Too Sexy for his Stetson (16 page)

What?

She was an idiot for even thinking about kissing him. And sure, she was going to fall asleep with her heart beating like a bobcat fleeing a forest fire.

Why in hell hadn’t he kissed her?

Because they were on assignment.

She sauntered back to the tent and slid atop her lightweight sleeping bag because it was too hot to crawl inside of it. Five minutes later, Blade and Rambo joined her, the chaperone squeezing between her and Blade. Smart dog.

****

Maybe she’d slept. She only remembered trying to fall asleep. Yet her state of grogginess told her she had been out, and she wasn’t yet totally alert, which was the reason she reacted so positively to the warm tongue that touched her neck, tickled her ear. Trailed to her cheek. Her heart went pitter pat, and she turned into Blade’s arms.

But unless Blade had sprouted gorilla hair, it wasn’t his ripped body she turned into. Rambo had welcomed her awake in the dark morning, bathing her face with warm kisses.

“Agg. Yuck!” She wiped her face.

The tent flap flew open, and Blade stuck his head in. “Come on, sleepyhead,” he said cheerfully. As he had promised, they were starting before the sun cleared Eagle’s peak. And cripes, the man was one of those creatures who woke up happy even before caffeine.

She mumbled something even she couldn’t decipher and pushed a tangle of curls away from her eyes.

Yesterday’s thermos of coffee served as lukewarm wake–up juice, which she savored because any caffeine was better than no caffeine. Blade pulled breakfast from his pack. High–protein drinks and apples.

They hit the trail in the purple haze before sunrise and kept a steady pace, stopping to re–fuel with power bars. Lunch break consisted of dried fruit, nuts, and peanut butter sandwiches on whole grain bread that Brandy had prepared the night before. Then it was back on the trail, figuratively speaking, since they’d reached the point where their trail became makeshift.

By late afternoon, they reached their destination, stopping to set up camp a quarter of a mile from the perimeter of the Neo Nazi encampment. They dug themselves in, scooping out enough dirt from the forest floor to make a foxhole. Blade laid the tent down as a barrier against the dampness and spread their sleeping bags on top before they camouflaged their nest with a roof of aspen branches and pine boughs. Now all they had to do was lay low until midnight.

****

Bewitching hour crept closer, arriving in blackness illuminated only by the stars, while the new moon lounged behind the Earth’s shadow.

The satellite phone in Blade’s pack buzzed softly. Brandy retrieved it. A message from headquarters. Sheriff Noble’s text informed them there was no way the pistol they’d found yesterday could be traced.

Damn,
no way to prove it had been Skip’s. Like Blade had said, it was one of thousands of Colt .45s that had been marketed at the time. And, just as Brandy had feared, there wasn’t enough left of the barrel for ballistic testing, so they wouldn’t be able to prove that it had chambered the APC that authorities held in the Marilyn Abbott evidence file. Nor would they be able to prove that it had
not
been fired by a left–handed shooter such as Amanda Wilcox, but rather a right–hander as Brandy believed. A dead end on all accounts.

The news hit Brandy like a sledgehammer in the solar plexus. She had imagined any number of scenarios, all of them connecting the dots between Secada and Coogan and exposing a cover–up conspiracy of lies and evidence tampering.

A second bit of information from the Sheriff pertained to the arrow they’d retrieved from the birch tree. It had been traced to an elderly man from the Scuppernong tribe named Two Elk, to whom Patrolman Greenwald had given a citation recently for causing a disturbance at Smokey’s, the local bar. Two Elk had apparently mouthed off to the wrong guys about stupid European Americans stealing land from the natives and had told them they should go back where they came from.

“The guy’s got a point,” Brandy said, shoving aside the bad news from Sheriff Nobel.

“What guy?”

“Two Elk. The native Americans got a bad deal.”

“True, but there has to be a better way to get your message across. I’d like to hear the whole story about that ruckus in the bar. There’s always two sides to every story.” He pondered a moment. “Like in Coogan’s case. Maybe you should channel your efforts in a different direction. What about the alleged witness who could disprove Secada’s statement about being with Coogan the night of the murder? Why didn’t that come out during the trial?”

