Lindsey was pummeled as the force of the rollovers slammed her body repeatedly against the car door, her head, shoulder and hip slammed into the window, over and over. She felt her own blood trickling down her forehead.
When will this end, she wondered?
The Suburban finally came to rest. The motion stopped while the vehicle was upright, on all four wheels. Barely conscious, Lindsay heard the sounds of multiple gunshots penetrating the hull of the vehicle. None of the bullets hit her.
She was badly bruised and barely conscious. Her left arm, hip and shoulder were badly injured . . .
. . . but she was alive.
She sat motionless, dazed, trancelike. She could smell the distinct aroma of hot antifreeze from the radiator, mixed with the smell of gasoline. She heard the hissing of a leaky radiator hose as a warning indicator beeped a steady rhythm.
Her car door opened. She heard an unfamiliar man’s voice. She turned toward the sound and saw a mountain of a man standing over her. He looked to be Native American. He held an enormous revolver, pointing it directly between Lindsay’s eyes.
He sneered at her, “So, the little rich bitch is still alive, huh? I was told you were a tough little scrapper.”
“Who the hell are you?” she asked, faintly.
“The last man you will ever see,” he replied.
“My son . . .” Lindsay managed to say.
“Your son is going to die, right after your mother pays us off,” he threatened. “Hank Rattling Thunder sends his regards by the way.”
“No . . . please,” Lindsay pleaded. She was losing consciousness.
The man cocked his weapon and placed the barrel against Lindsay’s forehead, “Please this, you little whore.”
He grinned. Lindsay saw the man’s index finger squeezing the trigger. She closed her eyes, preparing for death.
Chapter 7
Jim Andrews called Agent Robert Collins; the lead agent assigned to guard Matty Yellow Wolf in the ICU of Sheridan Memorial Hospital.
“Heads up, Bobby,” Andrews said when Collins answered. “Lindsay Vanderbilt is on her way to your position.”
“At this time of night?” Collins questioned. “Why?”
“Apparently there is some change in Yellow Wolf’s condition,” Andrews replied.
“That’s news to me, boss,” Collins replied. “I’ve been outside his room for hours. It’s all quiet on the Western Front.”
“What do you mean, all quiet?”
“I mean, the nurses have been checking on him every fifteen minutes,” Collins reiterated. “The man is still in a coma. There’s been no change.”
Andrews began to worry, “When was the last time a doctor went into his room?”
“The log says eight-twenty-three,” Collins noted.
“Damn, that’s over three hours ago,” Andrews barked. “Are you sure?”
“Hold on, Jim,” Collins said. “The head nurse is walking by. Excuse me, nurse.”
“Yes?” replied Nurse Meade.
“Has there been any change to Matty Yellow Wolf’s condition?”
She shook her head, “None. He’s still in a coma resting comfortably. He’s stable.”
“Thank you,” Collins said to Nurse Meade before putting the phone to his head. “Jim, there’s been no change. Something’s wrong.”
“Dammit!” exclaimed Andrews. “I have to go. Lock the place down. Someone slipped into the hospital and made a call from a Sheridan Memorial Hospital phone to Lindsay claiming Yellow Wolf’s condition changed and asked her to come to the hospital.”
“The call was made from the hospital?” Collins asked. “Are you sure?”
“Lindsay specifically said she went into a panic when she saw Sheridan Memorial Hospital come up on her Caller ID. Figure it out, Bobby. This happened thirty minutes ago.”
“I’m on it, boss,” Collins replied.
Andrews hung up and dialed Agent Reynolds. The call went straight to voicemail. He hung up and dialed Agent Silver—also voicemail. He tried Lindsay—same result. He hung up and dialed another number. His call was answered on the first ring.
“Jay, it’s Andrews here. I have a Code Red. Fire up the chopper. I need twenty butts with assault rifles in the air in fifteen minutes.”
Chapter 8
Lindsay’s eyes were closed as the assassin began to squeeze the trigger.
