook his head, trying to clear it. “No, he wants her for something. Or else he would have—he would have killed her, quiet and quick, right here.” He stared at Eric for a moment, then plunged through the shallow rim of grass and muck to the airboat. He looked about hastily, until he saw what he wanted. A stone held a note to the flooring by the motor. Brad tried to read the words, blinked furiously and made sense of the letters at last. He nodded at Eric.

  “He’s taken her to the shack.”

  “And he wants you to come?”

  Brad nodded. “Both of us. Precisely—‘bring the Indian along.’ No one else, or he’ll slit her throat.”

  “Why me?” Eric murmured.

  Brad thought he understood. “I just got word that his plane came in—crashed in the swamp. Purdy thinks that it’s out there buried in the muck somewhere, and Charlie Jenkins, the boy from the Okefenokee in Georgia, just isn’t good enough in this maze. I’ll wager that Michaelson wants you to find his stuff.”

  “And you?”

  “He wants to kill me. I’m just a case of revenge.”

  Eric frowned. “And Wendy?”

  “He’ll keep her alive long enough to make you do what he wants.” He paused, breathing deeply. “Hell, who knows. He—he might want more.” He swore softly again.

  Eric lowered his head, his fingers winding into impotent fists at his sides.

  Brad realized that he was praying when he needed to be thinking—or maybe he needed to be doing both things. He braced himself and got a grip on his emotions.

  “I’m calling Purdy back. He should know that Michaelson has Wendy. Maybe there’s something he can do to help. Then we’ve got to get out to the shack. Is there any way to come around on that cabin from a different direction?”

  “Go call. Let me try to see the terrain in my mind.”

  Brad hurried in to call Purdy. The boss was going to put his machinery into action sooner.

  After he’d hung up, Brad gritted his teeth and explained the situation to Mac. Then he hurried down to the airboat to join Eric. The plan was risky, but it was their only chance. Otherwise, they were surely dead.

  This way they had a chance. The odds were bad. Very bad.

  But then, they were the only odds they had.

  Brad leaped onto the airboat. Eric was already starting up the motor.

  “I think we can approach from the back,” he said. “I’ll cut the motor and we’ll paddle around the rear of the hammock. We’ll have to wade through muck, and there might be quicksand. But we can come up around the back of the shack.”

  Brad closed his eyes and breathed a prayer of thanks. The odds were beginning to look a little bit better.

  “Let’s
try it,” he said. Eric nodded. They were tense and silent then as they wound their way back into the primitive depths of the swamp.

  * * *

  Wendy woke with a foul taste in her mouth, a taste similar to the sickening smell that had brought her to unconsciousness. She had a horrible headache and the world was still spinning so rapidly that she didn’t know if she was sitting, standing or lying flat. Her arms ached, but not as badly as her head. For several long minutes, she was aware only of pain.

  She opened her eyes and closed them again. She fought a wave of nausea and swallowed hard. Then she tried to open her eyes again.

  She was able to focus this time. Above her were the boards of a bare and rotting roof. She was lying flat. Her arms hurt because her wrists were tied tightly together with rough rope. Her flesh was chapping and her shoulders were being wrenched by the miserable position.

  “He’s taking his sweet time.”

  At the sound of the voice, Wendy closed her eyes again. As heavy footsteps moved by her head, she slit her eyes open, feigning unconsciousness.

  It was the man with the brutal hold, walking by her. The man with the brown eyes who had nabbed her and shoved the chloroform over her face.

  “He’ll come, Jenkins. Trust me. He’ll come.”

  Another voice, very soft and somehow more menacing for it, answered. Wendy tried to let her head fall naturally to the side so that she could see the man.

  It was the gray-haired man with the ice eyes. She didn’t need to be told that this was Michaelson. Sitting at a crude table in the center of the small shack, he seemed entirely out of place. She could see that his shoes were expensive leather loafers. His suit looked to be fashionable linen. In the midst of the swamp, he was wearing a tie. He had spoken calmly, but he obviously didn’t feel comfortable here.

  “He’ll come, yeah, but what about the Indian? What’s the connection there?”

  A third man spoke, a man with a definite accent. Wendy tried to survey the small cabin. She didn’t dare open her eyes fully, and even the slightest movement was painful and difficult. It was the typical cabin of the weekend hunter, hastily built by non-professional labor. There were two windows, a bunk in one corner of the room, and a table in the center. A dark man, cradling some type of huge firearm, sat on one of the windowsills, dangling his legs. The brown-eyed man, Jenkins, kept pacing by Wendy’s head. At least he was better dressed for the occasion, wearing military khakis. A rifle was slung over his shoulder.

  She clenched her teeth, afraid that she was going to start shivering. These men meant to kill her, to kill them all. For a moment the horror of it was so great that a wave of icy fear washed over her, paralyzing her. She nearly screamed in sheer panic.

  She fought it, clenching her teeth more tightly. She was a victim, just as Leif had been. But Leif had fought to the bitter end, and, dear God, she would fight, too. They were trying to trap Brad, but she was sure that he would realize that. And they were talking about Eric, too....

  “We need the Indian,” Jenkins said.

  Michaelson let out a snort of derision. “Yes, we need the Indian. Because you have proved yourself worthless!”

  Jenkins lunged over the table and slammed his fist against it. “You fool! Don’t you understand! I’m good at tracking, damned good. You wouldn’t have the girl if it wasn’t for me. I’m the one who followed Suarez’s trail to her house. I’m the one who knew about the girl, about McKenna’s involvement with her—and even the damned Indian you want so badly now. But listen to me, and listen good. This mire out here is deadly, can’t you comprehend that? Your plane went down in the middle of an area that’s infested with snakes, and riddled with quicksand pits. Only a man who really knows this swamp can salvage the damned thing.”

