The Hitman's Mistake

by Sally Brandle

  “I have a plan.”

  “Against a guy named Snake Neck?” She groaned. “I may be petite, but I’ll face your gun-toting reptile.”

  “I need you here. If Ike’s condition deteriorates, you’ll give Shirley wiser advice.”

  “Typical Miranda, always thinking of others.” She squeezed the shifter knob. “You and me, we’re two Phoenix birds rising from the flames of our past. Please, be careful.”

  “I’ll be okay. I promise.” Miranda smiled weakly. “Can I borrow your phone charger?”

  Corrin stopped the car at a red light, yanked the charger from the lighter, and handed it off. “Don’t worry. I’ll be there for Shirley and Ike.”

  A crowd passed in front of their bumper.

  Miranda clutched the cord and hunkered in her seat. “I know.”

  Outside Corrin’s window, a lone bicyclist dodged cars, trying to push through a swarm of traffic. Miranda’s next path sounded risky and unprotected, too. “Where are you meeting Mr. FBI?”

  “A mountain rendezvous,” Miranda said.

  “Shooting a judge means life in prison. You shouldn’t use a credit card. They can be traced,” Corrin said.

  “I never got a card. Find me an ATM and keep your car running. The cops may monitor my bank account. I’ll pay cash for my bus ticket, and I didn’t pay for the du—hotel yet.”

  Du? Of course, she’d packed for a dude ranch. No protection there. “When’s this stupid light going to change?” Corrin thumped the shifter knob.

  LEO’s accessed everything—building surveillance, all kinds of stuff. How would Miranda vanish without a trace? Her law firm’s in-house PI could find a way to monitor the bus route. “Use my Firebird.”

  “I don’t have a driver’s license, and I’ve never driven a stick.” Miranda pulled her hair over her face. “I’m ready to withdraw cash.”

  “You sit for now. We’ll use my money.” Corrin steered into a parking space fronting a bank. “How much?”

  Miranda squeezed the bump on her nose, revealing a phone number written in ink on her wrist. “Two thousand should be plenty.”

  “Be right back.” Corrin strode to the cash machine. She pulled a pen out of her pocket and jotted the first digits of the phone number onto scrap paper. How much stress could Miranda handle? She wasn’t cutting all ties this time to avoid dealing with death—she was bolting to stay alive.

  Corrin counted the twenties from the machine. What amount saved your life? She slid back into her seat and handed Miranda the cash. “I added three hundred.” She gently squeezed Miranda’s hand. “You’d better get some photos of this place. Sounds pricey.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  “So, I didn’t know the circumstances before I stuck your birthday gift from Aunt Iris and me into my gym bag. It’s bling. Don’t open it on the bus.”

  “I need a lucky talisman.”

  Corrin forced a fake smile. “It’s got our guarantee for happy trails.” She turned into the Greyhound parking lot. At the far end, two busses sat in an angled row, their fumes puffing white clouds into evening air.

  Arrivals and departures flashed on a sign above the door.

  “Good driving. We made it in time,” Miranda said, and pointed to the top of the reader board, where a Chicago departure pulsed. “My bus is still loading.”

  Corrin pulled into a parking space and shut off the engine. “Call me when you arrive.”

  Miranda’s fingers wobbled while she arranged strands of hair over her face. “After my phone’s charged. Thanks again. For everything. Gotta run.”

  Corrin leaned over the consul to grasp Miranda in a hug. “Hold steady. You’re one of the strongest people I know.” After they pulled apart, she clutched Miranda’s shaking hand as she memorized the rest of the inked number. “I love you.”

  “It’s what kept me going.” Miranda tugged the gym bag from the back seat and touched Corrin’s cheek. “Sister-of-my-soul, you be careful, too.”

  Corrin fought tears.

  “Bye,” they whispered to each other.

  Miranda stumbled through the door. She emerged holding a ticket.

  Corrin waved the ‘give me a call’ hand sign, like she did every day heading out for work.

  Miranda blew her a kiss, flashed her ticket to a uniformed driver, and boarded the bus.