An enormous forearm of a second man appeared in the cab of the vehicle and knocked the gun upward. The weapon went off. It sounded like a cannon booming. The bullet ripped an enormous hole into the roof, making Lindsay’s ears ring.
She opened her eyes in time to see the assassin being dragged away from the vehicle.
Lindsay was too stunned to move as she listened to the struggle occurring outside. The fighting happened behind the Suburban, out of her sight. She heard the hand-to-hand combat: punches; choking sounds; grunts; wailing; a body being slammed against the vehicle. She heard one final, extended gagging sound before all fell silent.
The silence was broken by heavy breathing, coming from the victor, now severely winded by the conflict. Lindsay didn’t know if the victor was the assassin or the savior. She heard him groan as he hoisted himself off the ground and then listened to his heavy footsteps approaching.
When she first saw the man appear in the doorway, she couldn’t make him out. It was dark and his face was shrouded by shadows. The man moved closer until the ambient moonlight filtering through the window revealed his face.
She felt a huge hand on her forehead. He was wiping her hair away. His touch was gentle and soothing.
Lindsay smiled weakly.
“Jackson,” she whispered. “You are alive. I knew you’d come.”
John ‘Jackson’ Rainhorse did not smile or react in any way. He gave Lindsay a quick once-over. She was covered in blood, but almost none of it was hers. It was arterial spray from the two dead agents. Her arm was badly bruised but not broken.
She winced when he touched her side. He noted two ribs cracked. She got a pretty good thump on the head, creating a three-inch laceration that wasn’t too deep. He doubted she had a concussion, but she needed to be checked out. All in all, she was banged up but when he first saw the Suburban rolling over, he expected much worse. She was going to be ok.
He unbuckled her belt and slipped his arms under her legs and around her back, carefully lifting her out of the vehicle.
“My purse,” she mumbled. “It has my phone.”
Rainhorse lowered her and paused while Lindsay retrieved her purse from the seat. He carried her to the vehicle he arrived in, an ancient Dodge pickup truck.
He slipped her into the passenger seat and buckled her in. He pulled two bottles of water from a gym bag in the back seat. He opened open and help Lindsay take a good long drink. He handed her the bottle.
“Stay here,” he ordered.
“Trust me, I’m not going anywhere.”
He closed the door and walked over to the killer he’d subdued. Rainhorse had put him into a sleeper hold, rendering him unconscious. He reached into the man’s pockets and pulled the assassin’s cell phone and wallet, then fished out his ID. He opened the phone’s photo gallery and swiped through several pictures stored on it.
Satisfied, Rainhorse grabbed the unconscious man by the hair and pulled him up into a sitting position. He lightly slapped the man on the face several times.
“Hey scumbag, wake up,” Rainhorse barked.
The assassin blinked several times then passed out again. Rainhorse repeated the process and splashed a healthy dose of water on the man’s face. The assassin woke and winced in pain.
“Shit. It hurts. What did you do to me?”
“A better question might be what will I do to you?” Rainhorse replied.
The assassin froze and looked him in the eye. His eyes widened in shock as he recognized the large Cheyenne standing over him.
“I see you know who I am,” Rainhorse noted.
The man nodde
d and coughed, “Yeah, I know who you are. They told me you were dead.”
He groaned again.
“You are not that lucky,” the former Ranger attested.
“You broke my arm and my leg, asshole.”
“I am slipping. I intended to break both your arms. Where are they holding the boy?” he asked.
“Piss off,” the fallen man wheezed. “I’m not telling you anything.”
“I pulled your ID,” Rainhorse said. “You are Henry Dancing Bear. I knew your daddy, scumbag that he was. He died in prison what, six years ago?”
“Seven,” came the reply.
It was true. Rainhorse knew the assassin’s father, Marvin Dancing Bear. He had been local muscle for Hank Rattling Thunder for many years. He also knew about Marvin’s son, who carried on in his father’s footsteps after his old man went to prison. Henry Dancing Bear had a reputation for being ruthless and evil, but it was also rumored he had a wife and two children he valued above all else.
