“Do you know where they are?”
“They spread themselves out over a bunch of locations. Dad probably knows more.”
As if on cue, the front door opened, and Freddie stepped out onto the porch. At six feet six, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Hulk Hogan, from his long blond and gray hair to the matching beard. He crossed the distance between them with rapid, anger-driven strides. Stopping in front of Mac, he glared. “What are you doing here?”
“I was just talking to Rafe,” Mac said. His body went tense as aggression radiated from the big man.
Freddie’s weathered face turned grim. “You shouldn’t have come here, Mac.”
“That’s not the welcome I expected.” Sweat broke out at the base of Mac’s spine. Something was wrong.
“I don’t owe you anything.” Freddie leaned over and spat tobacco juice into the dirt.
“What’s wrong, Freddie?” Mac cut to the chase.
Freddie drew a knife from the sheath at his waist. “Rumor has it that you’re a cop.”
“Really?” Mac held his gaze and prayed the river of sweat sliding down his back would be attributed to the heat.
“You were spotted riding along with a woman cop.” Freddie’s eyes dared him to deny it. “Where is she?”
“I came alone.” Mac would die before he led an angry Freddie to Stella.
“What’s the deal with the cop?” Freddie asked.
Mac considered a lie, but Freddie’s bullshit meter was prime. “Two women were abducted, tortured, and killed. I want to find the bastard who did it.”
Freddie tapped the flat side of his knife on his palm. “Wasn’t anyone here.”
“I didn’t think that for a minute.” Mac nodded. “But you know what goes on in this town. This killer is using heroin as his murder weapon.”
“I don’t work with cops. You’re awfully cozy with them lately.” Freddie’s thumb slid along the edge of his blade. “You’re right. I do know what goes on in this town.”
“Dad, this is Mac.” Rafe stepped forward. “He’s not a cop.”
Mac swallowed, his throat arid.
But Freddie didn’t take his gaze off Mac. “Do we look like fucking police informants?” Freddie gestured with the knife. “Why are you really here? Are you setting us up?”
Rafe put a hand on his father’s shoulder. “Mac wouldn’t do that.”
Rafe’s faith in him stirred up old feelings. They’d been close. They’d been arrested together, and Lee had gotten them off without charges. Mac had once saved Rafe’s life. But Freddie would make no exceptions. None. Sure, Mac had run with Rafe in his youth, but Freddie was a hard man. Anyone who crossed him ended up at the bottom of a lake tied to cinderblocks.
That’s how he kept a tight rein on the violent men he led.
“People change, Rafe,” Freddie said.
They did indeed.
Did Freddie know that Rabbit was gone? If he didn’t, Mac certainly wasn’t going to bring up the subject.
“I’m sorry I bothered you.” Mac eased backward.
Freddie flipped the knife into a reverse grip. Mac used his peripheral vision to track the other men in the group. He didn’t recognize any of them. But working for Freddie warranted hazardous duty pay. Membership turned over frequently.
The knife rose into a pre-strike position in front of Mac’s chest.
How long had he been gone?
If he didn’t turn up, Stella would go for help. But what did it matter? By the time she returned with backup, Mac would be dead.
There was no way he was going to talk his way out of this. Nor could he possibly fight off a dozen well-trained, heavily armed men. His heart stammered. A few years ago, the prospect of dying wouldn’t have bothered him that much, but now everything was different. Grant, Hannah, the kids . . .
Stella.
A red dot appeared in the center of Freddie’s chest. He froze. “Looks like you didn’t come alone after all.”
All eyes tracked the laser scope’s trajectory. Something glinted at the top of the fire tower.
Stella?
“You’ll be the first man down,” Mac said to Freddie. Smart girl. She’d picked out the leader from a hundred yards away.
Freddie lowered his knife and took a step back. The red dot followed him. “I suggest you leave town.” Or Freddie’s men would find him, and they would kill him. “You have family here. I’d hate for anything to happen to them.”
