Mountain Shelter

by Cassie Miles

  “Skinny?”

  “No tan, no muscles, thick glasses.”

  “And lonely,” she said.

  “So true.”

  “That’s the curse of being really smart. The other kids ostracized me and, to be quite honest, I didn’t blame them. I was totally caught up in my studies.”

  “I was never sad,” he said.

  “Me neither. My isolation came because nobody else could understand what I was doing, and that stung. But I wasn’t depressed.”

  “When did you find people who could understand you?”

  “In med school,” she said. “For the first time in my life, I wasn’t always the smartest kid in the room.”

  “My wake-up came during my first year in high school when I had a monster growth spurt. I was still a nerd, but a very tall nerd that coaches wanted to get into sports. I liked the stats and symmetry of team games, but they weren’t for me. I started biking and running. And I found that those exercises were a good way to shut out the rest of the world and think. I’ve done Ride The Rockies twice.”

  “The bicycle race out of Grand Junction? Isn’t that four hundred miles or something?”

  “The last time I did it, a couple of years ago, the route was 465 miles and 40,537 vertical feet.”

  “Well, that’s one thing we don’t have in common,” she said. If he was looking for a riding partner, he needed to search elsewhere. “I’ve always been a klutz.”

  He gallantly said nothing, but she knew he’d noticed. Wherever she went, there were spills and stumbles. That was why their passion had been so incredible for her. Every kiss, every caress felt choreographed, completely right in every way.

  He drove around the edges of Buena Vista, which were less quaint than the downtown area where there were several diners, lodges, motels and hotels. In the spring, there were lots of tourists. This area was renowned for white-water rafting. Along the Arkansas were several small businesses, all of them dark and seemingly deserted.

  She pointed to a sign. “Kayaks. It’s an A-frame. That means there are two stories.”

  “I see it,” Dylan said.

  Her fear came rushing back, but it wasn’t overwhelming. She could handle it. “Why aren’t we stopping?”

  “Sean and I agreed that we should treat this approach as if there’s danger. For all I know, Tank is working for Koslov. Or the computer communications were sent by Koslov.”

  “Not the message with the code,” she said. “Koslov isn’t that clever. If he forced Tank to send it, Tank would have embedded something to warn you.”

  They went silent. Her ears rang with each beat of her pulse. Tension coiled her gut. He drove about a mile and made a right turn away from the river and into a lightly forested area where he parked and killed the lights. Sean drove in behind them. They got out of their cars and met in the middle.

  The chill wind made her glad that she’d worn her dark green parka with the fake fur around the hood. Though there was no one in sight, they spoke in low voices.

  “We’ll drive closer in one of the cars,” Sean said. “We park near the river. The noise from the rapids will cover our approach. I’ll go first and tell you when to follow.”

  “Got it,” Dylan said.

  Sean popped the trunk on his car, took out bulletproof vests and handed them around. “It’s going to be big on you, Jayne. I don’t have anything smaller.”

  She fastened the vest over her parka and clothes. Not only was it too big, but the stiff edges felt like she was packaged up inside an iron shoe box.

  Dylan passed out the earbuds and told her, “This device is active and transmitting. Turn it on like this and off like that. Tuck it into your ear, and I can hear you up to three hundred yards away. Don’t say anything unless you sight danger. Stick with me.”

  None of the instructions sounded particularly difficult, and she hoped she wouldn’t somehow make a mistake. Her adrenaline was already pumping. Her pulse accelerated as she climbed into the back of Sean’s car with Dylan beside her. Both men were armed with semiautomatic rifles and handguns.

  She asked, “Should I have a weapon?”

  “No.” They spoke with one voice. The sound of their actual voices mixed with the voices inside the earbud, and they sounded like four refusals instead of just two.

  “What if,” she said, “someone comes after me?”

  “Stay close to me,” Dylan said.

  “And if you get injured?”

  “I won’t.”

