“I am,” she admitted.
“Don’t be.” He impulsively took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “God is in control.” With that, he buried his head under a magazine and went to sleep.
Ann smiled broadly, though he couldn’t see it. Gradually, she relaxed enough to take a nap.
***
Corra Compound
Stanley, South Dakota
Monday night at nine thirty, Rachel Collins waited anxiously for Logan Dales to arrive with her two children. Luckily for the sake of her nerves, Logan arrived on time.
“Mo—” Jason and Emily started to shout upon spotting her.
Logan’s hands swiftly clapped over both young mouths.
“Shhhh! Hush, my loves, we have to be quiet now.” Rachel cupped both of their chins and continued in a whisper, “We’re going to play the quiet game until we get far away from here. Jay, you’re a big boy. You can run with me. Em, Mr. Dales will have to carry you. I’ll be right here the whole time.”
The girl began crying, but Logan’s hand muffled the sobs. He let go of Jason, scooped up Emily, and dashed away from Corra. Rachel grabbed Jason’s hand and followed as fast as she could. Jason pumped his tiny legs full force to keep up.
We can’t keep this up for long.
When they had gone about a mile, Logan slowed to a fast walk. Rachel gasped for breath and cast a longing look back toward the compound, feeling awful for leaving Jenny and the Jensons behind.
“Don’t worry, ma’am. They’ll be all right, but we won’t be if we don’t get far from here fast!” Logan shifted his grip on Emily and walked a little faster.
The child bawled, but since they were well out of hearing range of Corra, the noise didn’t bother Rachel. Jason stumbled, and Rachel pulled him to his feet again.
“How far is it to the car?” Rachel asked.
“A few more minutes,” Logan replied, not breaking stride.
“I’m tired!” Jason complained.
“I know, sweetie, but we’ve got to keep going.”
O Lord, be our strength. We are weary, and evil men hound us. Be our refuge.
“What we runnin’ from?”
“Bad men, Jay. Bad men.” Though feeling faint herself, Rachel picked her son up, shushing further questions. Fear kept her out-of-shape legs moving swiftly.
After another ten minutes of breathtaking travel, Logan and Rachel switched burdens.
“We’ll be to the car soon,” Logan promised.
Rachel sure hoped so. Her legs felt rubbery, and she had a monster adrenaline headache.
***
Near Corra Compound
Stanley County, South Dakota
“We’ll make it,” Patrick reassured for the twenty-first time. “Eat something.”
Ann looked with distaste at the half-eaten chicken salad. “It’s soggy,” she grumbled.
“Your fault. Besides, you need to keep up your strength.”
She cast a grumpy look his way but reluctantly took a few extra bites of soggy salad. “Are the SWAT guys standing by?”
“The ATFE has people ready to go at our word.”
“Then, let’s go.”
After donning lightweight, black body armor, they headed out to the stakeout site. By 9:43 p.m., Ann began wondering if the plan would work. From beneath a camouflage blanket, she watched the abandoned car through a night vision scope.
Lord, everything’s in Your hands. Please give us safety and success. Amen. Ann hoped Patrick would be praying too.
I wish the Pierre agents would show up soon.
Sheriff Heckle had driven them to the site. He was on the other side of the truck about a mile away. The mission was simple: escort the Collins family to safety. Nevertheless, Ann would have felt better knowing they had more backup than the elderly local sheriff. Feeling a tap on her shoulder, Ann glanced over at Patrick who frowned down at his cell phone.
Shielding the glowing screen, he showed her the text message: Car troubles will be late.
Ann grimaced. Don’t tell me the United States government can’t afford working cars, even out here in the sticks!
The full moon and warm night created an eerie atmosphere. Hearing footsteps, Ann squinted into the dim light. Seeing nothing, she thought, Great, now I’m imagining things.
Patrick touched her arm and repositioned the night vision gear.
A few seconds later, Ann spotted two figures approaching. She was about to go to them, when Patrick’s hand gripped her arm firmly.
What?
Seeing the alert expression she had learned to never underestimate, Ann immediately stilled.
“Trouble,” Patrick whispered.
