Chapter Sixteen
Patrick studied the door on the horse box. It was made of heavy wood with forged iron hinges on the outside. It was built to contain animals weighing hundreds of pounds. But he couldn’t accept that there wasn’t some way out. “Stand back,” he told Stacy.
When she’d moved out of the way, he took a few steps back, rushing the door. He slammed into the heavy wood, the impact reverberating through his already battered body, rattling his teeth and blurring his vision. The door didn’t budge.
“I don’t believe this!” Stacy wailed. “We’ve got to get out of here and find Carlo!” Her voice rose in a shout of frustration. Patrick felt like shouting with her. Instead, he looked around the bare stall for anything he could use to hack or pry at the door.
“Mommy? Mommy, where are you?”
He froze and looked to Stacy, whose eyes locked with his. “Carlo?” She ran to the door and stood on tiptoe, as close to the rectangular wooden vent at the top of the door as she could get. “Carlo, Mommy is here, in the horse box.”
Shuffling sounds—small feet on concrete and hay—moved toward them. “Mommy, I want to see you.”
“I’m in the horse box, baby. Someone locked the door and I can’t get out. I need you to help me.”
Small fists pounded on the door. “Come out, Mommy.”
Stacy knelt now, making herself the height of a three-year-old. “I’ll come out, baby. But I need your help. Look up, at the top of the door. Do you see the bolt?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Can you climb on something and get to that bolt? Is there a feed bucket or something you can stand on?”
“There’s a bucket in the feed room.”
“Then be a good boy and get it and bring it over to the door.”
He didn’t answer, but Patrick thought he must have moved away. Stacy closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the door. Patrick moved to put a hand to her shoulder. She must be exhausted, but they’d all be out of here soon, she and Carlo safe.
Something scraped on the concrete. “I got the bucket!” Carlo shouted.
“Good. Now turn it upside down and put it in front of the door. Climb on top of it, but be careful.”
“Don’t worry, Mommy. I’m a good climber.”
“I’m sure you are. But be careful.”
Patrick scarcely dared to breathe while they waited. The last thing they needed was the boy falling and busting his head on the concrete floor. The bucket rattled and the boy beat his fists against the door. “I made it!”
“Great,” Stacy said. “Now reach up and pull back the bolt.”
“I have to stand on tippy-toes.” Scrabbling noises, accompanied by little grunts. “It’s in there really hard.”
“You’re a strong boy. Pull hard.”
A metallic thunk announced the bolt’s moving. “I did it!” Carlo crowed. “I opened the door.”
“That’s wonderful, baby. Now climb down and move away from the door so I can come out.”
More scraping and fumbling with the bucket. “You can come out now, Mommy.”
Stacy eased open the door. Carlo hurtled into her arms. “What were you doing in there, Mommy?” he asked, his arms around her neck. “Were you hiding?”
“That’s right, baby.” She stroked his hair and kissed his cheek. “We were hiding, but not from you.”
The boy looked over her shoulder at Patrick, eyes wide. “I was hiding,” he said. “But I got cold, so I came into the barn.”
“You did great.” She hefted the boy onto her hip and turned to Patrick. “Can we go now?”
“In a minute.” He scanned the passageway and the area around the stalls, then slipped into the feed room, looking for anything he could use as a weapon. He found a short-bladed knife on a shelf there and pocketed it. He picked up a horse blanket and took it to Stacy. “Wrap the boy up in this.”
She tucked the blanket around her son. “When we get to the car, you’ll be a lot warmer,” she said.
One hand resting lightly on Stacy’s shoulder, Patrick leaned in to address the little boy in her arms. “We’re going to sneak past your uncle and his guards and go to my car, which is parked on the road through the woods. It’s kind of a long way for your mom to carry a big guy like you. Would you let me carry you?”
Carlo put his thumb in his mouth and looked at his mother. “It’s all right,” she said. “I’ll be right here beside you.”
The boy nodded, then held his arms out to Patrick. That simple gesture of trust brought a lump to his throat. He settled the boy against his chest; the weight felt good there. Right. Stacy’s eyes met his across the top of the boy’s head and she offered a weary smile. “Thanks,” she whispered.