The threat to Mac’s family turned fear to fury. This wasn’t over. He backed out of the clearing. Thunder cracked, and lightning streaked across the sky as the storm broke. Once he was out of sight, he turned and sprinted for the car. The downpour soaked his clothes in seconds. Stella was climbing down the tower, her rifle slung across her back. She slipped on a wet rung, recovered, and finished her descent. He jumped into the car and started the engine. As soon as she slid into the passenger seat, he sped away as fast as the rutted lane would allow.
“That was quick thinking.” He steered the sedan around a deep hole in the road. “I’m impressed.” Stella was awesome.
“I added the laser scope after the last shooting, and I told you I wasn’t letting you go in there alone.” She brushed water from her eyes and pulled out her phone. Her hair was plastered to her head. “No signal.”
“You know what?” He couldn’t control the crazy grin that spread across his face. “My father would have loved you.”
Rain poured onto the windshield as Mac gave her a brief summary of his conversation with Freddie. The tires slid on a patch of mud, and Mac slowed the car.
“What will you do?” Stella asked. “Leave town?” Even though Mac hadn’t intended to stay, he certainly wasn’t leaving Scarlet Falls with his family on Freddie’s radar. Having that knife in his face had given him a crash course in what was important in his life. Grant, Hannah, the kids . . .
Stella.
Freddie’s quick turn on Mac had also taught him that the loyalty between them only went one way, and was therefore, null and void. Freddie hadn’t been there for Mac as a teen, he’d used him. Whatever bond had existed between Mac and Rafe was just as twisted. After all, Mac owed his time in rehab to Rafe.
“No. I’m not running. I’ll have to deal with the gang. I should have done it years ago, but it was easier to go fight drugs in a different country than face a hard decision at home.” But no more. Freddie’s operation was going down.
He turned onto the paved road. The car rocked in a gust of wind, and the windshield wipers couldn’t keep up with the deluge.
Stella turned and peered behind them. “I see headlights.”
Real terror streaked up Mac’s spine. He couldn’t let Freddie and his crew get their hands on Stella. She was a cop, and they’d know it in seconds. He pressed harder on the gas pedal, but off-road, the Honda couldn’t outpace one of the gang’s monster SUVs, especially not in this storm.
Stella squinted through the windshield. “I don’t know how you can see the road.”
He could see well enough to know that water was rising under the car.
“The road is flooding. We need to find higher ground.” His gaze went to the rearview mirror. “I can’t see if that’s one of Freddie’s SUVs behind us, but I can’t take the chance.” He glanced at her. “If they catch us, we’re dead.”
A bridge loomed ahead. On the other side, the road inclined, but water covered the surface. Could they make it? He glanced in the side mirror. The headlights were closer. They had to try. Mac gunned the engine.
The car was halfway across the bridge when the vehicle began to drift sideways.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“Hold on!” The wheel was loose in Mac’s hands. He held his breath. The tires of the Honda gripped the road again, and the car chugged onto the road on the other side. Behind them, water washed over the bridge.
Stella pressed a hand to the center of her chest. “That was close.”
“We made it.” Mac checked the rearv
iew mirror. The river undulated behind them like a fat greedy snake. “There’s no way Freddie’s men got across. I think we’re safe.”
For now.
Mac checked his phone. Still no cell reception. Grant and Hannah had to be warned, and Mac would have to deal with Freddie.
Stella bent forward and put her head between her knees.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes. Sometimes an adrenaline crash makes me throw up. You might need to pull over. Thankfully, I usually wait until after a high stress situation is over to get sick.” Stella’s voice was tight.
“Better than during,” Mac said. “Seriously, you were great. You really saved my butt back there. You can watch my six anytime.”
She pressed a hand to her mouth. “Even if I throw up afterward?”
“Breathe through it. You’ll be all right.” Mac reached over and rubbed her back. She needed a distraction. “I’ve hurled a time or two. Have I ever told you about my childhood?”
She shook her head. “Not much.”
“The Colonel put us through training exercises.” Mac slowed the car now that the bridge was behind them. “We learned hand-to-hand, how to handle weapons, and advanced survival training.”