Ann strained her ears and heard faint engine sounds. “Run Rachel!” she murmured.
A truck rapidly approached the running figures. Someone stood in the sunroof holding a long, slender, heavy-looking object.
Ann gaped in disbelief, dropped the night vision scope, and scrambled to her feet. “Down!” she yelled, madly waving her arms.
“Get down!”
Patrick’s shouts joined hers.
Together, they sprinted at the frozen figures. For the second time that day, Ann and Patrick took to the air. Sunroof man let a rocket fly. A young man carrying a boy stood dumbfounded to Rachel’s left. Ann’s right arm caught the guy’s chest, just above the child’s head, and hauled him to the ground. Meanwhile, Patrick pushed Rachel down. The rocket sailed over their heads and hit the escape vehicle.
“That is definitely illegal!” Ann exclaimed, once the waves of heat and noise had finished beating her senses about.
No longer needing to tread lightly, Patrick called in for backup. To make it easy, he sent the ATFE people a lovely picture of the burning jeep.
By the time he hit send, Ann was helping the young man and the boy get up. “Are you okay?”
Both looked very shaken but managed to nod.
“Are those the bad men, Momma?” asked the little boy. His voice was barely audible over the menacing thrum of approaching truck engines and the remaining ringing in Ann’s ears.
“Yes, Jay,” Rachel said hoarsely.
“Just stay back,” Ann said to their charges. “Help’s on the way.”
“We’ve got to leave,” Patrick said tightly.
It was too late. Three trucks formed a semicircle about thirty feet away. With the escape vehicle in flames and the sheriff’s car a mile away, the fugitives and agents were out of luck. The truck headlights cast a comforting, yet deadly, pool of light.
A frantic visual scan of the area revealed only scruffy grassland, darkness, and more scruffy grassland. Desperate, Ann drew her handgun and side-stepped to place herself—and the bulletproof vest—between the bad guys and the young man.
If that rocket is any indication, we’re in big trouble. I don’t think the vest designers had that in mind.
Ann sensed Patrick move in front of Rachel. She would have loved to embrace her high school chum, but there was no time for greetings. Willing her knees to support her, Ann fought fierce instincts that said: run!
Rachel knelt, clutching her daughter tightly. Not a spark of recognition crossed her face.
Patrick said something to Rachel who waved to the boy. The kid practically flew into her arms. Then, Rachel and the children lay on the ground behind Patrick, making themselves small targets.
Good, stay there, Rachel.
“Get down,” Ann ordered, hoping the man behind her would follow the directive.
“Any ideas?” inquired Patrick.
“Fresh out,” Ann tossed back, her mind tracking several different plans.
Heart pounding, Ann clasped her right hand around the base of the gun to steady it while she considered their options. She and Patrick could make a stand while the other two ran. That would work for about two seconds. They could all run for it. I’m not getting shot in the back! They could open fire first and hope for the best. I still don’t want to die tonight. The
y could try to talk some sense into the bad guys. Uh-huh. Why don’t we try tea and scones too! She winced. Hey, it keeps us alive for a few extra seconds. For the best possible plan, it was pathetic.
“Keep them talking,” she said tersely. Ann drew a breath and held it.
Most of the truck doors flew open, and men lined up behind the open front doors. They leveled automatic rifles at the tiny band backlit by the smoldering former Jeep. Each truck also sported a spiffy sunroof with a guy holding a vicious-looking weapon. Two of the men held rifles and a third hefted the rocket launcher.
Ann’s bad-guy count tallied nine rifles, one handgun, and a rocket launcher. Fully expecting them to just start blasting, Ann addressed the man standing behind the driver’s door of the center truck. Releasing the breath, Ann asked, “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“I’ve got more firepower than you do, so I get to ask the questions and set the terms,” the man said calmly. He held his gun loosely in his left hand and casually leaned on the door he stood behind.
Several seconds passed.
“Special Agent Patrick Duncan, FBI.”
Ann groaned inwardly, even as she agreed it was for the best.
“This is my partner, Special Agent Davidson.” Patrick inclined his head in her general direction, keeping his gun steadily pointed at the leader.