He should be thanking her. Until he’d met her, his life had revolved around work and duty. He still took those things seriously, but she made him see beyond the job, to other things that might matter to him. “Let’s go,” he said. “Stay close to me and keep to the shadows.”
Once he’d determined the coast was clear, they left the barn. The yard was silent and still, not so much as a moth fluttering around the light over the back steps of the house. No one called Carlo’s name or ran through the yard. Had they called off the search for now, or taken it farther afield?
He guided Stacy around the perimeter of the light, the knife clutched in one hand, ready to lash out at anyone who came near. Once they reached the pasture and the deeper darkness there, they’d retrieve their snowshoes and be able to move faster. They wouldn’t stop again until they reached the car. In half an hour they’d be headed toward Denver, where he’d find a safe house for Stacy and her son until the task force had rounded up Nordley and Uncle Abel and everyone else involved.
They’d reached the edge of the yard when a woman’s scream tore apart the night silence. He whirled and saw a woman racing across the yard, a man chasing after her. The man grabbed the woman by her long hair and dragged her back toward the house. “The babysitter,” Stacy whispered.
“Why is he hurting Justine?” Carlo asked.
“I don’t know, baby.” Stacy rubbed his back and looked at Patrick with eyes full of questions.
“That was one of Nordley’s thugs,” Patrick said. “Maybe she panicked and threatened to go to the authorities.”
“Maybe so.” She continued rubbing Carlo’s back. “Was Justine nice to you, honey?”
“She was real nice. So were Uncle Abel and Grandma.” His lower lip trembled. “When will I see them again? Uncle Abel promised me a pony.”
Before she could answer, the back door to the house flew open once more. This time a man rushed down the steps, followed by one of the thugs. “Is that Uncle Abel?” Stacy asked.
The first man was Abel. He and the younger, burlier man struggled, then three gunshots sounded, Pop! Pop! Pop! like firecrackers in the winter stillness. Abel slumped to the ground, and a dark stain formed on the snow. Patrick cradled Carlo’s head against his shoulder, turned away so the boy wouldn’t see.
“What’s happening?” Stacy whispered, as she pulled the blanket over Carlo’s head.
“Mo-om! What are you doing?” He tried to push the blanket away, but she held it in place.
“You don’t have a hat. I don’t want your head to get cold,” she said.
The younger man dragged Abel back into the house. Patrick couldn’t tell if the old man was alive or dead. “Do you think Nordley turned on him?” Stacy asked. “We have to do something.”
“You really want to help these people?”
“They were kind to Carlo. And they’re the only relatives he has left. If the senator is attacking them...”
She was right. He couldn’t abandon two old people and the babysitter to Nordley’s thugs. “Let me get you and Carlo to the car, then I’ll come back.”
“No. I won’t leave you. And two people against Nordley are better than one.”
Not when one of the people was a woman with a little boy to look after, but he didn’t bother to say it. He knew Stacy well enough by now to know he wouldn’t be able to convince her to leave. “We need a way to draw them out,” he said. “If we try to charge the house, they have the advantage.”
“Let’s find a safe place to leave Carlo.” She looked around the compound. “I wish we had someplace warmer.”
“That’s it.” Patrick felt the surge of excitement that accompanied a good idea, one he knew would succeed. “We need to start a fire. That will draw them out of the house, plus alert the agents who are watching the place.”
“How are we going to start a fire?” she asked. “We don’t have any matches.”
“Leave that to me.”
The building farthest from the house in the ranch compound was an open-sided shed half filled with hay. If Patrick could get the hay going, it would make a bright, hot fire with a lot of smoke, perfect for raising the alarm. He searched the feed room and grabbed a flashlight. Further searching among the supplies on the shelves produced a wad of steel wool. “What are you going to do with that?” Stacy asked.
“I’m going to start a fire. Come on. Let’s get to the hay barn.”
Two minutes later they crouched in the deep shadow of the barn. Patrick pulled hay loose from the bales until he had a foot-high pile in the open area at one end of the shed. Then he unscrewed the top from the flashlight and set the two batteries next to each other nestled in the hay. He tore off a piece of steel wool. “Take Carlo to the end of the shed,” he told Stacy. “Just to be safe.”
