Shep ushered Deanna toward the back window. This deja vu from her childhood cowboy games had come to life, except the bullets were real and she wasn't a deadeye shot, much less bulletproof. Even the ghost town was the genuine article.
I was just a kid, God. I promise I'll be careful with what I wish for from now on. Remember, I also played with dolls.
Shep kicked out the screen panel, breaking the painted seal on the outside, and turned to help Deanna through. "We're going out here and around to the livery," he said, grim as their situation. "When I say go, you—"
"Hold it!" Jay seconded his command for silence with a cutting motion. Shep looked at the ceiling, intent on listening.
All Deanna could hear was the ka-thump, ka-thump of alarm echoing in her ears... and a faint belly growl. Bemused, she pressed against her abdomen, but the steadily churning rumbles had come from the outside, not from within, prompting her own stomach to roll in sympathy.
Standing in the doorway, head cocked smugly, the senior agent mimicked Shep's drawl. "Well, cowboy, can your horses outrun a chopper?"
Thirty
Shep grabbed Deanna, clasping her face between his hands. "Crawl, and I mean crawl into the kitchen and call in a May Day."
Call? Amid the mental picture Shep's order conjured of her yelling out the kitchen window, the word clicked. "The radio!"
"Someone's always listening." He sealed his assurance with a quick, hard kiss. "Then—"
"I know, crawl into the bathroom with Wimpy."
"And take this." He folded a small pistol in her hand. "Slide this back..." he instructed, moving the tiny button from the front of its small slot to the back, "...and the safety is off. Just aim and pull the trigger."
Deanna looked at the cold, lethal steel in her hand. Real steel. The only guns she'd ever handled were toys or those in an arcade. She fought the weak shrivel of her stomach with a stab at humor. "And to think—" hands trembling, she put the safety back on before she fired the gun accidentally—"I waited all my life for this."
"I sent Ticker to the house, so make sure you see who you're shooting at."
"Tell him to identify himself before he opens the bathroom door."
Shep gave her one more quick kiss and winked. "I'm glad you're on my side, Slick. Now go."
A warm flush staggering the fear mounting its attack upon her spine, Deanna called after him, "Never do that to a woman with a loaded gun."
While Shep and Voorhees gathered all the firepower they could carry, she scrambled on her knees to the radio desk, reinforced by Shep's confidence in her. She could do this. God promised He'd never leave nor forsake her. If necessary, He'd give her the nerve to shoot someone—or at least scare the daylights out of him.
Deanna picked up the mike and pushed the button down like a professional. "May Day, May Day This is an emergency. Nine-one-one. Repeat, Nine-one-one, is anyone out there? Hello?"
"Let up the button," Shep snapped from the other room.
She forgot! Deanna let up the button, as if it were on fire. From the back, she heard the shuffle of the two men slipping through the back window while she waited for a response.
"This is Kilo-seven-echo-charlie-foxtrot," the radio crackled, "what's the emergency, missy?"
Deanna knew that voice. "Charlie, is that you?"
"...Shep's city gal?"
Relief flooded through her as she machine-gunned the mike with her explanation of their predicament. "Yes, and there is a gunman, and one man is shot, and Shep and the government agent are trying to get him before more bad guys come in a helicopter to kill us all... and I can hear the chopper now."
After a shocked silence, Charlie's uncertain reply crackled over the airwaves. "Come again?"
The roar of the approaching helicopter forced Deanna to shout. She repeated the situation, slower this time.
Charlie said something about switching channels, but the racket of the helicopter coming down behind the shiny travel trailer drowned it out. The rotating blades kicked up a dust storm all around the far edge of the town.
"I'm a dead man," C. R. said from the cover of the hall. Morose was an understatement for his expression. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry for dragging you into all this, but someone caught on to what I was doing. I was being followed."
"So you got me to do your dirty work?" Deanna threw up her hands in exasperation. Then, remembering Shep's order, dropped on all fours. "Okay, I understand that part, but why follow me? What have I got that was worth the risk of getting caught for?"
"The key to the safety deposit box where I hid the money."