  This moment was a test of just how much she trusted him. They’d already gone through a trial by fire at the hospital when Koslov had grabbed her and Dylan had pursued without hesitation. This was different. Dylan was literally risking his life to protect her.

  Sean nudged his car along the edge of the road. The headlights were off. He parked and disabled the overhead interior car light before they opened the door and climbed out.

  The rushing sound of the river masked the little noises they made as they crept through the forest. Sean went first. She followed him. And Dylan brought up the rear.

  Staying on a path that followed the shoreline, they went through the backyard of a private home that was far from the river and close to the road. Very few people occupied the land closest to the water. Nearly every spring, the runoff from the high mountains sloshed over the river’s edge. Flooding was a real possibility.

  They crept along a narrow dirt track past pines and rocks and shrubs. Inside her parka and bulletproof vest, she started to sweat. Though she’d stumbled a couple of times, she hadn’t fallen flat on her face.

  The flimsy A-frame had a sign suspended from the peak of the letter A—KAYAK. The rest of the space on the road side of the building had signage listing brand names for kayaks, as well as rates for lessons, rentals and purchases.

  More significantly for them was a sign on the glass window in the door. Dylan pointed to it. Wi-Fi was available inside. The owner of the kayak shack might be cyberpals with Tank.

  Sweat prickled under her armpits and along her hairline. She clustered in a tight threesome with the two brothers who seemed to communicate without words. Sean had peered inside through the filthy glass window in the door. He lowered his hand and tried the door handle. It turned easily.

  When they entered, moving quietly but not silently, Sean went to the single winding flight of stairs near the front entrance. The lower floor was packed with displays of kayaks, associated equipment and clothes. A trophy was mounted on the back wall near the cash register.

  She stuck like Velcro to Dylan as he crossed the display room to the counter. Behind the counter was a door. He opened it slowly. This room had no windows. He took a Maglite from his jacket pocket and turned it on. The bright beam crisscrossed the messy back office where invoices and unopened mail spewed across a desk that also had a neat stack of personal checks in the corner. Was this shack a front for something else? Or just an example of sloppy business practice?

  She heard her name being called from upstairs and moved to respond.

  Dylan caught her arm. “I go first.”

  “That was your brother’s voice.” Surely, he trusted Sean.

  She heard Sean in her earbud. “Come quick, Jayne.”

  Together, she and Dylan raced to the staircase at the front of the shop. Dylan went first. At the top of the staircase, he aimed his Maglite beam at hazy forms of sofas and chairs and desks in the semidarkness of a slanted second floor with only one window.

  Sean squatted on the floor over the heaving body of a scrawny, shirtless young man whose face was bloody. Spatters of blood marked his torso and arms. He gulped down air in violent gasps. Convulsions caused the jungle of tattoos on his arms and chest to writhe.

  Panic gripped Jayne’s gut. A drug overdose? Where was the blood coming from? She recoiled
, feeling like a turtle shrinking back inside her bulletproof shell. It had been a long time since her training rotation in the emergency room. She wanted to run away, but that wasn’t an option. I am a doctor.

  She pushed Sean out of the way and knelt on the floor beside the young man whose body jerked convulsively.

  Accurate diagnosis would be difficult. First, she treated the symptoms, clearing the area so he wouldn’t hurt himself as he convulsed. “Can we turn on the light in here?”

  Through the earbud, she heard Dylan and Sean discuss the dangers of turning on a light. Since there was only the one window, they decided it was okay. In the dim glow of a bare lightbulb near the center of the room, the second-floor apartment was dull and dingy, as though every surface was covered with a layer of dust. She dragged over a cushion from the beat-up sofa. “Dylan, bring me a blanket and a damp washcloth.”

  She checked the tattooed body, neck and face as best she could while he was shuddering and lashing out. There didn’t appear to be any severe lacerations. Nothing like a gunshot or knife wound. Most of the blood seemed to come from his nose.

  When Dylan returned with the blanket and cloth, she touched the forehead of the tattooed young man. He was feverish. “This is Tank, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he have a medical condition that you’re aware of? Is he epileptic? Does he take drugs?”