She did as he asked. He dropped the steel wool on top of the batteries, bridging the gap between the posts. The batteries sparked and the wool burst into flames. He nudged the burning wool onto the hay, which caught quickly. Within seconds a line of fire crept across the floor, toward the bulk of the hay stacked at the end of the shed.
Patrick joined Stacy and Carlo just outside the building. “Now we wait.” He started toward the house. When Nordley or his thugs emerged, Patrick would be ready.
* * *
BY THE TIME they reached the house, flames had climbed to the roof of the hay shed. The fire crackled and popped like small-arms fire and smoke filled the air, stinging the nose. The agents watching the ranch would have seen the blaze by now, and the people in the house were bound to notice soon. Gaze fixed on the back door, Patrick saw the first movement and pulled Stacy and the boy into the deeper shadows beside the house as the door burst open and Senator Nordley, followed by Stevie, ran out. “Get the hose,” Nordley shouted. “I’ll turn on the water!”
“Abel must be hurt badly,” Stacy whispered, “if he’s not coming to help.”
Patrick nodded and started toward the steps, but Stacy rushed past him, Carlo in her arms. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. “Let me go in first,” he said.
She nodded. “Of course.” She stepped back to let him pass. “I’m just worried about Abel and Willa.”
Right. The people who had kidnapped her child and threatened to kill her. But they’d been kind to the boy, and something about them had touched her. Despite her tough attitude, Stacy had a tender heart. Ordinary things—not littering and taking care of family—mattered to her. “Here’s the plan,” he said. “I go in first. We know there’s just one guard. I’ll overpower him. Don’t come in until I give you the signal.”
She frowned. “But—”
“You need to stay here with Carlo.”
She nodded. “All right.” She moved to the side of the door with the boy, into the shadows on the far side of the steps. Knife at the ready, Patrick opened the door and slipped inside.
The kitchen was deserted, though the sound of the television still drifted from the living room. He peered into the room and saw the two women seated side by side on the sofa. The coffee table had been shoved out of the way and Abel lay on the floor at the women’s feet, his face pale, eyes closed.
The guard stood a few feet away, cradling an AR-15, his head turned so he could look out the window toward the blazing hay shed. To reach the guard, Patrick would have to approach from the kitchen, making him an easy target.
Someone moaned, low and painful. “He’s awake,” Willa said, and leaned toward her son.
So Abel wasn’t dead, though from here Patrick couldn’t tell how badly he was injured. The old man moaned again, louder.
“Don’t move,” the guard ordered.
But both women had already dropped to their knees and were fussing over the injured man. The guard turned from the window and came over to them, his back to Patrick.
Patrick charged. In three strides he crossed the room and drove the knife blade between the guard’s ribs. The man screamed and loosened his grip on the rifle enough for Patrick to wrestle it from him. The man froze when the marshal pointed the gun at his chest. “Facedown on the floor,” Patrick ordered.
“I’m bleeding.” The guard looked at the blood seeping down his side.
“You’ll bleed more if you don’t do as I tell you.”
The guard lowered himself to the floor and lay on his stomach. Patrick turned his attention to the women. “We need something to tie him up,” he said.
The younger woman, Justine, who was near Abel’s age, tugged a scarf from around her neck. “You can use this.”
“You use it.” Patrick motioned with the gun. “Tie his hands, then find something to tie his feet.”
She nodded and knelt beside the guard while Patrick turned his attention to Abel. Willa leaned over her son. “Do something,” she pleaded. “You can’t let him die.”
Abel appeared to have been shot in the right shoulder, and again in the thigh. Blood pooled around him on the floor, but had started to clot. He was pale and his breathing was labored, but when Patrick checked his pulse, it beat steady and strong, if a little rapid. “What happened?” he asked.