Stella’s next breath was a slow, audible inhalation through her nose. She blew the air out through her clenched teeth.
He opened the dashboard vents, directed the air toward her face, and continued, “There was this one time when we practiced water rescue drills.”
As he told the story, the memory was so clear, he could feel the cold of the water on his skin, the weight of his wet clothes dragging him down . . .
He barely heard his father’s speech. Treading water in jeans, boots, and a backpack took all his concentration. When he tried to look up at the Colonel, the spotlight shining off the back of the house caught him in the eyes.
The Colonel’s super-light wheelchair rolled past. “Time.”
Mac swam for the edge of the pool. Grant hauled him out as easily as if he were a puppy that had fallen in.
“Well done,” the Colonel said. “Catch your breath, Mac.”
Mac’s shoulder muscles quivered under his wet T-shirt as he took his place in line. As the youngest of the Barrett siblings, he was the last to participate in every drill.
The Colonel spun his chair to the edge. Except for the spotlight, the water rippled dark in the September night. The pool was a standard thirty-six-by-eighteen backyard size, built long before the Colonel’s injury, when backyard parties were part of summer vacation. Now the pool was used for conditioning and for the Colonel’s aquatic physical therapy sessions. In the winter, he used an indoor hydrotherapy.
Mac shivered. Hannah stood next to him, and he could hear her teeth chattering. At the end of the week, the pool would be closed for the winter. The weather had just turned, and though the water remained in the seventies, the air was much cooler.
“Next up, rescue drills. Grant, you’re first. Lee, you’re timekeeper.” Before any of the four kids could blink, the Colonel tossed a stopwatch to Lee then used his jacked arms and shoulders to push himself from the chair over the edge. His body hit the water like a bag of powdered cement. From the waist down, his body was sheer deadweight. Instead of attempting to keep himself afloat, the Colonel hugged his torso, expelled the air from his lungs with a trail of bubbles, and let himself sink.
Grant jumped in the water before their father hit the bottom. Using brute strength, he hauled him up with little difficulty. They broke the surface and gasped for air. Grant towed the Colonel to the side.
“Hannah, you’re up,” the Colonel said. “Push me back out to the middle, Grant.”
No. The Colonel couldn’t expect Mac to do this drill. That was insane.
Hannah took her turn. No fear crossed her face, only a little disappointment when her time was seconds slower than Grant’s. Lee, whose swimming was significantly better than his wilderness survival skills, managed to beat Hannah, something that didn’t happen very often. Lee’s arms trembled as he guided the Colonel to the edge.
Mac’s entire frame shook; his muscles went slack with exhaustion and terror. His heart flailed in his chest. Grant and Lee were both well over six feet tall. Even Hannah, at fourteen, had reached five-ten. But at twelve, Mac hadn’t experienced his promised growth spurt yet. He was short and scrawny, and the Colonel, even after his legs had atrophied, was still a large man. With a full meal in his belly and pockets full of rocks, Mac might be half his father’s weight.
How could he possibly pull the Colonel from the water before he drowned? How could he not? Grant moved toward the water, ready to assist.
The Colonel raised a hand. “Stand back. Mac can do this. Lee, out of the water. Get some towels.
Mac swallowed. The cold air vanished as fear heated his body. Clammy sweat broke out under his arms.
“Ready?” Holding his head up with one arm on the side of the pool, complete confidence shone from the Colonel’s eyes. “Remember, being smart is just as important as being strong. Stay calm and think. Panic is your worst enemy, especially in the water. Panic will get you killed.”
Mesmerized by the piercing blue of his father’s eyes, Mac nodded.
The Colonel pushed away from the edge and began to sink.
Mac jumped into the water, the cold not even registering on his skin. He dove to intercept the Colonel before he hit bottom. Water closed over his head and filled his ears, deafening him. He grabbed the back of his father’s shirt and pulled, kicking with his feet and paddling with his free hand. But they didn’t move. Mac couldn’t propel them both toward the surface. His lungs burned. His brain scrambled. His mouth opened, emitting a stream of air and filling with water.
