by Julie Miller
“Yeah. He’s got a job for you.”
“Now?” He turned his mouth to the phone, raising his voice over the noise of the thunderstorm that was draining the sky. “You told me to disappear. That’s what I’ve done.”
“The sheriff and that hotshot agent from D.C. talked to your uncle this evening.” His caller paused. “They plan to launch a search up in the mountains tomorrow morning.”
That news deserved a curse. Or two. But he’d discovered places in these mountains that his dear old uncle never knew about. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
But he wasn’t that worried. The feds would still be chasing shadows long after he made his way down the far side of the range and was miles away from Kenner City. It was his plans for surviving after he left the mountains that needed a little fine-tuning, especially when he hoped his work for Perkins would give him an inside track on getting some jobs in Vegas. Failing to be at Perkins’s beck and call now could mess up his plans for later.
He hated that he was even tempted to ask, “What exactly does Perkins want?”
Was that laughter he heard through the static? “They just pay me to be the messenger. You’ll have to work the details out with him.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I can hardly meet him at my place. You know the cops are watching it.” The measly fire he’d built was giving off more smoke than heat because everything around here was so freaking wet. Including him. He looked past the smoky embers into the darkness beyond the lip of the cave. He needed to be sharp to make sense of the shadows and night surrounding his perch here on the bluffs of the Silverton River. If he couldn’t distinguish a rock or a tree from a man, he could end up caught.
Or dead.
Storm or distance or both garbled his contact’s reply. “All he said was…family loyalty…The feds have a decent lead on your whereabouts, and Perkins insisted…can use you. And then he’ll help you get out of the country.”
Sherman’s attention shifted as he slipped and kicked a rock into the smoky fire. The hiss of damp wood tumbling closer to the heat was an uncomfortable reminder of the danger of his situation.
Wait a minute, Sherm. Think.
“You son of a bitch.” That’s what this phone call was really about. His contact thought he could outsmart ol’ Sherman.
No. Way.
“Am I the job? What did you say to him? He knows I’ll keep my mouth shut. Nobody’s gotten a word out of me for six months. Did Perkins put you up to this?” The cell phone might hold a secure number, but anyone who knew it could put the code into the system if he had access to the technology required to locate pings on cell towers. And this guy had access, he was certain of it. Though he didn’t have a name—his instructions had always come over the phone or through Perkins himself—his contact knew too much about the KCCU and the FBI’s investigation to be anything but an inside man.
“Don’t get your shorts in a knot. He said…lead on Del Gardo’s money. If you distract the agents and deputies looking for you while he…meet up…Vegas and then get you out of the country.”
“What?” he shouted through the static.
“Perkins…your help…pay well.” More static.
“Are you tracing this call? Reporting my location to him?” Why would a cold-blooded hit man bother with pulling him out of hiding for one more job? Why would he go to the effort of sneaking him out of the country when he could lure him to a meeting with the promise of money, then silence him permanently with a bullet or a garrote? A job right now didn’t make sense.
This bozo didn’t make sense. “Sherman—”
“To hell with you. And to hell with the money.”
He disconnected the call. Turned off the phone. He went to the cliff’s edge and hurled his last link to civilization into the chasm below.
He swatted the water off the brim of his hat and plunked it on top of his head. So much for his trip down memory lane and a few hours of sleep. He kicked the biggest logs from the fire, scattering them out into the rain to douse the flames and smoke. Hell. Why not just send up a signal flare? Come morning, even a tenderfoot could spot where his fire had been. The roar and splash of the swollen river crashing over the rocks below him gave him an idea.
Kneeling beside his pack, he pulled on the work gloves he’d bought and picked up the glowing logs. Following the sounds of the river, he inched his way to the edge of the bluff and tossed the remains of his fire into the water. He never heard, much less saw the evidence of his camp get swallowed up by the depth and fury of the river racing through the darkness below.
Sherman had lived without money before.
He could live without it again.