“He overheard the senator tell one of his men that when they found Carlo they should just kill him,” Willa said. “Then Abel, as next of kin, could petition the court to get the money. Abel couldn’t let that happen. Justine ran out, thinking she would find the boy first and hide him. Abel tried to distract the senator. They got into an argument and one of the guards shot him. Then they ordered us all in here.” She stroked her son’s forehead. “We needed the money to help save the ranch, but we fell in love with Carlo. We couldn’t let that man hurt him.”
Justine had finished tying up the guard. “Let me get some things to clean his wounds,” she said.
“Of course.” Patrick stepped back. “If you have a first aid kit, we can bandage him up.”
“Where is Carlo?” Justine asked. “Do you know?”
“He and his mother are waiting outside. I’ll get them now.”
He returned to the kitchen and opened the back door. “Stacy?” he called.
She stepped out of the shadows, Carlo in her arms. Relief filled him; though he’d only left her a short time, there’d been a chance Nordley or Stevie would find her. Knowing she was safe eased some of his tension. “Come inside.” He held the door wider. “Everyone is in the living room. Any sign of Nordley and Stevie?”
“No. They must still be at the hay barn.”
He glanced toward the barn. The flames had climbed higher and illuminated the night. They must be visible for miles.
He did a quick check around the outside of house and saw nothing to alarm him, though shouts came from the direction of the hay barn. When he returned to the living room he found Abel sitting up, propped against the sofa. Justine and Willa sat on either side of him. Stacy sat in the chair opposite, Carlo in her lap. The boy stared at his uncle, eyes wide, thumb in his mouth.
“Give me a gun,” Abel said when he saw Patrick. “I want to shoot Nordley myself when he comes back.”
“I thought you and the senator were friends.”
“Sure. A friend who shot me.” His mouth twisted in disgust. “We were never friends.”
“How did you get involved with him in the first place?” Patrick asked.
“Don’t badger him,” Willa said. “He’s hurt.”
“He needs to know what he’s dealing with,” Abel said. He shifted, as if trying to get comfortable when that was impossible. After a second, he spoke again. “Sam sent him to me. When the economy was good I took out a second mortgage on the ranch to expand the operation. Then things went south. The land wasn’t worth what it was, people weren’t buying expensive horses, but the stock still had to eat. The bank still wanted to be paid. I asked Sam to help me. I figured criminals were the one bunch that were still doing well no matter what the stock market was up to.”
He coughed, and Willa patted his shoulder. “You shouldn’t talk so much,” she said, and glared at Patrick.
Abel waved her away. “Sam said he couldn’t help me, but he said he knew someone who could. Nordley came to see me and said if I’d do him a few favors, he’d pay off the mortgage. All that debt, gone.”
“What did he ask you to do?” Stacy asked.
“That was the thing. It was nothing. He sent a couple men to stay here a few days. They rode around, walked the property, didn’t bother anybody. He said he wanted to use the place as a retreat. They stayed in the bunkhouse, didn’t bother anybody. He bought the mortgage from the bank and said as long as I cooperated, I didn’t have anything to worry about. I know now he was just setting me up. Playing me for a fool.”
“He couldn’t have known Sam would die,” Stacy said.
“I think he planned a hit on Sam before the feds got involved and did the dirty work for him,” Abel said. “Nordley has that kind of nerve. He thinks he’s a genius and everyone else are fools.”
“After Sam died, he asked if we would look after Carlo.” Willa took up the story. “He told us the mother didn’t want the boy and he needed to be with family.”
“He lied.” Stacy hugged Carlo closer.
Willa ignored her. “Of course we would look after my great-grandson. Two of the senator’s men brought him here one night.”
“That’s when Nordley told me the rest of the plan,” Abel said. “That we were supposed to use the boy to get control of the money. I knew about the will. One of the last times I talked to Sam, he bragged about how smart he was, giving the money to the boy and tying it up in a trust. I guess Sam told his buddy Nordley about the will, too, but not about the boy’s mother having control of the trust. That’s why he ordered his men to just bring the boy here. When I told Nordley the boy’s mother had control, he was angry. He said we’d have to get Stacy here and force her to sign over everything.” His shoulders sagged. “By then I was in too deep. I couldn’t see a way out.”
“You’d have let him kill me for money,” Stacy said.