  Corrin followed her dark form until she took a seat. She swiped off a tear. Ike could die, and a killer named Snake Neck had broken into the next-door apartment. Miranda’s life depended on protection from a virtual stranger who’d left for a mountain.

  The bus backed up, then slowly rumbled across the parking lot. At the street it turned right, toward the I-90 ramp.

  She pulled her phone and a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. The call to her Aunt Iris went to voicemail. She shifted to reverse, and did a head check before she eased the Firebird backward.

  Brakes screeched.

  Corrin shoved in the clutch and twisted around.

  A black sedan driven by a man veered around her trunk. The car slowed opposite the entry doors, then jetted out in the same direction as the bus.

  “Idiot,” she muttered. “This isn’t the Indie 500.”

  Bloody hell. Could he have been the gunman? Her mouth went dry. Seattleites owned thousands of black cars. But still . . . She hadn’t told Miranda to change out of her work clothes.

  Please, oh please, let Miranda’s phone have the juice to receive her warning call. She pulled out her cell.

  Chapter 3

  Stepping out to firm Montana ground, Miranda’s eyes traveled across a little crowd to a wiry cowboy holding a sign marked ‘Whitley.’

  She flicked a wave at him, and his weathered face brightened in a friendly smile. Deep creases in his cheeks proved he’d given out many. Heck, she’d bet he’d blown out over seventy-five candles on his last birthday cake.

  Behind him, tall posts bearing fluorescent lights scattered beams onto a dark expanse of blacktop. They shone a path to the Gas N Eat’s covered fuel pumps and convenience store.

  No bus terminal at her destination. Just another ten-minute pit stop for some passengers, while others would depart for home from the parking lot, carrying their assorted bags and bundles.

  Evening air held the crisp scent of fall.

  She rolled her neck from shoulder to shoulder, loosening tight muscles.

  A cattle truck turned in from the highway and rattled toward the pumps. Whiffs of animals and hay brought precious childhood memories of Dad and horses. He’d promised they’d visit a dude ranch someday. She swallowed hard.

  Her cowboy approached. “Howdy.” His slow drawl matched faded jeans and a sweat-stained Stetson. “You’re our Miss Whitley?”

  “Yes, sir.” Every muscle in her body begged for rest, but habit forced her lips into a pleasant smile—the phony one she’d honed for strangers.

  “My friends call me Pitch. On behalf of the Langleys, welcome to Montana.” He gave her hand two quick pumps.

  A gray-haired woman bustled past them. “Excuse me.” She waved frantically at a uniformed Marine stepping off the bus.

  The soldier caught sight of the woman and flashed a crooked grin, exactly like her brother’s had been. Miranda dropped her eyes to the ground.

  Brown, withered leaves blew across the pavement in front of her. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a breath, letting it out slowly.

  “Nothin’ like a good homecoming for a soldier,” Pitch offered.

  She cleared her throat. “Montana’s beautiful. Hope you knew about the delay.”

  “Sure did. They post arrival times on the Greyhound website. Wait ‘till you see our spread. You’ll get an eagle’s eye view during tomorrow’s trail ride. I’m assumin’ you had a good t
rip, ‘cept for being a few hours late?”

  “No complaints.” Stars sparkled in a bluish-purple sky, unimpeded by Seattle’s twenty-four-hour neon glare.

  The bus driver stood over the luggage he’d removed from the open storage compartments. “Get your baggage tags ready, folks.”

  “Let’s grab your suitcases and be off,” Pitch said.

  Corrin’s duffel bag sat at the end of the row laid out on the pavement. Miranda pulled out the receipt for the driver. “Mine’s the blue one.”

  “Any more?” Pitch lifted it using two fingers.

  “Nope.”

  “You pack mighty light for a gal.”

  “A good friend insisted I needed a retreat. You got me on short notice, carrying the bare essentials.”

  He patted her bag and grinned. “Works for us. I need to tell Kat I collected you.” He pulled out a cell and tapped in a message.