"What, are you blind? There is no key in my purse. I never saw a key in it." Deanna crawled to the kitchen table and retrieved the handbag from where she'd abandoned it earlier. Upending it, she opened the clasp. The contents scattered on the floor, the same ones that had been in there earlier. "See?" she said, shaking it. "No key"
"It's in your lipstick."
Stunned, Deanna grabbed the lipstick and pulled off the case lid. "You stuck a key in my twenty-five-dollar all natural La Belle Monde?" With a grudging glare at him, she dug the key out with her fingernails.
"I knew I was being followed, so I put it in there at the wedding reception."
Deanna made a mental note never to leave her bag in someone else's care again. At last, she got a grasp on the head of the key and drew it out, along with a creamy chunk of La Belle Monde. So this was what the whole shebang was over; she wiped it clean with a dishtowel.
"Maybe if we give this to these bozos—no pun intended," she apologized, "they'll leave us alone."
"That's a great idea," he mocked her with his fake enthusiasm. "Except for one thing... they'll leave us dead."
Gunshots punctuated C. R.'s prediction. Torn between wanting to look and keeping low, Deanna opted for the latter. Shoving the key in her pocket, she scurried across the kitchen floor on her knees. Just as she reached the bathroom door, a horrendous explosion shook the entire house, rattling the glass in the windows.
"Jiminy Blue Christmas, what was that?" She scooted into the small room next to C. R.
"That was your cowboy and his buddy making certain our assassins don't escape by air."
Deanna felt the blood drain from her face. "The chopper?"
At his nod, she leaned back against the wall, knocking down a pair of stranded pantyhose she'd left behind after her shower. Did that mean that Shep and Agent Voorhees stood a chance?
"Let's just hope Dusault's men were still in it."
The rapid fire of an automatic weapon rent the still aftermath, and with it, Deanna's brief reprieve. God stay with Shep. Help him—
Two single shots prompted what seemed like fifty times as many in rat-a-tat succession. The uneven trade of gunfire didn't bode well. With that many bullets to Shep's one...
"We've got to do something." Frantic, Deanna reached for the gun Shep had given her, digging first in one trouser pocket, then the other. In all the excitement, she'd left the gun in the kitchen, next to the radio.
"Oh yeah," C. R. said as she frantically patted her trouser pockets. "We'll be a big help."
Ignoring his sarcasm, Deanna started after the gun when something fell in the bedroom, sending her into reverse. Ticker? She froze, afraid to call out his name.
"Get in the tub and get down."
Having little alternative to offer against Deanna's urgent order, C. R. stepped into the enclosure. With a swish of vinyl, she closed the curtain and turned on the shower. Ignoring his startled oath, she grabbed the lid off the toilet tank.
There was no time to read the inspiration of the day from the book on the tank. She stepped on the devotional, which had fallen on the floor along with a box of tissues, and backed against the closed door. Ear pressed against it, she tried to determine above the patter of the shower where the intruder was, for if it had been Ticker, he'd have said something by now.
God, this worked before. Please let it work again if it's not Shep's friend.
Deanna prayed the intruder would think someone was in the shower rather than behind the door... and that the sound of the running water would muffle her fear-strangled breath. Her forearms ached with the burden of the heavy porcelain, but she dared not give in to its weight. She needed to—
The door eased open enough for the black muzzle of a gun to show itself. Suspended with caution, it stilled Deanna's heart as well. Should she slam the door on the weapon or—
The door opened a little more. She could see the man's hands on the gun now, hear the slide of his elbow on the other side as he ventured in farther. The profile of his face followed—a beaklike nose protruding over a receding chin sent Deanna into action. She swung the lid at it for all she was worth, knocking a wild spray of bullets from the gun and into the shower curtain and ceiling.
C. R.! Her scream wedged in her throat. An eternity passed and still it would not release. The toilet lid clanged against the doorjamb, crashing to the floor. The gun lay next to a foot sporting good leather hiking shoes, both still. Suddenly, the shower curtain whipped to one side and her scream found its voice.