“The guy mysteriously disappeared and never testified.”

“So what are the chances of anyone ever finding him?”

Very good to excellent
. “The chances are actually looking quite good. My lawyer got a call from a guy—”

Rambo stood. Silent. At alert. Ears perked and focused toward the fence. They cut the chatter and slipped away from the dugout. Blade crouched and moved toward the six–foot high wire fence—had to be electric—that enclosed the compound’s cluster of buildings and rows of tents. Rambo shadowed him, and Brandy followed, placing each footstep as quietly as she could. When she stopped alongside Blade, she went rock still and surveyed the surroundings.

Minutes later, a vehicle drove up, approaching from the trail to the east that originated on the Montana side of Thunder Mountain.

****

“Stay here,” Blade whispered, his heart beating a little faster. “I’m moving in for a closer look.”

Brandy nodded and as he scrambled away, following the fence line.

He signaled Rambo with his hand, and the K–9 followed. They crept through the darkness and moved to the section of fence where he and Brandy had seen men from the compound pass through the bottom rows of wires during the early evening hours. Hopefully, it was still current–free. With a gloved hand, he tested one of the tensile smooth wires, the second from the bottom, using a non–contact voltage detector. All clear.

He crawled under the wire and into the compound and got a better look at the housing accommodations, dozens of army style canvas tents, and several more make–shift buildings hidden beneath the canopy of trees.

The vehicle they’d seen came to a stop at a gate next to one of the larger tents. A man exited the tent. Blade squinted. A little moonlight would have helped. As it was, when the car door opened and spilled light into the night, he saw clearly. Reverend McKee stood next to the driver’s side. When the driver got out and turned, Blade got better than a glimpse.

Skip Coogan.

Blade’s heart froze, stopped beating for a second. Then he forced himself to hold onto his common sense. He scrolled through the possibilities.

Don’t jump to conclusions.

Skip could be working undercover.

Yeah, and maybe he was Big Foot.

He fought for control as his pulse started to race, and he struggled to maintain his composure.

The sheriff department’s jurisdiction included one of the state’s biggest dams, which was located in Fort Shoshone, and therefore also fell under the Fort Shoshone PD’s authority. Skip’s jurisdiction. Ever since 9/11, everyone knew the possibility of an attack on the dam was real. While briefing for the Little Chute job, Blade had been informed he’d be working regularly with the FBI, as well as other federal agencies to stay atop security measures for Fort Shoshone Dam.

The Fort Shoshone Police Department was part of the JTTF effort. The original Neo Nazis had a history of terrorist acts. Blade told himself the undercover theory was plausible.

Only Skip hadn’t mentioned any undercover operation.

Blade and Rambo slipped through the shadows and circled around. Maybe he could get close enough to eavesdrop. Near the gravel trail on the eastern edge of the compound, he found a couple of old logging trucks, canvas tarps covering the cargo on the flatbeds.

Before he could get a closer look, he spotted one of the guards with a flashlight walking outside the fence in the direction where he’d left Brandy.

Adrenaline surging, Blade shifted directions. Sprinted back to the non–hot section of fence. He ducked between the wires and scrambled toward the surveillance point where he and Brandy had separated.

He didn’t see Brandy anywhere.

His heart thundered in his chest.

Surveying the interior of the compound, Blade noticed Skip’s car was gone. Then he noticed a second guard, toting a rifle and flashlight, heading into the forest. And near the tents, a small group of guerilla soldiers had started organizing. Blade hoped it wasn’t a search party.

He and Rambo dove into the thicket and started looking for Brandy.

Downhill from his vantage point, the only thing visible were trails of light from the two guards weaving through the tree shadows. Weaving toward his and Brandy’s dugout.

Every muscle in his body tensed. Jesus, what if…

He felt out of control as panic rolled through him like Tsunami waves.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

T
wenty feet away, a shaft of light from a flashlight swept a path, trailing over scrubby undergrowth. Brandy held her breath. Voices and footfalls confirmed several guards from the compound were headed her way. The sounds moved closer. She froze, her heartbeat revving up as she prayed her camouflage clothing would do its job.