  Should she borrow his phone? No. The incoming call might display the ranch name. Calls to check on Ike and relay how safe she felt would be her first priority tomorrow morning, after her old phone charged. Her gaze shifted to a few dusty pickups parked out front of the convenience store.

  Pitch pocketed his cell and ushered her toward a faded red truck, sitting at least a hundred feet away, under the light pole closest to the highway. “The drive isn’t long, but it’ll be full dark before we get home.”

  She rubbed the sides of her arms and walked faster through the vacant end of the parking lot. “Seems plenty dark to me now.”

  “No city lights out here and no traffic jams. My old Chevy and I prefer the slower pace.”

  Binder twine secured the dented tailgate of a pickup straight out of the 50’s. “Hope you don’t mind it’s not a fancy limo.”

  “Any ride’s good, even a donkey cart,” she said, and headed to the passenger side.

  Gravel scattered while a black sedan veered into the lot. The front plate displayed Washington’s Mt. Rainier.

  Miranda’s pulse spiked.

  “Anything in particular you want to do at our ranch?” Pitch stepped between her and a view of the driver while it passed by. He swung her bag into the bed of the truck.

  “Ah, let me think.” Her eyes followed the vehicle crossing the parking lot, heading toward the bus. “I’d like to sleep without hearing traffic, eat country cooking, and enjoy your scenic trail ride.” She mentally ticked off the highlights from the ranch website.

  The sedan’s brake lights flickered bright red before it slowly passed the end of the Greyhound. A silhouette outlined a lone driver, his head turned toward the passengers milling around the bus door.

  She ducked behind the outside mirror on her side, spun around, and crouched by a metal Chevy emblem mounted on the front fender.

  The car cruised on to the store and backed into a spot too far away to see the driver.

  Pitch came around the truck and fished a ring of keys from his pocket. “Got your bag secured.” He cocked his head. “You drop something?”

  “Ah, no, cool emblem.” She patted the silver insignia on the fender. “It caught my eye. I love horses and pickups.”

  “The single thing still shining on this old girl. Wouldn’t have guessed you’re a cowgirl by your baseball cap and sneakers. Most of our guests arrive toting spanking new cowboy hats and boots.”

  “I packed my old boots, and my hat’s a keepsake.” She pushed the crown of Kenny’s ball cap onto her forehead. It didn’t provide any sense of invisibility from the car.

  “Yup, there’s more to being a cowboy than wearing the boots,” he chuckled. “Most’ve our keepsakes emit a cowpony essence.” Pitch rested his hand on one side of the outside mirror while she stayed crouched on the other.

  Come on dude, get out of your black car. “I’m looking forward to everything I brought smelling horsey.”

  “That’s good.” He opened her door. “If you’re done admiring the Chevy emblem, we can hit the road.”

  She scooted around him and hopped onto the seat.

  He glanced over his shoulder toward the dark car, then back to her. “I’m pretty good at readin’ people, and I’d say you’re carryin’ a lot more than a jacket on your shoulders.”

  “Hard to sleep on the bus is all.” She pulled her door shut.

  Rounding the front fender, he glanced at the car again, then slid onto his seat and started the engine. “My boss, Trey Langley, says I possess an uncanny ability to unriddle folks.”

  Great. “That’s nice.” She turned her head to the window.

  His hand wiggled the gear stick jutting from the floor. “I get a peculiar notion when somethin’ deep down’s botherin’ a person. Yup, they say if you haven’t fallen off a horse, then you haven’t been riding long enough.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He grinned at her. “Old cowpoke saying. Our horses are well-mannered.”

  “Happy to hear.” She strained to grin back. “Was that the Lazy K’s brand painted on my door?”

  “Yup, a tipped K in a circle.” He backed up, and steered onto the highway. “You’ve come to the right get-away spot.”

  The black car hadn’t moved.

  “Exactly what I needed.”

  “Our Lazy K’s a balm to heal strained nerves, or strained relationships.”