A dripping wet C. R. reached up from the floor of the bathtub to turn off the spray. "Way to go, doll." The grin he gave Deanna had once made her heart do a cartwheel. Now, numb with shock, it felt like her feet were nailed in place. She was still alive. C. R., his wet wavy hair parted down the middle by the shower, was still alive... and he had the thug's gun.
"Now get the cuff keys off the jerk's belt and help me with the cuffs."
"He's a policeman?" It couldn't be, but who else would carry handcuff keys around?
"No, he's a thug, Deanna." Shoving the door open with the gun barrel, C. R. exposed the sprawled intruder to Deanna. "Now get the keys from his belt. Maybe they'll fit these."
"Which belt?" Except in the movies, Deanna had never seen such a getup. An ammunition belt was strung across the man's sweatshirt and all manner of martial arts-looking stuff was attached to one around the waist of his jersey pants. He looked like a cross between a terrorist and jogger. But it was his face that gave her pause, not to mention a queasy feeling in her throat just beyond swallowing. It was a mess, just like Tyler McCain's had been. No, it was worse. His nose looked like it had been pinned on crooked.
"Get the blasted keys!"
Reluctant, Deanna started to kneel beside the unconscious man—God, please just let him be in la-la land—when she came to herself. "Wait a minute," she said, straightening, hands on hips. "How dare you point that thing at me and boss me around. I just saved your lily-livered, wet, behonkus."
"Look, doll, you and I have a chance of going out the back and getting away... with the money."
"You and me... with the money?" She heard right, but she still couldn't believe the nerve of this guy. "So," she said, feigning interest as she broke away the plastic band holding the keys to the cuffs, "how do I know you won't double-cross me, too?"
"Because I owe you my behonkus. I owe ulcers and prospective time in jail to Dusault."
Deanna straightened in disbelief. His brains were in his behonkus if he thought she'd fall for his line again. "All I want is out of this and away from you."
And five pounds of flesh, she fumed behind a façade of weary resignation. Or something that would hurt even more. Stepping over the prone hoodlum, she removed the safety deposit box key from her pocket and dangled it along with the cuff keys before her ex's face.
"Are you saying these are the keys to our future?"
"Three million dollars worth of future, if we hurry up and get out of here before either side wins."
The man had more gall than a Thanksgiving turkey and half the wit. "All right, get over here by the sink so I can see what I'm doing. You can put the gun on the tub for a minute—on your side, where you can reach it real quick if you need to," she said, hastening to assuage the guarded look that grazed his face.
Turning her back to him, she walked to the sink and waited for the man to put the gun on the ledge. As he leaned down, Deanna kicked him soundly in the hip and dropped to the floor as C. R. sprawled sideways into the bathtub. The gun spat once before he let it go, screaming. Moving quickly, she dropped the keys in the toilet and lunged for the gun. Snagging it by the butt, she leaped out of his reach and flushed the toilet.
Something like "Have you lost your mind?" came out between C. R.'s profanities and whines of pain.
"No, that's what I think of our future," Deanna announced in breathless triumph. "You lost your mind when you thought I'd run off with you for a measly 3 mil—or any amount, for that matter."
"You're nuts, la—" he broke off, staring through the open door.
Deanna followed his stricken look. In the dim light of the central hall stood a man about Shep's height but older. Impeccably attired in a tailored silk weave suit, he had the look of a gentleman of means. He also held a gun like the one in her hands.
"Well, Majors," he said, eyes cold as the dagger of ice impaling Deanna's chest. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your lady friend?"
"Am... am I glad to see you," C. R. stammered. He looked as if he meant the opposite. "This is the woman who's been blackmailing me."
The absurdity of his statement prodded Deanna's fixation away from the gun aimed at her. "What?" Agape, she glanced at the iceman and threw up her shoulders. "He must have hit his head real hard."
"It's true, Victor, I swear. She found out what I was doing for you and insisted on a cut to keep her mouth shut. I tagged her all the way here to get it back."