  “I don’t know his medical history. We’re not buddies, don’t hang out together. If he does drugs, it’s probably only pot.”

  “Then, we have a problem.” Immediately, she corrected herself. “Another problem. I’m guessing that Tank is having an overdose from an amphetamine-based stimulant.”

  “And if he didn’t take it himself, somebody gave it to him.” Dylan caught on quickly. “Somebody else was here with him.”

  And it wasn’t someone she wanted to meet.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dylan knew just enough about drugs to understand that they weren’t for him. He didn’t think Tank was into the drug scene, but if he was, his drug of choice would be an amphetamine, an upper, speed.

  He called to his brother, who had taken a position at the top of the staircase. “We got a problem.”

  “I heard,” Sean said. “I’ve been in touch with Sheriff Swanson. His deputies are coming, and he’s got an ambulance on the way.”

  “We’re not far from the hospital in Buena Vista. They’ll be here in a couple of minutes.”

  “I don’t get it,” Sean said. “If Koslov was here and gave your buddy Tank drugs, why did he leave? This A-frame is a neat setup for an ambush.”

  It didn’t make sense. Koslov was famous for not leaving witnesses behind. Why had he given Tank drugs? Why hadn’t he launched an ambush? Why were any of them still alive?

  “He doesn’t want us dead,” Dylan said. “He wants Jayne. And he wants her in good shape. He’s not going to come after us.”

  “Well, in case he changes his mind and we get into a shoot-out, I want you down here with me by the staircase. It’s the only access to the second floor.”

  Glancing over his shoulder, Dylan saw that Tank’s seizure was slowing down. Jayne had turned him on his side and elevated his head and shoulders. Through the earbud, Dylan heard her talking to Tank, asking his name, asking if he knew where he was.

  “Is he saying anything?” Dylan asked.

  “He’s unresponsive,” she said. “I hope the ambulance gets here before he crashes.”

  “Stay with him.”

  Dylan had the strong feeling that the only reason Tank was still alive was to pass on a message. Koslov had used the hacker as bait to lure them to this place, and his ploy had been successful. They were here. Why didn’t Koslov attack?

  It would have been simple for a sharpshooter to lie in wait, to kill Sean and Dylan and to grab Jayne. While Dylan listened to his brother talking to the 911 dispatcher and explaining that there was a potential danger in approaching the kayak shack, he rolled the scenario around in his mind. Why did Koslov hold back?

  For one thing, Koslov didn’t know who would show up at the shack. If Dylan had more time and had been more plugged in to the investigation in Denver, he might have sent Cisneros and kept Jayne safely tucked away at RSQ. Koslov wouldn’t make an assault on a bunch of cops for no reason. He wanted Jayne.

  And he didn’t want her injured. That had to be the reason he hadn’t opened fire when he and Sean had shown up with the prize Koslov had been seeking. He couldn’t risk taking a shot at them and hurting Jayne. Why was it so important to keep from harming her?

  Drug cartels weren’t usually so considerate of the people they kidnapped. If they weren’t deliberately cruel, they treated their captives with calculated disregard for their comfort. No food. No water. Captives would be held in wretched surroundings. He hated to imagine what would happen to a woman as beautiful as Jayne if her care and safety was left to the discretion of Koslov and his men.

  Through the earbud, he heard Jayne soothing Tank as he tried to speak.

  “Doc...tor. Jayne. Help. Me. Doc...tor.”

  “That’s right,” she murmured. “I’m Jayne, and I’m a doctor. And you need to relax as much as you can.”

  “Water,” he said.

  “The ambulance is going to be here in a moment. You can have water then.”

  Dylan gazed back toward them. Jayne stroked Tank’s forehead with the damp washcloth, cooling his fever. At the same time, she had him wrapped in a blanket. He wasn’t going to question her methods, but he wondered if she’d spent too much time poking at brains to remember basic first aid.