With the rain promising to pour down around him throughout the night, he opened his pack and pulled out a small shovel and went to work. He could spare thirty minutes or so to ensure that anyone who was lucky enough to spot this location—be it cop or hit man—would be slowed down and hopefully thrown off course.
Then he turned up the mountain, making a path of his own and erasing it behind him as he disappeared into the night.
RED AND ROSE AND orange chased away the gray gloom of the rainy night as dawn colored the rugged landscape.
Joanna tilted her face to the eastern horizon, trying to soak in those first rays of sunlight amid the efficient bustle and clipped conversations of setting up a command post at the base of the Ute Mountains. “I remember when you were all sunshine and curiosity and a strong, forgiving heart.” Ethan’s words after that emotional armor-dissolving kiss last night had hinted at new wounds inside him, something he needed that her absence—her abandonment—had denied him. Had she changed so much? Held her heart in rigid stasis for so long that she no longer had the power to give to someone she cared about?
And she did care about Ethan. She’d allowed the love she once felt to grow dormant. But they’d been through too much together—reservation gossip about that poor, disreputable Kuchu girl dating the tribal elder’s son, escaping the demands and embarrassment of her parents, losing them—for Ethan not to hold a special, honored place in her life.
She missed feeling passion for something more than her job. She missed how normal it felt to be held in a man’s arms and want him desperately. He’d given her a taste of both last night. She hadn’t seen the full sun in almost thirty-six hours and wanted to embrace its heat. She wanted to be able to embrace life—and relationships, as well—the way she once had.
But she was going back to Washington, D.C. when this case was over. Getting involved with Ethan and leaving him was a cruelty she didn’t intend to inflict on him twice. The whole idea of hurting that good man again made her shiver. In spite of her turtleneck and an insulated down vest over her jeans and boots, the sun couldn’t warm her on the outside, and her good intentions didn’t offer much warmth from the inside, either.
“Look at it while you can.” She startled as the young man who’d introduced himself as Bart Flemming reached past her into the back of the SUV where she stood. “We’re supposed to have another storm by later today. All this rain makes it damn hard to work on my tan.”
Though he’d misread her introspective shiver and her fascination with the sunrise, Joanna laughed as she was meant to. But Bart’s joke made it easier to switch her focus back to the investigation. In the back of her mind, she tried to calculate just how many hours of daylight and clear sky they’d have before the next wave of severe weather forced them to turn back from their search for Watts. “You think it’ll hold off until this evening?”
“It better.” Bart picked up a portable generator for the tent where the crime unit, FBI and sheriff’s department were setting up their base camp at the edge of the gravel parking lot. “You want to grab those cords and my laptop?”
“Sure. Is that everything?”
“Yeah. Go ahead and close it up.” Bart, whose spiky brown hair stuck out in a half dozen directions, was the self-described techno wizard of the KCCU lab. According to his animated conversati
on all the way from downtown Kenner City, his job this morning was to rig up a complex system of radio, satellite and online communications at the remote location. Since he’d been kind enough to swing by the hotel to pick her up, she’d volunteered to help him unload his field equipment from the SUV.
Joanna looped the strap of the duffel bag filled with power cords over one shoulder, then picked up the computer case with her free hand. She nudged the SUV shut with her hip and followed him to the open-sided tent.
“Dump the laptop at my station.” Bart directed her to one table before disappearing beneath another one. “Then bring the cords over here. I have to get us hooked up to the lab so that Miguel can have them run some prints through AFIS.”
She followed the direction of Bart’s finger over to the far side of the lot where Miguel Acevedo from the crime lab was processing a beige-and-rust Chevy pickup cordoned off by official yellow tape. Though Elmer Watts’s information had led them to this area, confirming that the fingerprints on the abandoned truck belonged to Sherman would make everybody on the scene feel a lot more confident that they were closing in on his trail. Switching vehicles was not uncommon for a man on the run, but thus far Watts’s newer truck hadn’t been found. Evidence they could retrieve from this old junker might allow them to retrace Sherman’s actions over the past twenty-four hours, including pinpointing any accomplices or even verifying whether or not Boyd Perkins was back in the area.
