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Authors: Penny McCall

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BOOK: Tag, You're It!
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"You talking about the Lost Spaniard?"

Matt jerked the rest of the way to his feet, but he only gave Tag a last furious glare before he turned toward the door leading to the cells. A rail-thin man with a gray-shot beard and ratty clothes was standing there, looking like death warmed over.

"What're you doing here, Trankey?"

Joe Trankey, town lush, put one hand on the doorjamb and when that didn't completely steady him, grabbed the other side. "Got drunk last night. You wasn't around so I came over and slept it off. What're we paying taxes for anyway, when you're not around to do your job?"

Matt crossed the room and caught him by the collar, half dragging, half supporting him to the front door and depositing him on the boardwalk outside.

"You can't do this to me," Trankey yelled, kicking at the door and winding up on his butt for his efforts. "I'll call the capital," he said as he climbed unsteadily to his feet. "I'll call Homeland Security. I'll call your mother."

Matt just shook his head and sat back down.

"Maybe you shouldn't blow that off," Tag said, "him calling your mother."

"Unless he has a direct line to the afterlife he's not getting anywhere near my mother."

"He wouldn't waste the time anyway," Alex added. "By now he's down at the diner, telling anyone who will listen that there's a guy in town who claims to have some new information about the Spaniard."

Tag shrugged. "I don't care who he tells."

"You will." Matt crossed his arms and smiled. "Just wait and see."

Chapter Six

"SO," TAG SAID TO ALEX AS THEY LEFT THE SHERIFF'S office, "breakfast?"

"No." She started off down the boardwalk to where she'd left Jackass tied up at an old-fashioned hitching post across the street.

Tag kept pace a couple of steps behind her, telling himself he was doing it to annoy her. But his eyes were on her backside. It was pretty cold, and he still wasn't wearing a coat, but he kept his eyes on her ass and didn't notice the frigid temperature. "I'm buying."

"It's the least you could do after I saved your life. Twice."

"You didn't have a choice. Someone like you doesn't leave a man in the snow to die."

"That doesn't change the fact that you're still alive because of me." She stopped at the corner, waited until his eyes lifted from her backside to her face, then shook her head and stepped off the curb.

Tag didn't miss the way one side of her mouth turned up before she caught herself. "You must be hungry after all that hard work," he called after her.

"I have to get Jackass settled."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

Halfway across the street she turned back to him, maybe not the smartest move, but there wasn't a lot of traffic in Casteel. Hell, there was no traffic in Casteel. Except for the pickup truck that roared around the corner on two wheels, engine racing, heading straight for Alex.

She froze, mouth open, eyes wide. Tag took a running leap and hit her broadside, his momentum carrying both of them out of the pickup's path to sprawl in a heap against the market on the opposite side of the street, arms and legs tangled, Alex mostly on top.

She lay there a few seconds, heart galloping so hard her chest and neck hurt, and little black dots dancing in front of her eyes. Eventually the cold of the slush soaking through her jeans worked its way around the terror. 'That was close," she said to Tag, pushing up with the heels of her hands braced on his chest.

He didn't open his eyes.

"Tag?"

Nothing.

"You did it this time," she muttered, stripping off her gloves and trying not to notice that her hands were shaking when she ran them through his hair. No bumps, no blood.

And then she realized he was smiling—although he groaned as she untangled herself from him. The groaning might have had something to do with her knees and elbows. But he still wasn't getting up.

"Where does it hurt?" she asked, kneeling beside him, her hands on his chest "again.

"Lower."

She followed his directions, but the only thing she moved were her eyes. Yeah, there was a distinct swelling south of his zipper. "I thought you were in pain."

"There are all kinds of pain."

She slugged him.

"Ouch," he said, holding his side. "Do you have to keep aiming for my ribs?"

Alex eyed his bulge. "I could think of another target."

"The ribs are fine," Tag said, climbing stiffly to his feet.

Alex got up, too, stepping to the edge of the curb and looking into the empty street. "What was that?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

The same pickup truck came around the corner, backward, slipping and sliding to a stop next to where they stood. It sat in the street, rusted fenders rattling along with the engine's rough idle. The passenger window cranked slowly down.

Tag stepped in front of Alex.

"Not in this century," she said, and stepped up next to him again.