  Michaelson rose, his face rigid. He continued to speak softly. “Don’t ever address me in that tone of voice, Jenkins. Ever.” He strode over to the window and looked out. “If the Indian doesn’t come, we’ll have to rely on the girl.” Wendy felt his gaze fall her way. “She lives out here. She’ll know what she is doing.”

  The dark-haired man with the accent let out a snickering sound. “I’m sure she knows what she is doing. I’m sure she does it very well.”

  “Shut up, Pedro,” Michaelson said. “Keep your mind on business and off the girl. When the plane is found, you can have her. Hell, you can have her any way you want her. But not until then, do you understand?”

  “¡Sí!” Pedro agreed sullenly.

  Wendy felt the bile rise in her stomach again. She swallowed, fighting off another rise of panic.

  “Hey!” Jenkins said suddenly. The sound of his footsteps seemed to slam against Wendy’s head, and then she did scream because he wrenched at her shoulders, dragging her up. “She’s awake. The little bitch is awake. She’s been listening to us.”

  He jerked her to a sitting position and she nearly screamed again from the pain in her arms. Her eyes flew open, meeting his stare with a gaze of silvery fury. He laughed, watching her. “Pedro must be right. I’ll bet she’s a lot of fun.”

  “Leave her alone,” Michaelson said. “There’s work to do.”

  “Hell, we’ve got to sit here and wait...” Jenkins said. He smiled. His face was so close to Wendy’s that she could feel the foulness of his breath.

  She spat at him and he howled in outrage, slapping her.

  “I told you, leave the girl alone!” Michaelson’s voice rose at last. He indicated the window. “You think that McKenna is a fool? I don’t. I don’t want him attacking us while you lie there with your pants down, you fool! Now, get away from her.”

  Jenkins shoved Wendy back down to the floor and wiped the spittle from his face. “Later, baby. I’ll make it good. I promise.”

  “What’s that?” the Latin man said suddenly.

  Michaelson and Jenkins both moved toward the window.

  Wendy heard a birdcall—soft and low, but clear and beautiful, slicing cleanly through the air.

  “It’s McKenna!” Jenkins said, startled. “It’s McKenna, walking straight toward us.”

  Wendy tried to rise. She sat up, wincing against the hold of the rope on her wrists. Her heart began to leap and slam—and sink. What was he doing? Tears stung her eyes. He was coming for her! Well, of course he would. It was his job. Even if he had barely known her, he would have come for her. It was what he did for a living.

  But he shouldn’t have. Not that way. He shouldn’t have just come to give up his life for hers. Didn’t he know...?

  “He’s alone,” Jenkins said harshly. “He took the damned airboat and came out here alone. We don’t need him! We need the damned Indian.”

  Michaelson looked pensively at Wendy.

  “We’ve still got the girl.”

  She forced herself to stare straight at him, trying to look calm. She had to stop panicking.

  Brad was no fool. Nor was he alone. She had to proceed carefully.

  Michaelson turned back to the window.

  “When he comes close enough, shoot him,” he told Jenkins.

  “No!” Wendy screamed.

  “Shoot him in the kneecap. Make it painful, make it slow. Make him see what happens to spies in my camp.”

  “No!” Wendy staggered to her feet. “No! So help me, you touch him, and I’ll never help you find a thing. Your dope can rot out there with your pilot—”

  “I can make her docile,” Pedro interrupted. He glanced out the window, then sauntered toward Wendy and picked up a handful of her hair. “I can make her scream and cry and take you any damned place you want to go, boss.”

  Wendy jerked her head back, staring at the man defiantly. “Can you? You’ll have to kill me first, and you won’t get anywhere at all if I’m dead, too, will you?”

  “Get away from the girl!” Michaelson ordered. “Leave
her the hell alone until I say! Jenkins, you, too, ass!” Jenkins had turned to watch the Latin man. Michaelson scowled at them both, then turned to look out the window again. “Where is he?”

  “What?” Jenkins demanded.

  Michaelson seemed to explode. “He isn’t there any more! McKenna has disappeared. Where the hell is he? I can’t see him anymore!”

  “He has to be out there!” Jenkins insisted.

  “Yes, he’s out there,” Michaelson said. “He’s out there, but it’s a trick! It’s some kind of a trick!”

  There was silence as they all stared out the window. Then Michaelson cursed them all. Swerving around, he pulled an automatic from his breast pocket. Long strides brought him to Wendy.

  He wrenched her in front of him, shoving the smooth steel of the gun against her cheek. “Let’s go, sweetheart. I want McKenna dead almost as much as those jerks want you alive. The same kind of pleasure, you know, the same kind of high.”

  She tasted the steel. A small cry of pain escaped her as he prodded her with the gun. He threw open the door and pushed her out into the sunlight.

  “McKenna! Show yourself.” The nose of the gun pressed against Wendy’s jaw. “Show yourself. Or else your girlfriend loses her face. You’ve got ten seconds. I’m counting. Do you hear me, McKenna? I’m counting.”

  Wendy winced, afraid to swallow. She heard the gun cock. She felt it, icy cold and hard against her skin. She closed her eyes, afraid to imagine the explosion of the flesh.

  “I’m counting, McKenna. I’m counting!” Michaelson repeated in fury. “You’ve got until ten. One, McKenna. Two. Three, McKenna. Four. Five. Six...”

  13

  “Stop!”

  The metallic nose of the gun relaxed against Wendy’s face at the cry. But it wasn’t Brad who appeared this time; it was Eric.

  He eased out from the tangle of foliage on the hammock and started walking toward them with long strides.

  “I want McKenna, boy!” Michaelson called out. “You and your little girlfriend here can give us a few directions, and then go on your way. But I want McKenna. I have a score to settle with him.”