He couldn’t do it. They were both going to drown. He was a split second away from letting go and summoning Grant when his father tugged on his arm. His eyes were open and still full of confidence, even though his lungs must have been screaming. Mac’s were. The Colonel pointed toward the shallow end of the pool.
And Mac understood. Renewed purpose lent him strength.
He planted his boots on the concrete bottom and walked up the incline, using the muscles of his legs to pull his father behind him. The entire incident took less than ninety seconds, but Mac felt as if he’d aged ten years when their heads broke the surface. The cold air that filled his lungs felt like a thousand needle pricks. Lightheaded, Mac rolled the Colonel onto his back and pulled him toward the steps. Grant and Lee waded into the water and helped lift the Colonel out onto the concrete. They wrapped him in a blanket. Hannah grabbed Mac’s hand and guided him up the steps. She wrapped a thick towel around his shoulders and patted him on the back, her best effort at comforting him.
Numb and weak-legged with relief, Mac sank onto the patio. The adrenaline that had fueled the rescue drill left him high and dry. Nausea flooded him. He scrambled for the flowerbed and hurled pool water into the shrubs.
“I knew you could do it,” the Colonel said. “There’s no shame in puking after you get the job done.” The Colonel laughed and reached over to slap him on the shoulder.
“My father was a crazy bastard,” Mac said.
He could still picture the Colonel’s face, his raw determination, his complete confidence in Mac. As a kid he didn’t realize what was happening, how the Colonel had been manipulating his emotions. But now Mac understood how the Colonel had lead his troops. His sheer force of will had been contagious, and just as his soldiers had followed his orders in battle without question, his children had followed his lead into insanity.
But he’d taught Mac a few things about determination and faith.
“No kidding,” Stella agreed.
“The next day he shoved us into a pool, blindfolded and with our hands bound.”
“What?” Stella stared at him. “That’s crazy.”
“It was OK. We lived. He taught us not to panic.”
“Sounds like your father took his water drills seriously.”
/>
“The Colonel took everything seriously.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Two hours later, Stella climbed out of the car in front of her house. Local flooding had forced them to take a long detour. Her still-damp clothes clung to her body. She couldn’t wait to shower and change. “We can lock the rifle in the trunk.”
“Without cleaning it?” Mac’s tone disapproved.
“You’re right. I’m sure there’s moisture in the barrel.”
The storm had passed, and the yard smelled wet and fresh. Still carrying the rifle, Mac followed her up the walk. “Big house.”
“After my dad was killed, Mom couldn’t wait to get us all out of the city.” She led him toward the front door. “She was tired of being crammed in a tiny house with four kids.” And her husband’s memory.
“I couldn’t live in the city,” Mac said. “Too many people. Not enough trees. It always feels like it’s short on oxygen.”
The door wasn’t locked. She opened it and walked into the empty kitchen. Stella scanned the family room. Where was everyone? “My mother did everything she could to get us out of the city and away from the police force. She didn’t want any more Danes in law enforcement.”
“Since you’re a cop, I assume that didn’t work out for her.”
“Not at all. My brother is NYPD SWAT. My sister, Peyton, is a forensic psychiatrist. She’s been working in California for the past couple of years. Morgan lives here with her kids. She was an assistant prosecutor in Albany before her husband died in Iraq.”
“What does she do now?”
“Not much, if you don’t count arts-and-crafts projects with the girls. “The first year after John’s death was awful. Morgan quit her job and moved in here with her girls. But lately, the local district attorney has been cozying up to her. He wants her to work for him.” Stella hoped Morgan was ready to work or date again, or take up a hobby—anything to get her out of the house.
“Morgan is the one you asked to pick up Gianna?”
“Yes.” Knowing she wouldn’t get to the dialysis center in time, Stella had called her sister as soon as her phone had picked up service. Gianna would never get into a cop car, so she couldn’t send a uniformed officer, but the girl had met Morgan a couple of times when Stella had brought her back to the house for dinner. Gianna would go to the station with Morgan.
Seconds to Live (Scarlet Falls) Page 21
