Winsor, Linda (29 page)

A
shot rang out, simultaneous with a thunderous pop. Three more successive sets
sounded as Shep hurried, hunkered down, to the kitchen window and peered out.
Exhaling heavily, he dropped and leaned against the front of the sink cabinet.

"Who'd
have thought that computer-addicted twerp was a marksman?" he said to no
one in particular, before rallying. "Okay, the Jeep and sedan are out of
commission. That leaves Ticker's truck and the horses." He scratched his
chin, studying the floor as if looking for directions.

"Jay,
if you can get the truck and drive behind the buildings, I'll cover you while
you cross the open land, then I'll come up behind the house for Deanna and
Majors."

"I'm
not leaving," Voorhees said.

"Let
him stay if he wants to play Wyatt Earp," C. R. told Shep, "I vote
for your—"

"You're
not going anywhere, punk."

"We
don't have time to waste arguing, Voorhees." The quiet thunder in Shep's
voice forecasted a fierce impending storm. Grim as the gathering darkness on
his face, he dismissed the stubborn agent and motioned to Deanna.

"You
can ride with me on Patch. Ticker can take Molly As for you," he said over
his shoulder to Voorhees, "help yourself to my gun cabinet, but I'd
recommend you give one to Majors. You're going to need every gun you can
get."

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?"

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.

The
knob rattled, drawing her attention to the pantyhose half in and half out the
door she'd hidden behind. At gentle pressure from the other side, the door
opened a crack. The hose disappeared.

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."