  “You’re shivering,” she said. “Are you cold?”

  “Cold, Doctor, cold.”

  Dylan heard the wail of the ambulance and wondered if Koslov was hearing it, too. The assassin wouldn’t attack the local sheriff or the ambulance staff. There was no point, and shooting an officer would bring down the full force of Colorado law enforcement upon them. So much speculation—Dylan wished he had more answers.

  When Sean went downstairs to let the crew into the building, he moved to the center of the room and leaned over Jayne. “He hasn’t said anything.”

  “He’s cold and wants some water.” She looked up at him. “Since the ambulance was close, I didn’t want to give him anything to drink that his body might reject.”

  “You mean, he’d puke.”

  “Yes. I have no idea what kind of drug is invading his system. I looked around here and searched his pockets, couldn’t find anything.”

  “Koslov drugged him,” Dylan said.

  “Like he did with me.”

  “You guessed it.” He tucked the edge of the blanket around the shivering form of Tank Sherman. “Why are you dabbing his forehead to cool him down and covering him at the same time?”

  “The blanket is for shock. The washcloth is for fever. Patience is the main caregiving procedure now. Until they know what he overdosed on, treatment is problematic. I don’t want to make things worse for him.”

  When it came to medicine, she knew what she was doing. His job was to keep her safe.

  * * *

  JAYNE RODE IN the back of the ambulance with Tank and Dylan. It was too crowded, but she felt responsible for the skinny, tattooed hacker, and Dylan refused to leave her side. She couldn’t fault his behavior—staying with her was what a bodyguard was supposed to do. And she’d miss him if he left. To be totally honest, she felt very comfortable around the macho version of Dylan, probably because there was still a lot of nerd in him. With one hand, he held a semiautomatic pistol. With the other, he pushed his glasses up on his nose.

  At the Buena Vista hospital, she conferred with the other docs, scrubbed up and joined them in the OR where Tank was on an IV and a breathing apparatus. The drug he’d been given had damage
d his heart. Immediate bypass surgery was required.

  Her greatest concern was, of course, his brain. Even a moment without blood circulation to the brain could cause irreparable damage. In the operating room, she observed with her gloved hands clenched behind her back so she wouldn’t be tempted to interfere while Tank was hooked up to the cerebral-function monitor, a device to measure brain electricity. The neurologist at this small hospital was competent, someone she’d worked with before.

  Through the observation window for the OR, she watched Dylan standing guard and remembered the last time they were in a hospital. Dylan wasn’t moving. Sean came over to talk to him, and they stood with their heads together, no doubt discussing where her next safe house would be.

  She wished they could go back to RSQ Ranch. As soon as that thought occurred, she recognized the irony. Her interest in the animal kingdom was minimal. As a child, she’d never really had a pet and wasn’t interested in animals. But she would miss seeing the baby giraffe grow and riding Loretta the camel. There were horses in the RSQ corral that she hadn’t met. And her fingers were itching to stroke the soft fur of Checkers the cat.

  But that hideout was no longer a secret. Dylan knew the sheriff and his deputies, and they’d put together that he was both the owner of the RSQ Ranch and a bodyguard. If they returned, they might be bringing trouble with them, and she couldn’t bear the thought that any of the animals might be hurt because of her.

  She’d go wherever Dylan told her to go because she needed him to keep her safe. There were a hundred other reasons she wanted to be with him, starting with a desire to feel his lips pressed against hers.

  The neurologist stepped up beside her in the OR and asked, “Is there anything we should be doing for this young man? In terms of his neural functions?”

  “Not until after he’s stabilized,” she said quietly. “I’m sure there will be swelling of the brain and probably concussion. Before we loaded him in the ambulance, he was having a seizure, banging his head on the floor.”

  “Can I contact you later?”

  “Certainly,” she said. She didn’t approve of Tank’s lifestyle, using his intelligence to work on the outer fringes of what was legal and what wasn’t. But she would never deny her expertise to anyone who needed help.