"Is it true?" the man inside the cab wanted to know, craning his head to peer out in their direction.

"Unfortunately, yes," Alex replied.

"Yee haw," he shouted, gunning the truck and leaving them ankle deep in slush and awash in a cloud of noxious exhaust.

"I take it you know who that was?"

"Trankey's brother," Alex said.

"Shit. Was he drunk, too?"

"Gold fever. Same thing." She turned to look at Tag, hands on hips. "But you thought it was our friends from back at the cabin, right? And before you answer, it would be nice if you kept the bullshit content to a minimum."

Tag shrugged. "It wouldn't be the first time they've taken a shot at us."

"It would be the first time it was aimed specifically at me."

"It wasn't aimed at you. This time. What do you think is going to happen when everyone finds out you came to town with me?"

"You're the one with the new information," she reminded him. "I think they're going to drive you crazy and leave me alone."

"Isn't that a little optimistic for you?"

"It's realistic. The people around here know me, and when I tell them I have no idea where the treasure is they'll believe me."

"It might be a good idea for us to stick together."

"That's what got me into this position in the first place," she said, untying Jackass and heading toward the stable at the other end of town.

Tag caught her arm, hauling her to a stop. "You have no idea what you're up against," he said.

"Then maybe you should fill me in."

He thought about that for a minute, but nothing had really changed. He still didn't know enough about her, or the situation, to safely weigh his options and pick a course of action.

"Well?"

Tag let go of her arm.

"I didn't think so," she said. "I'd tell you it's been a pleasure, but…" she spread her hands.

"Yeah," Tag said, catching her drift.

"Good-bye."

"I hope that's not a permanent sentiment," he called after her.

"NICE TO KNOW YOU'RE STILL ALIVE."

"Just barely," Tag said to Mike Kovaleski, his handler at the FBI, adding "pay phone," by way of warning. Not only was it an unsecured line, the pay phone was outside, no booth. Too big a risk that someone would overhear something they shouldn't. "I got dumped out of an airplane in the middle of nowhere, on a woman who stalks mountain lions and talks to horses. The guys on the plane gave me a wad of cash and took everything I had on me including my wallet and phone."

Not that there were a lot of cell towers around here anyway. There wasn't much of anything around here. One vet, one gas station, one feed store, one market—that sold coats, thankfully—and one too many sheriffs. An odd assortment of houses squatted on the narrow, rutted dirt lanes behind the main drag, and quite a few horses were tethered on the west side of the street.

The sheriff's office sat at one end of town, and a closed railroad station anchored the other; Tag suspected they'd driven it out of business so they could hunker in their little valley and not be tainted by the outside world. Good thing there were pickups and cars parked on the east side of the street or he'd be concerned about inbreeding.

"This is the first chance I've had to check in," he said to Mike.

There was silence from the other end of the phone, the kind of silence that came from disbelief warring with past history. Past history won out. "It's not the most outlandish thing you've ever told me," Mike finally said. "Hell, it's not the strangest report I've had this week. You should hear about Jack Mitchell's last mission. I'd tell you—if it wasn't classified."

"Mitchell? He still breathing? I figured some drug dealer would've gotten him by now."

"It's not the drug cartels, it's the women," Mike said, chuckling. "He ran into one who… Let's just say Pablo Corona was no match for her. Neither was Jack."

"Sounds entertaining, but can we focus on me for a minute?"

"Yeah, chucked out of an airplane on Dr. Doolittle," Mike said, all business despite the amusement still light in his voice. "How'd you live through that?"

"The plane wasn't very high when they pushed me out, there was a couple feet of snow, and Dr. Doolittle has a conscience." He told Mike the rest of the story, filling in some pieces he hadn't shared with Alex, carefully cleansed for public consumption, just in case. "About all I know is that Alex is in the middle of this thing and I need to stick close to her if I want to find out what's going on."

"If? You still hoping I'll pull you off this case?"

"I shouldn't be on this case."

"You're right, you should be taking time off like the psychs suggested."

"You're not going to start that garbage about how I shouldn't be in the field so soon?"

"Would it do me any good?" Mike didn't wait for an answer. "I gave you this case because I knew you'd go crazy sitting around, and then you'd go after Anthony Sappresi."