A powerful flashlight suddenly lit Patrick’s face then flicked over to catch Ann in the eyes. She blinked and squinted.
That hurt, she thought, trying to regain her vision.
“Meddling feds,” the man muttered, throwing the flashlight onto the driver’s seat.
“And who are you, sir?” asked Patrick.
“Jonathan Parker,” the man said candidly.
Great, he’s too willing to talk, that probably means we’re dead.
“I think Paul Morton fits you better,” Ann said loudly.
“Do you?” asked the man, sounding mildly surprised. “Drop your weapons and we can continue this pleasant conversation.”
Though about as useful as a cap gun, the handgun made Ann feel safer.
The man sent a bullet over their heads, speeding up Ann’s heart. Rachel yelped. The young man grunted. Patrick growled low in his throat.
“Next bullet drills a kid. Drop those guns!”
The man sounded stressed, and Ann decided not to push buttons. Gritting her teeth, she slowly stooped and placed the gun on the ground. Her phone vibrated at her belt. It lit up too.
“Answer it,” the man ordered. “It’s probably him.”
Moving cautiously, Ann unfolded her phone. “Hello?”
“Put Paul on,” said a man’s voice.
She held her phone toward the man behind the car door. “The real Mr. Parker would like to speak with you.”
“Bring me the phone.”
“Why don’t I just toss it to you?” Ann suggested hopefully.
“I’d rather you hand it to me in person.”
Nine rifles, a handgun, and a rocket launcher added weight to his order.
Peachy. I’d much rather I didn’t.
Scanning the hard expressions arrayed before her, Ann slowly stepped forward, trying to maintain her slippery courage. Her knees trembled, but she faked a look of grim determination. She stopped just out of Paul Morton’s reach, leaned forward, and handed him the phone. Up close, she saw he was tall, muscular, and had cruel eyes. Ann backed up a step.
Paul clutched her phone in his right hand.
She took another step back.
“Wait,” Paul said sharply, snapping his gun up until the muzzle came in line with her chest.
Not good.
Ann held another breath. His bossy attitude grated on her, but she didn’t argue the issue.
He watched her closely. “Scared?” he asked, amused. An evil grin spread slowly across his face, and he raised his eyebrows. “Do you have any last words?”
God will have the last word, she thought automatically. Ann didn’t realize she had also said the words out loud until she saw his strange expression.
Without further ado, he shot her.
Chapter 16
When Bullets Fly
Near Corra Compound
Stanley County, South Dakota
The bulletproof vest did its job, but the blast knocked Ann flat and stole all the breath in her lungs. Scared, furious, and in pain, she thought, Owww. Not nice.
“Ann!” Patrick shouted running forward two steps.
“Back off!” Paul shouted.
Six rifles suddenly fixed on Ann’s partner.
Once certain Patrick would say put, Paul casually called, “Mrs. Collins, please stand up.”
No, Rachel! Stay down; it’s the safest place.
“I insist.” Malice filled Paul’s voice.
Ann didn’t have to look up to see the gun pointed at her face; she knew it was there.
Don’t listen, don’t listen, her mind chanted.
She shut her eyes tightly, waiting for another blast. The blast never came, so she opened her eyes and drew in a painful breath.
Paul relaxed his grip on the gun, put the phone to his ear, and said, “Hey, old friend. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?” There was silence for a moment. “You’re threatening me?” Paul laughed deeply. “Jon, I have six hostages, including your wife and kids. Don’t forget that.” He listened again. “Hold on a minute,” he said. Suddenly, a bullet slammed into the middle truck’s front left tire.
Ann’s already strained nerves frayed some more.
Slowly, the phone returned to Paul’s ear. “Yes, I see your point.” Paul sounded thoughtful but Ann’s groundside vantage point denied her a good look at his expression. He chuckled again. “Can I keep the feds?” he asked, sounding like a little boy begging to keep a puppy.
I don’t like the sound of that.
Paul grew serious again. “This is complicated, buddy. I’m going to put you on speaker here. There’s probably a way we can all go home happy.” He hit a button.