Slowly, quietly, she crept backward, edging deeper into the shadows. Then she lowered herself to the ground, and on hands and knees, she scuttled blindly in the pitch black forest.

With the next sweep of the flashlight, the circle of light hovered an inch from her foot.

The voices were so close now she could hear the conversation between the men. “You’re paranoid, Geek. What do you think you heard?”

“Dunno, but I heard something, and you know McKee’ll have our hides if anyone finds this place. Come on, keep looking.”

Sharp underbrush scraped Brandy’s knees and legs and bit her palms as she skittered, trying desperately to keep her movements silent, but she wasn’t half as stealthy as Blade. Navigating the floor of a forest in the dark wasn’t something she’d trained for. Not yet. But instinct told her to keep going, told her she had to be close to their foxhole.

She kept clawing through undergrowth until she reached an open spot. She pushed onto the balls of her feet, stayed crouched, and half–sprinted until she somehow found the dugout. She stumbled breathlessly into the hole, bringing clusters of pine boughs over the top of her.

Seconds after covering herself, footsteps thudded so close she expected a foot to come crashing down on her face—the foot of a crazed militant toting a tactical rifle. A loony indoctrinated with a shit–load of McKee’s white supremacy hype.

Would the sound of her panting breath give her away?

Her service pistol in hand, she prepared to defend herself. Closer still, the footfalls stomped. Louder.

Her heart thumped. She gripped her pistol, hoping she wouldn’t have to make a shoot–don’t shoot decision. Most of McKee’s recruits were young men, teenagers or barely in their twenties.

Conversation ceased. Light squiggled in thin streams through the ponderosa branches above her, the pine needles barely thick enough to hide her. Lying dead–still, she edged her index finger over the Glock’s trigger. Her pulse nearly stopped as the sound of another foot smashing the ground, vibrating inches from her head.

Adrenaline rushed beyond scenario–training level.

Maybe it was Blade. Wishful thinking. She’d never hear Blade coming.

“I think you’re hallucinating, man. And we didn’t even start with the good stuff yet tonight. There’s nothing out here. Let’s go back to camp and get us some of McKee’s special stash.”

“I dunno. I thought I saw something.”

“We’re wasting time we could be spending with Denise and Sandy. We can check things out again in the morning.”

“Shit, man, if we get in trouble, you’re taking the heat.”

“Yeah, I’m going to take lots of heat—from Sandy. Maybe Denise, too.”

Retreating footsteps and sly laughter faded into the distance. Hundreds of racing heartbeats later, when the light, the voices, and the threat were all gone, Brandy sucked in air.

Then, as she knew he would, Blade appeared, his voice barely stirring the night. “Brandy?” He reached into the dugout and hauled her to her feet. His arms encircled her as he pulled her against him and held her so tightly she thought for a moment…

With his forehead against hers, his breath fell against her mouth. “We’re not out of danger yet.”

Seconds later, they were packing their belongings, filling the foxhole back in, and scattering the branches, after which Blade, Brandy, and Rambo made tracks, figuratively speaking. Blade was all about not leaving any hint of their presence.

They literally raced down the mountain, Rambo leading the charge. Not until an hour later did Blade slow from sprint speed to jogging mode. Their effort left little time, breath, or energy for conversation.

Brandy’s mind was stuck in a loop, replaying the scene they’d witnessed. Skip Coogan shaking hands with McKee. She was dying to hear Blade’s reaction to that. But Blade was far from being in a talkative mood as they continued to tramp down the rocky slope, distancing them from the compound.

It had taken them a day and a half, twelve actual hours of climbing, to reach the compound. Racing downhill, they made it all the way back to the trailhead from where they’d started in six hours. At six–thirty A.M., the Idaho sun promised another clear, scorching day for the Little Chute Valley.

Finally, when the Tahoe came into sight, Blade slowed the pace to a speed walk.

Brandy dropped to her knees. “I don’t see any hellhounds on our heels. I’m stopping to rest. I’ll catch up with you.” Assuming he wasn’t planning to continue the marathon all the way across the entire state of Idaho.

****

Blade stopped in his tracks. He felt like he was wearing his heart on his sleeve as he heaved in a breath. And when Brandy said, “Blade, about Coogan?” he waved her off.