Knowing where Sherman had gone and who he’d been talking to would benefit her interrogation, as well. Reason enough to quit thinking and start moving.
Hefting the heavy bag higher onto her hip, Joanna wove her way around equipment and personnel, swinging her gaze over to the group of men gathering at the back of Ethan’s pickup truck and sharing an animated conversation. He didn’t have to stand taller than the others for her to notice him. Ethan Bia wore an air of calm serenity about him that commanded attention. It might be the military training Elizabeth Reddawn had mentioned. Or it might simply be that Ethan Bia was as at home in the rugged outdoors as Bart was in his computer lab.
Ethan’s dark gaze slipped across the parking lot to find her staring. He held her eyes for the longest of moments. Then he gave her a slight nod, sharp as a salute yet intimate as a caress, before turning away to answer a question from the man beside him.
Oh, Lord. She was finally feeling that burst of warmth that had eluded her earlier. She pressed her knuckles to her cheek. Definitely blushing.
“Smooth one, Joanna,” she chided herself on a whisper. Real professional. She wasn’t wearing a gun at her hip so that she could reminisce about late-night kisses and racing pulses and promises made between former lovers. She was here to conduct business.
With a flare of her nostrils, she inhaled deeply. As she exhaled, she set aside the purely female thoughts that had snuck into her brain and forced herself to think like an agent. Observe. Assess. Decide. Act.
Besides Sheriff Martinez and the FBI agents she’d met yesterday—Ben Parrish and Dylan Acevedo—she vaguely recognized the two other Native Americans with Ethan. Men from the reservation about her own age, maybe former schoolmates grown up. They probably knew the Four Corners area as well as Ethan. Working with an all-business precision, the Ute men were suiting up with multipocketed hiking vests and light backpacks. The two agents wore similar backpacks, but instead of strapping on ropes and pitons and water bags, they were checking magazine clips on their guns and adjusting holsters beneath the Kevlar vests they wore.
The bag she carried weighed heavily on Joanna’s shoulder. She should be suiting up and joining those men. Instead, she’d been relegated to pack-mule duty. Not that she didn’t understand or appreciate the importance of prepping and manning a cohesive command center to coordinate search efforts across such a vast area of wilderness. But Sherman Watts was her suspect, her responsibility. Ending his career as a criminal and finding them a new lead on the Julie Grainger murder was her professional mission.
Ending his career as a free man was her personal mission.
Despite Ethan’s vehement vow to track down the bastard for her, Joanna’s feet shifted with the need to control her own destiny. To be mistress of her own success.
Or failure.
Her gaze dropped to the scrub trees and new grass greening beyond the edge of the tent. No. Failure wasn’t an option for her. She couldn’t allow herself to even consider the possibility. Losing Watts, or breaking down when she faced him across that interview table, would mean that the past fifteen years of rebuilding her life had been for nothing.
Sherman Watts had taken her trust in men, her confidence in herself and her faith in the world that afternoon in her parents’ trailer. She wouldn’t let him take anything else from her.
The idea sprouting at the back of her mind needed a few minutes to grow into a workable plan. She needed to figure out a way to take a more active part in bringing in Watts. In the meantime, she’d do the job assigned to her—haul equipment. Adjusting the cord bag higher on her shoulder, she swung around.
And nearly mowed down a fellow agent.
“Easy.” Tom Ryan—the newlywed agent Sheriff Martinez had introduced her to when she first arrived that morning—grabbed her by the shoulders and absorbed the brunt of the collision. “Need a hand?”
“I’ve got it, thanks.” Joanna retreated a step and looked up into his stern countenance. An idea was definitely growing. “Congratulations on your marriage, Agent Ryan.”
“Thanks.” The hint of a smile appeared. “I think I did all right.”