Dancing Bear glared at the former Ranger; there was hate in his eyes.
“You fucked me up, asshole. It will be a miracle if I heal right.”
“You killed two federal agents. You tried to kill a person most precious to me,” Rainhorse glowered. “You’re alive. That’s the only miracle coming your way.”
“What now?”
Rainhorse held up Dancing Bear’s cell phone. On the display was a picture of a beautiful Sioux woman and two small children. “So . . . this. Nice looking family, better than you deserve. The children . . . they look to be about what . . . four and six?”
“You leave my family out of this, you son-of-a . . .”
Rainhorse held up the picture, “Where is Hank Rattling Thunder holding Jackie?”
Dancing Bear gritted his teeth, “I don’t know.”
“Think of your family, Dancing Bear,” Rainhorse admonished. “You would not want to withhold information that might make me wish to harm them later, would you?”
Rainhorse was bluffing. He’d never harm an innocent woman or a child. He would, however, threaten to do so for leverage. Thus far, his bluff has never been called.
“You leave them alone, you bastard.”
“Tell me where they are holding the boy,” he demanded.
Dancing Bear gritted his teeth then let out a howl of exasperation, “I’m going to kill you.”
“Last chance, dirtbag,” Rainhorse replied. “You have five seconds to tell me where the boy is being held. Otherwise, I will kill you and find your wife and children before the sun comes up.”
“Okay, okay. They’re holding him in the barn of the old Crow Foot place,” Dancing Bear confessed.
“On Anderson road?”
Dancing Bear nodded.
“I know the place. How many men are there?”
“Six I know of,” he replied.
“Where are the guards positioned?”
Dancing Bear told him.
“Is the boy unharmed?”
“He is fine for now,” Dancing Bear replied.
“But they will kill him when the ransom is collected, won’t they?”
“You know how this works, Rainhorse.”
“Are HRT and Rose Rattling Thunder there?”
He shook his head, no.
“Where are they?”
“I don’t know, I swear.”
He believed Dancing Bear. He knew how Hank Rattling Thunder worked. He always operated from a remote location no one knew about, not even his top generals.
“You said you know who I am, so you know about my past—what I did for a living?”
“I do,” Dancing Bear acknowledged. “And I also know you are an honorable man. If you say you will not hurt my family, then you won’t.”
Rainhorse nodded.
“If everything you said to me is true, I will not harm your family,” he promised. “But if you have lied to me, I assure you . . .”
“Trust me, I already know what you’ll do if I lie,” Dancing Bear interrupted. “I don’t want my family dead. I’ve told you the truth.”
“Then I need you to do one last thing,” Rainhorse said.
“What?”
“I need you to call Hank Rattling Thunder and tell him Lindsay is dead. I assume you were going to check in.”
Dancing Bear nodded. Rainhorse handed him the phone.
“Make the call on speaker,” he commanded. “Be convincing. If you do not pull this off, everyone you love will suffer for the failure.”
Dancing Bear took the phone from Rainhorse and dialed. He heard Hank Rattling Thunder’s voice on the speakerphone.
“Is it done?” HRT asked.
“It is,” Dancing Bear replied. “The Vanderbilt woman is dead.”
“The agents guarding her?”
“Also, dead,” Dancing Bear assured.
“Good. You’ve done well. Go home to your family. Call me in the morning.”
“I will.”
Rainhorse clicked the end button, “Nicely done.”
“Are you going to kill me now?”
“No,” Rainhorse replied. “I would kill you in a second, but there is the matter of your wife and children.”
“You said you wouldn’t hurt them.”
“Not me, you idiot.”
“Who are you talking about?”
“Hank Rattling Thunder will soon know you failed to kill Lindsay. He will also realize you gave me the boy’s location. He is not a forgiving man. I’d recommend you send that pretty family of yours out of Ft. Peck as soon as possible. Understand?”
He nodded, “We’ll be gone by morning.”
“Not you, dumbass,” Rainhorse snapped. “You killed two federal agents. You are going to be tried and executed. What I meant was, you need to call that dead-beat cousin of yours, Grey Dog. Convince him to move your family . . . tonight.”