  Her only relationship problems were losing Venom and finding Grant. A lot of people drove black cars from Washington through Montana. Her body sank into the worn seat. “I’m ready to relax.” The yawn she produced wasn’t faked.

  Pitch thumped his palm on the steering wheel. “Yes, ma’am. A good dose of ranch livin’ and a heap of my Loretta’s cooking will have you bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked in no time.”

  During the eighteen-hour bus trip, she’d scrutinized every vehicle in sight and each new passenger. While Pitch drove through miles of open country, she focused on what lay ahead. At the bottom of a hill, they turned left onto a smaller paved road.

  Pitch slowed at a bend. “We’re following alongside Spruce Creek. In a moment, you’ll see the bridge over Plunging Rock Canyon.” He glanced twice in his rear view mirror.

  She looked over her shoulder. Lights blinded her from the vehicle riding their tail. “Are we being followed?”

  “Nah. A car wants to beat us to the old span bridge.” He slowed before another twist in the road. “I was taught, if you’re ridin’ ahead of the herd, look back every now and then to make sure it’s still there behind ya.”

  “I didn’t know the lodging came with a wagonload of cowboy wisdom. I like it.”

  “Glad to know.”

  Their headlights swept across a steep cliff and a dark chasm topped by a silver bridge. Its guardrails hugged the roadway.

  Pitch checked his mirror again and clenched the wheel. “Hold on!”

  A jolt threw Miranda against the window.

  Her front bumper glanced off the railing and banged a warning. The rickety section of posts and metal tipped toward the drop off to the river. “Look out!” she screamed.

  Pitch cranked the wheel, veering back to the left. She scooted her butt to the middle, the lap belt cutting into her waist. “They hit us!”

  “Damn right! Clipped my bumper!” He shoved the shift knob into low gear. His white-knuckled grip held them on a straight path.

  Reflected lights flashed in her side mirror. Too close. She twisted around. A single form darkened the front seat of the black car behind them. It surged toward their tailgate.

  “They’re going to ram us again!”

  An air horn blasted from in front of Pitch’s truck.

  Miranda spun around.

  Headlights beamed into their cab while a semi crossed the narrow bridge, using both lanes.

  Pitch continued to straddle the pav
ement and the narrow, graveled shoulder leading to the bridge.

  The tractor-trailer barreled by and tooted the air horn.

  Miranda clutched the dashboard while they rattled onto the bridge. A dark stream wound below the span. Way, way below.

  “We could’ve been pushed off the cliff,” she stammered, and inched back toward her door.

  “Not on my watch.” Pitch gunned it to cross the span. “I drove jeeps in the army over bamboo bridges. Car behind us wanted to pass is all. They decided not to play chicken with an eighteen wheeler.”

  She looked behind them. Only the semi’s fading taillights flickered. “Where’d the car go?” Her empty stomach ached. “Pitch, I’m worried—”

  “Nothing to fret over.” He took off his hat and laid it on the seat. “Ahh, I remember our Sheriff said there’s been reports of crazy teenagers on this stretch.” He shook his head. “Teenagers. Universal hormone hazards at the wheel.”

  “Ramming us?”

  “More than likely. Don’t matter. In a few minutes, we’ll be at the lodge. Here’s our driveway.” He downshifted and turned.

  They drove onto gravel and under an arched iron gate. A bend took them into a grove of tall pine trees.

  Pitch braked, killed the lights, and swiveled his head to face the road.

  “Why’d we stop?” She leaned forward to see between tree trunks.

  A dark car sped by on the highway.

  Her throat went dry.

  “Well . . . you see.” He rattled the floor shifter, the truck lurched to a halt, and the engine died.

  Miranda’s knee bumped the dash.

  “Missed first gear. Sorry ‘bout that.” He restarted the motor. “I paused here, cause if we come in quiet, we might spot fireflies.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped his brow.

  Hell no. She’d caught lightning bugs on a family trip to Michigan, and one fact blazed in her memory. The insects came out for a short while in early summer, not in fall. “I don’t see any blinking bugs.”