Better than all right, judging by the way Bart Flemming had spoken in such glowing terms of Dr. Callie MacBride-Ryan, the crime lab’s chief forensic scientist.
“You could have stayed with your wife, you know.” Joanna fixed an appropriately considerate smile on her mouth and made him an offer. “I’d be happy to take your place on the search. I grew up in the area, so I know the mountains fairly well. And nobody around here knows Sherman Watts better than I do.”
Let him assume her knowledge of Watts and his behavior all came from research files.
Agent Ryan slipped his backpack over his shoulders. He seemed friendly enough, though his expression remained stern, making it difficult to tell whether his next sentence was a compliment or criticism. “Ben and Dylan said you were a go-getter. I appreciate the offer. But I’ve been on this case from the beginning, and Julie Grainger was a friend of mine. Callie understands my need to see this thing through to the end. Besides, I believe Watts helped the man who tried to murder my wife escape capture. That makes this assignment personal.”
He had no idea how well she understood that remark.
“Allegedly helped, you mean. Do you have any proof that Watts is an accessory to attempted murder?”
He checked the clip of bullets on his Glock 9 mm, and tucked a pair of spare magazines into the side zip of his pack. “You ever been on a manhunt detail, Rhodes?”
“I’ve worked on several criminal cases.”
“Meeting a perp in a closed room isn’t the same as tracking him across open territory. Out here, he has the advantage. The unexpected can happen and he can turn at any moment. Suddenly, you’re the prey and he’s the hunter. You stick to your interview room. I promise not to shoot him until you’ve had the chance to ask him a few questions.”
“Shoot…?” Of course he was kidding. Wasn’t he? But he was already past her, striding toward Ethan’s truck to meet the rest of the search party.
She hadn’t considered that there were others working with the crime unit who might have a personal grudge against Watts because of his dealings with Boyd Perkins and the Wayne crime family. She had to believe that they’d all behave in a strictly professional manner, but what if Watts resisted capture? What if he threatened one of the trackers or agents, and they were forced to fire their weapons? They were all trained to stop an attacker. Stopping sometimes meant killing.
Could she ever put the past behind her if sh
e was denied the chance to stand face-to-face with her rapist?
She had to be a part of the search.
“Yo, Rhodes. You coming with those power cords or not?” Bart’s summons from beneath the next table prompted Joanna to move. But even as she crawled beneath the table and helped him link the equipment to the field generators, she never stopped thinking about the best way to get on that mountain.
TEN MINUTES LATER, the sun had cleared the horizon and the entire team on-site—searchers and base personnel alike—had converged at the trail head. Patrick Martinez was finishing up his don’t-take-unnecessary-risks-out-there speech. “I’m keeping the choppers grounded unless we have a good fix on Watts’s location. I don’t want to give him any more of a heads-up as to how close we are than he might already have. That means stealth and speed are key. Watch your backs out there—we know Watts took a gun and ammo from his trailer. We have every reason to believe he’s armed and dangerous. Miguel?”
The crime-scene investigator stepped forward with a nod. “The truck in the parking lot was reported stolen last night from the casino in Towaoc. The prints on the wheel are definitely Watts’s, so we can add that to the list of crimes we suspect him of. I found smudges on the outside of the vehicle, as well, from someone who was probably wearing gloves. The kicker is I found traces of explosives in the bed of the truck. Now, the truck’s owner works for a construction company, so it’s entirely possible the trace is related to his job.”
Patrick nodded. “But don’t discount the fact Watts may have done a little shopping himself. He’s proven to be a jack-of-all-trades over the years. Wouldn’t surprise me if he knows a thing or two about working with C-4. Wouldn’t surprise me if those smudges belong to whoever leaked the info to Watts that we were after him in the first place. Eyes open, men. As badly as we want our suspect, I want all of you back here in one piece by sundown.” He ended his speech and turned the briefing over to Ethan. “This is your game now, big guy. I know you’ll keep it short and sweet.”