“He would have killed me. He would have killed all of us.” Abel shook his head. “I never wanted anything to do with the family business. All I wanted was to ranch. Sam said I’d betrayed the family. I figured involving me with Nordley was his way of getting back at me.”
“We love the boy.” Willa addressed Stacy directly. “We never would have hurt him.”
Stacy nodded. “He loves you, too. He said you were good to him.” She stood as if to go to the old woman, just as the window next to Patrick’s head exploded and a bullet thudded into the wall behind the sofa.
“Everyone down!” Patrick shouted. He crouched beside the window, trying to glimpse the shooter in the darkness. Willa and Justine sobbed and Abel muttered curses and pleaded again for someone to give him a gun. More shots hit the outside of the house around the window. Patrick decided there was just a single shooter, but he was determined to keep them pinned down. Where was the other man—probably Nordley—and what was he up to?
Stacy’s scream rose above the other background noise, accompanied by the sounds of a struggle. “He’s got Carlo!”
Patrick whirled and found the senator, his face streaked with soot, hair in wild disarray, clutching the boy to his chest. He pressed the muzzle of a pistol against the child’s temple. “Unless you want me to kill the boy now, you’ll put down that rifle and let me leave,” Nordley rasped.
The shooter outside had silenced his weapon, also. Now came the rev of an engine, very near the house. “I believe that’s my ride,” Nordley said.
Patrick carefully lowered the rifle to the floor, every muscle protesting as the senator dragged a terrified Carlo toward the door. He looked for a way—any way—to stop the abduction, but the risk was too great. He believed Nordley wouldn’t hesitate to pull the trigger.
Nordley made it out the door and down the front steps. Patrick, Stacy and Willa followed, keeping their distance, but unable to look away as the senator walked backward toward the car. He was even with the back bumper when Carlo, who had hung limp in his arms, suddenly came to life. The boy bit down hard on Nordley’s arm and flailed his legs, landing a hard kick in Nordley’s crotch. Nordley cried out and the gun went off.
Stacy screamed and covered her eyes with her hands. “It’s all right,” Patrick told her. “Carlo’s free.” The boy raced toward them. Nordley, doubled over, tried to fire after him, but his aim was wild.
Patrick grabbed up the boy and swept him into the house, herding the women before him. He retrieved the rifle and raced to the door once more, but Nordley was already in the car, driving away. A siren screamed in the distance, approaching fast.
Stacy, Carlo in her arms, came to stand behind him. “Are you all right, buddy?” Patrick asked.
“I didn’t want to go with that bad man.”
“You did good, darling.” Stacy kissed him. “So very good. You were so brave.” She watched Nordley’s car careen down the driveway. “He’s going to get away.”
“Maybe not.” The sound of screeching tires, crushed metal and breaking glass punctuated this statement. Patrick raced down the drive, running hard, but by the time he reached the crash site at the entrance to the ranch, men swarmed over the wreckage of a government-issue SUV and Nordley’s Jeep.
Two men dragged Stevie out of the driver’s side. The guard was able to stand on his own, though blood ran from a cut on his head. The passenger side of the vehicle was crushed.
“We think the passenger is Nordley.” Special Agent Sullivan, looking sharp in a black ballistics vest over his black suit, came to stand beside Patrick. “We’ll know more once we’ve cut him out and loaded him into the ambulance.”
“It’s him,” Patrick said. “Is he alive?”
“From the sound of it, he is,” Sullivan said. “And cussing a blue streak.” He glanced down the drive. “What’s the situation at the house?”
“An older man, the ranch owner, Abel Giardino, is shot. He needs an ambulance. Three women and the boy are frightened, but okay.”
“I’m not going to ask you right now why you’re here after I told you to stay away.”
Patrick met the other man’s eyes, refusing to back down. “I had a job to do, just like you. I had to keep Stacy Giardino and her child safe.”
“In doing so, you forced Nordley’s hand.” He looked back at the car, where emergency personnel were prying apart the passenger door to get to the senator. “He might not have been so careless if not for you.”
“You were right—he’s behind all of this. He intended to use the boy to gain control of the Giardino money. He blackmailed Abel and Willa into helping him.”