"He killed Zukey," Tag said. "He tried to kill me. You're damn right I'm going after him—"

"You know the rules, Donovan."

"Yeah." The bureau wouldn't put him on the investigation into his partner's murder. Tag chewed on that for a minute, but he already knew he was in for the duration. That didn't mean he had to be happy about it. "Okay, so now that this busywork case is going to shit, what do you suggest?"

"I suggest you get into Dr. Doolittle's brain, see what she knows."

"She doesn't know anything," Tag muttered sourly, then hissed out a breath. "That's my gut talking," he admitted, and he didn't trust his gut anymore.

"Yeah? Well, my gut's been talking, too," Mike said. "And this case may not be the open and shut busywork you think. Watch your back."

"Spill it," Tag said, grateful Mike hadn't questioned his instincts. Tag had been doing enough second-guessing for the entire bureau.

"Can't," Mike shot back, his gravelly voice dropping to what passed for a whisper. "You aren't the only one who can be overheard."

And the FBI offices were hotbeds of gossip, just like every other white collar beehive in every other city in the world. "You saying you didn't send me on this assignment just to keep me busy?"

"It may turn out that way," Mike said, "but there's been some rumblings coming out of Boston, from Sappresi's general direction. And before you ask I'm not getting into specifics."

"Fucking rules again," Tag said.

"Not just the fucking rules," Mike shot back. "I could be jumping to conclusions, here, Donovan, or I could be flat-out wrong."

But he wasn't. Tag might have lost faith in his own gut, but he'd have staked his life on Mike's. There was more going on than simple fraud being perpetrated on a bunch of ignorant investors. Still, Mike was right about jumping. Kind of like being pushed; you never knew where you might land. Or on whom.

"I've done what I can," Mike continued. "I took the regular treasure hunter out of commission and made sure you'd get the gig. It's up to you to connect the dots. If there is a connection. Just be careful."

"You could've told me that before I got on the plane."

"Hindsight," Mike said. "Guess you still have to earn his trust, Donovan. He dropped you on the animal lady for a reason, maybe you should focus on that."

The rest went unsaid. This case was like all the others— nothing more than a game. Life or death might be the stakes, but there were still rules and players, and a game board. Sometimes the rules were written by a homicidal maniac or a terrorist, or, in this case, a money hungry hem of a con man. Didn't matter. The rules still had to be followed, at least until all the players were identified and their motives understood. Until Tag figured out Alex's role, and uncovered her affiliations, he had to play along.

"Give me her name again," Mike said, "and I'll check her out."

"Alex Scott."

"Alex? That short for something?"

"Don't know," Tag said, smiling at a middle-aged woman and her daughter who were passing by.

The woman curled an arm around her daughter's shoulder and hustled her away. The daughter watched him over her shoulder, eyes wide, not sure what to make of him.

What was with these people? Tag wondered. And then he remembered he was an outsider, which would be synwith serial murderer in a little town like this one. He felt something hot on the back of his neck and glanced over his shoulder, thinking they should be more worried about their own citizens. A burly man with bloodshot eyes, a thirty-year growth of beard, and breath like a cesspool stood close enough for Tag to count his nose hairs. Grizzly Adams with an emphasis on grizzly.

"Phone," he said, his breath hitting Tag full in the face this time.

"I did a quick and dirty search," Mike was saying. "Alexandra Scott, Boston, blue blood and old money, Uniof Michigan, dual degrees in zoology and some sort of history. Here's an interesting bit of information—"

"Now," the guy behind him grunted.

"Gotta go," Tag said to Mike, trying his best not to inthrough his nose when he spoke. He didn't have any problem dealing with a local yokel, but he couldn't talk in front of the guy. And anyway, he'd heard enough to light a fire inside him. After being empty for so long it felt damn good. "I'll call you back when I can."

Tag relinquished the phone, headed to the diner, bought a thin local paper, and settled in to wait. It was the only restaurant in town, so he figured someone who'd missed a day's worth of meals would have to show up there sooner or later. His reasoning was sound, and lots of people came in, but none of them were Alex. And none of them left. Barely a half hour after he arrived, the place was full, a line of people stretched out the door and curved around the sidewalk in front, and faces were pressed to the big front windows, peering in. At him.

BOOK: Tag, You're It!
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