Dancing Bear sighed, “There is no other way?”
Rainhorse shook his head, no, “You should begin as soon as you wake up?”
“What do you mean, wake up?” Dancing Bear repeated.
Rainhorse slammed his rock-hard fist into Dancing Bear’s jaw. The man slumped to the ground unconscious.
Rainhorse walked back to the passenger door on the Blazer. Lindsay was rubbing her head.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“My arm and hip hurts, my head is pounding, and my side is sore as hell,” she described.
“Nothing is broken,” Rainhorse assured.
“Jackson, I’m covered in blood. I’ve got to get out of these clothes.”
“Neha’s gym bag is in the back,” he said. “She has sweatpants, a clean t-shirt and towels in it. There’s also more bottled water. I’ll get the bag for you.”
Rainhorse grabbed Neha’s bag, handed it to Lindsay and hopped into the driver’s seat, fired up the truck and put the vehicle into gear.
Lindsay spent the next ten minutes stripping off down to her bra and panties. She was comfortable being undressed in front of Rainhorse, who was respectful and eyes-forward as usual. There had been a few nearly naked moments in their shared pasts. She sponged herself off and slipped into Neha’s jeans and t-shirt, which fit surprisingly well. The t-shirt read, ‘I’m not short. I’m concentrated.’
“A neon orange truck,” Lindsay noted, “very subtle. And it’s a piece of shit. I’m surprised it runs.”
“It was all I had, and it got me here, didn’t it?”
“What took you so long?”
“I was attacked in Yemen. I came as quickly as I could.”
“I saw you talking to the man who killed those two agents and tried to kill me,” Lindsay said, still somewhat dazed. “Did you kill him?”
“No,” Rainhorse replied. “I need a couple of hours head start, so I clocked him. He will have a bad headache when he wakes . . . and perhaps a speech impediment.”
“How did you find me?” she asked, grabbing a second towel.
“A question for another time,” he said
.
“I have to get to the hospital, Jackson,” she insisted. “Matty’s condition has changed.”
“No, Matty’s condition is unchanged,” Rainhorse informed. “You were set up. Hank Rattling Thunder intended to kill you tonight and deal with your mother for Jackie’s ransom. He had someone make the call to you from the hospital, probably that evil daughter of his. The intent was to get you out of the house and away from most of your protection. HRT figured there would be less concern about your security until the ransom was paid. It turns out, he was right.”
“How can you possibly know all this?” Lindsay asked.
“I know you’ll find this hard to believe, but I still know a lot of people on this res. I can find things out.”
“By a lot of people, you mean your friend, Ellie Limberhand?” Lindsay asked. “How is she? I haven’t seen her in a while.”
Rainhorse shrugged.
Ellie Limberhand was a doctor’s assistant and a close friend of Rainhorse since childhood. Over the years Rainhorse called on her to patch his wounds or hide him out during times of crisis, and Ellie always answered the call. Ellie also knew everyone in the county who wielded influence and was networked into the information flow.
“I thought you were dead,” Lindsay admitted. “Is Neha ok, too?”
“Neha is fine. I brought her home with me. She is in a safe location.”
“The FBI told me you were dead. What happened?”
“Neha and I were working in Yemen. We were attacked in our bungalow in the middle of the night by four men,” he said.
“Agent Andrews said they killed you,” Lindsay recalled. “He said there was blood everywhere.”
“Oh, there was plenty of blood,” he admitted, “it just wasn’t my blood. I killed three of my attackers and captured the fourth, the leader. I made him tell me who hired him. I put two-and-two together pretty quickly and realized Hank Rattling Thunder was behind this. I knew you’d be in danger. I came right away.”
“How did you get the guy to talk?” Lindsay asked.
“I was forced to use . . . old tried and true methods,” he confessed.
“Never mind, I don’t want to know,” Lindsay pointed out. “Jackson, they took my son. They have Jackie.”
A Good Samaritan Page 5