“I’ll need your full report as soon as possible. And we’ll want to interview the Giardinos and anyone else who lives here.”
“We can talk about all that later. I have to take care of Stacy and her son now.” He turned to walk back to the house.
“You could lose your job over this,” Sullivan said. “Or at least get a ding on your record.”
Maybe so. But he’d done what he knew was right, and he could live with that. “I guess we’ll see.”
“Do you think she’s worth all this trouble?”
He smiled, though his back was to Sullivan. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, she is.” He walked faster, back to the house and back to Stacy. The sooner this was over and they were together, the better.
* * *
STACY REMAINED IN the house with Carlo while Willa and Justine followed the emergency personnel who carried the stretcher on which Abel lay. The old man was responsive and the EMTs pronounced him stable. “Will Uncle Abel be okay?” Carlo asked.
“He will.” She forced a smile for her son’s sake. “Tomorrow or the next day, we’ll see if we can visit him in the hospital. I know he’d like that.”
“Okay.” Carlo buried his head against her chest and closed his eyes. He must be exhausted; she was. But too many things remained unsettled for her to rest easily.
As the EMTs and the two older women exited the house, Patrick squeezed past them. He still carried the weapon, though it was slung at his side. Dark blood smeared his shoulder and dark half-moons ringed his eyes. Yet she’d never seen a better sight. “You doing okay?” he asked.
She nodded. “Just tired. And I need to get Carlo to bed.”
“I’ll find someone to give us a ride to my Jeep and take you back to the hotel.”
“I don’t have to go to some police station and answer a bunch of questions about what happened?”
“There’ll be time enough for that later. Right now you two need your rest.”
“What will you do?”
“I’m still in charge of keeping you safe.”
“Then you won’t leave us.” Relief surged through her. She’d been afraid that now that she and Carlo were out of danger, he’d be anxious to be rid of them. Sure, he’d said and done a lot of things over the past few days to make her think he cared for her, but maybe that had all been part of him gaining her confidence. Maybe now that he didn’t have to be with her, he’d feel differently. “What will happen now?” she asked—the question she had repeatedly asked him throughout this ordeal. He always had an answer that reassured her and kept her going.
“Senator Nordley will face charges—kidnapping, attempted murder, aiding a felon.... I’m sure there are others. Abel could be charged, too, but I’m betting he can work a plea deal if he agrees to testify against Nordley. Especially if you don’t press the issue.”
She shook her head. “I believe his story about being caught up in Nordley’s schemes. I meant, what will happen to me? Do I have to remain in custody?”
“No. But I’ll help you get settled.”
“I still don’t want to be in WITSEC. There’s no reason for that now.”
“I wasn’t talking about WITSEC.”
“You mean I’m on my own?”
“Only if you want to be.”
The warmth was gone from his voice, replaced by an anxious tone. He shifted nervously and studied her face, as if trying to decipher her thoughts. The man who was always so confident and sure of himself looked lost. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Why are you acting so weird?”
“Because I don’t know how else to act.” He touched her shoulder, a tentative brush of two fingers against her collarbone. “Would you think I was crazy if I told you I loved you?”
“That is crazy talk,” she said, even as her heart raced.
He ran a hand through his hair so that the blond strands stood on end. “I know we’ve only known each other a few days. But in that time I feel I’ve gotten to know you and...I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you. I think you’re amazing—smart and brave and strong, and a great mother, a beautiful, sexy lover.... I just... I can’t deal with the idea of losing you.”
“You don’t have to lose me.”
His eyes searched hers again. “What are you saying?”
She shifted Carlo, who had fallen asleep, to her other side. “You live in Denver, right?”
He nodded.
“I could move to Denver,” she said. “I can find a job, maybe even go back to school. We could see each other—see how we do together in the real world.”
“I’d like that.”
She almost laughed. “That’s all you can say?”
In answer, he pulled her close and kissed her. Lips locked to hers, he lifted both her and Carlo off the ground. When their lips parted, they were both breathless. “I’d love that, Stacy Giardino,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Patrick Thompson. As crazy as we both are—I love you.”