"Do I look like an idiot?" Deanna asked the stranger. "If I had 3 million dollars, would I escape to Buffalo Butte, Montana?"
Victor smiled at her, but she'd seen corpses at funerals look warmer. His dark hair was even frosted at the temples. On some men, it was distinguished. On this guy, it was creepy All he needed was a cape and fangs.
"Put the gun down, Miss Manetti. Thanks to your companions, I have no transportation and only two colleagues left. And from what I see here—" he gave C. R. a disdainful look—"I need you on my side."
Thirty-one
Jay Voorhees lay bleeding and exhausted in the tall pasture grass, just ten yards from the the old building that had been converted into a corncrib. "I can't do it, buddy."
Buddy. Shep assessed the situation from the building, his mouth a grim, bloodless line. The air was laden with the smell of burning fuel, electronics, and sage and mesquite that drifted north from the rubble of the helicopter the wounded man had destroyed. It assailed Shep's nostrils with every breath as he wrestled with his conscience—risk getting shot himself to help Voorhees to safety or let the man lie in the bed of his own making.
So unnecessary, he fumed in anger and frustration. Taking out the chopper and its pilot had not been a priority. With Majors' testimony, the government had all they needed to extradite and charge Victor Dusault for his criminal acts. All Shep, Tick, and Voorhees had to do was protect Majors and Deanna until the authorities Charlie contacted arrived.
A burst of bullets whizzed through the tall winter-burned grass, blindly searching out the fallen agent for revenge. Shep fired a few rounds around the corner to stave them off. Four gunmen scattered when the chopper had touched down. Under the persuasion of Ticker's and Shep's rifles, the men took up positions on the east side of town, now at a disadvantage in the blinding light of the sinking sun.
"Leave me, Jones. Protect Majors and the girl," the agent called out.
That was mighty noble since it was the only alternative Voorhees's spectacular heroics left them. Now, with the assassins' transportation cut off, they became cornered animals, far more dangerous than before. And Shep was one man down.
The man never learned. Rage clamored, leave the jerk and back Ticker up, keeping the thugs away from the house. Logic di
ctated it, but conscience argued louder.
Shep watched as Voorhees struggled to pull off his belt and make a tourniquet around his leg. He deserved to lie there... but it wasn't up to Shep to judge and sentence. Deep down, he knew that that right belonged to a higher power. Walk away from the least of these and he might as well walk away from God, a quiet voice reminded him. Judge him and be judged likewise. Refuse to forgive and be refused forgiveness. If Shep honestly had forgiven Voorhees, then he'd do the right thing.
All right, Lord, I get the point. Just watch my back for me.
Shep's concession barely formed before a solution to the problem came to him. His back needn't be exposed at all.
"Hang tight, partner!" He should have thought of it before, but he'd been too set on rationalizing what was wrong instead of yielding to what was right. "I'll be right back."
An exchange of gunfire from up the street where Ticker was stationed speeding him even faster, Shep returned a few minutes later with a length of rope. There should be two men standing guard—one on the house and one on the trailer at the other end of the street. Instead, Tick kept an eye on both while Shep played rescue.
"Grab this and loop it around your arm," he shouted to Voorhees working the lariat bigger and bigger. When it felt right, he let it go. The circle of rope shrank as it sailed through a hail of bullets, falling short. With an oath of frustration, Shep reined it in.
The next time he tossed it, it was weighted with a chunk of brick from the crumbling foundation. It landed just short of Voorhees's reach, but the wounded man dragged himself to it. After fastening it to his arm and then a couple of twists around his wrist, he gave Shep a go-ahead nod. Shep hauled on the rope, hand over hand, dragging Jay to him. The waving grass parted like water, tall enough to hide what they were up to because the shooters were still peppering the spot where the agent had been.
"Looks pretty bad," Shep said as he helped his comrade out of the rope. "Think you can hold the fort down here?" The agent's trousers had been torn, exposing what looked like a slice of raw veins where the bullet had torn into the thigh. The cinch of the belt had slowed the seepage a lot, judging from the blood-soaked material surrounding it.
Winsor, Linda Page 27