Jonathan Parker’s voice rang out clearly. “I’m serious; you’ve got about thirty seconds to tell your men to back off. I want those rifles flung far.”
“I’m not dying for you, Mr. Parker,” one man said. He climbed into the truck on Ann’s left, started the engine, and drove off. The passengers yelped, scrambled in, and held on for dear life. The man sitting on the sunroof cried out, flipped over the roof, and landed as an unconscious heap.
Ann didn’t know if the man survived the fall. At the moment, she had more pressing issues to deal with, like breathing.
“Lousy help,” Paul muttered. “All right, Johnny-boy, you’ve evened the odds a bit. But I still have your family, and you still have my money. I’m a reasonable man. Give me the codes, and you get all the hostages except the traitor and the G-man. What do you say?”
He got a pronounced click for an answer.
For the first time, Ann saw fear enter Paul Morton’s eyes. The next instant a bullet struck the base of his neck, flinging his already lifeless body into the driver’s seat. His gun flew from nerveless fingers and landed a few feet from her.
Then, everything happened at once. Morton’s men shouted and turned their rifles on the hostages.
Adrenaline shocked Ann’s body into action. Scooping up Morton’s handgun, Ann dove under the open door and fired twice at the man in front of her. Then, rolling to her left, she aimed up at the man perched in the sunroof. She missed, but luckily, so did he. Bullets struck the ground near her head. Gritting her teeth and squinting against the dust raised by bullets, Ann fired three times. One shot missed; two didn’t. She heard a flurry of additional shots; then, all was quiet. A quick glance at the other truck revealed no movement. Breathing hard, Ann struggled cautiously to her feet.
A pale young man stood across from her, frozen in position, his gun not quite in the firing position. For a timeless second, they just exchanged dazed stares. Ann’s gun suddenly felt very heavy. She didn’t know
if she could pull it up in time. She didn’t have to find out. The boy gulped, dropped the gun, and raised his hands.
“Step around the vehicle,” Ann ordered, forcing her tongue to form the words. Heart pounding and head aching, she called out, “Patrick!”
“It’s not over!” he shouted from somewhere behind her.
Fear shot up her spine. Patrick had the uncanny ability to sense things like that. Knowing they didn’t have much time, Ann motioned the young man forward. “Turn around and kneel down. I’m going to cuff you. Then, I want you to lie still while the rest of this plays out,” she said tightly. “I’ll try to protect you as best I can.”
He complied with wide eyes.
Before she could reach for the cuffs to restrain the kid, Ann heard Rachel say, “No, Jay! Em, stay there. Stay down, baby.”
“Rachel! Get down!” Patrick shouted, running full tilt toward Ann’s friend.
Handcuffs completely forgotten, Ann’s head snapped up as the air filled with danger. She knew there was precious little she could do but watch Rachel tackle the boy to the ground.
God, protect them.
Patrick dove at the girl. A distant flash preceded the thunderous crack of a gunshot. The bullet pierced the girl’s back and flung her forward into Patrick whose body jerked as the bullet struck him too.
“No!”
Armor piercing bullet, Ann thought numbly, her throat hoarse from her strangled cry. Without thinking, she emptied the rest of the bullets in Morton’s handgun at the source of the last shot. Even after the gun was empty she pulled the trigger another half-dozen times. She became aware of another gun, a much bigger gun than her own, chattering away. Knees weak and head swimming, she struggled to snap her body into action.
The boy she had forgotten to handcuff stood next to her with a large rifle. When the gun was empty, the boy turned to her with tears streaming down his pale face. The gun slipped from his fingers. He turned around and knelt down.
Mutely, Ann cuffed him and laid him on his stomach in case the gun battle wasn’t over yet.
Forgetting her own pain, she rushed to her downed partner. “Patrick? Patrick?” Her voice trembled as she called his name. “Patrick, don’t die … not yet. Please, not yet,” Ann rambled. She dropped Morton’s empty handgun next to Patrick, whipped off her light jacket and used it to form a pillow for her partner. She pressed her hands firmly over the bullet hole. The pressure seemed to increase the bleeding, so she released it, letting the tight constriction of his bulletproof vest work to slow the loss of blood.