The Sharpshooter's Secret Son

“Grab those ropes and sit back down. I’ll wrap them loosely around your hands and feet, so you’ll look like you’re still tied up if they—” he paused “—get past me.”

“Wait. I don’t understand.”

“If they come down here, I want you to look like you’re still tied up. That way they can’t blame you for trying to escape. Just me.”

Mindy slowly bent down, reaching a hand out to steady herself against the wall.

Deke grimaced. This was going to be harder than he could have imagined. She was so handicapped by her pregnancy that she couldn’t even bend down. He cupped her elbow.

“Okay, never mind.” He led her over to sit on the wooden crate and fetched the ropes.

“Put your hands behind your back.”

He took her hands and carefully looped the rope around them. Then, bending in front of her, he wrapped the second rope around her feet.

He straightened. “Good. In the dark, it’ll look like you’re really tied up.”

“I feel like I’m really tied up. Are you sure about this?” Her voice was edged with panic.

“Trust me, sugar.” His mouth flattened in a grimace, just like it did every time he said those words to her. She couldn’t trust him. He knew it, and she knew it. He’d let her down too many times.

“But how—”

He placed into her palm one end of the rope that was wrapped around her hands. “Hang on to that end of the rope. When you pull it the ropes will fall off. The ropes around your feet aren’t secured at all. Just kick them.”

“Deke, I don’t like this.”

He glanced at the lone window, high above their heads. Then, closing his eyes, he formed a mental blueprint of the main floor of the hotel in his brain. “If the desk is there, and the stairs are there—” he muttered, tracing the most likely route out of the building.

“Listen to me, Min. That window faces east. My car is out there. Whatever you do, keep yourself oriented. The front of the building faces south.” He pointed in that direction. “Which means these stairs are on the north side. That door probably opens into the kitchen.”

He laid his palms against her shoulders. “Relax,” he said, massaging the muscles there. “You can let your hands rest against the ropes. They won’t give unless you jerk the end you have in your fingers.”

“The dining room is through an arched doorway to the right—east—of the desk. I want you to wait down here until I call you. If you don’t hear anything within a half hour, undo the ropes and run up the stairs. If you see a clear shot to a back door, take it. Otherwise run through the dining room into the lobby and hightail it out the front door.”

“Hightailing is not so easy these days.”

Deke grabbed her arm. “Listen to me, Min. Your life and the life of—” He couldn’t say the words. “Whatever happens, you have to save yourself. Got it?”

She bit her lip and looked up at him. “Deke, I—”

“Got—it?” he bit out.

“G-got it.”

“When you get to my car, you’ll find a spare key and a cell phone under the driver’s seat.”

“Who’s supposed to be there to help—?”

“Drive like hell due east. Call Irina. Her number is first on the call list.”

Mindy stared at him, wide-eyed. On her face was a mixture of trust, fear, doubt and a shadow that didn’t come from the dim light in the room. It came from inside her. Slowly, she nodded.

He turned toward the stairs and stopped.

He was leaving Mindy undefended. Mindy and his unborn child. A strange mixture of pride and abject terror weakened his knees.

He’d saved a lot of innocent lives, and while he understood that underestimating his enemy could be fatal, he’d never once doubted his own ability.

Okay—once. Right now, he felt like a rookie who’d been handed two equally deadly choices.

For the first time in his life, he hesitated over which course to take. For the second time ever, the awful consequences of failure slammed him in the face.

There was a reason Deke Cunningham never thought about losing. Because to consider the results was unbearable.

If he went out there armed with a four-inch switchblade, he had a very good chance of succeeding—against one or two, maybe even three opponents. But if he failed—

If he failed, he left Mindy and his child vulnerable. That was unthinkable.

He turned around. “Here’s what I’m going to do,” he said, stepping over to her and bending down until his lips were next to her ear. “Keep the knife.”

She looked shocked. “But—”

“Shh.”

“But Deke,” she whispered. “That’s your—No. I mean, no, you can’t go out there with nothing.”

He held out his hands in front of her face. “I’ve got these. Now, where do you want me to put the knife? In the pocket of your coat?”

She shook her head. “Everything I put in those slanted pockets falls out. Put it in my bra.”

“Your—?”

“Shh.” She smiled wryly. “It’s not like you don’t know where it is. Do you want me to do it? And then you can retie the ropes around my hands?”

He shook his head, rubbing his face against her silky, tangerine-scented skin. “I’ll do it.” He opened her coat and unbuttoned the three buttons at the neckline of her sweater, then he pulled the knife out of his pocket.

“Okay,” he whispered, feeling like a kid about to cop his first feel. He felt that awkward, that shy, that excited.

Quickly he slid his hand down through the neckline of her sweater. When his fingers slid over the rising mounds of her breasts, he almost gasped. They were so full and round and firm.

Her body was preparing for her child. Awed and speechless, and working as fast as he could, he slid the knife between her breast and the cup of the bra.

“Does that feel okay?”

Her head inclined slightly. “It’s good,” she murmured, sounding a little breathless.

He extracted his hand and rebuttoned her sweater. Then he pulled the lapels of her coat together. When he lifted his gaze, she was looking up at him.

He wanted to kiss her so badly he ached. Not a lover’s kiss. Just a gesture of caring, a promise that he’d do anything to protect her and the child that she sheltered inside her.

But he’d made her so many promises, and he’d broken them all.

So instead, he made a vow to himself. A simple vow. Yet one more difficult to keep than any promise he’d made to her, kept or not.

He vowed that when she was safe, he’d get out of her life and stay out. He grinned as pain stabbed his heart. Leaving her meant leaving his child. Still, she and the baby would be better off if he was out of their lives. And she knew it.

She deserved a chance to make a new life with her baby. The kind of life she’d always wanted but never had with him.

A normal, safe life.

“Ready, Min?” he whispered.

She lifted her chin and her eyes drifted shut. After a second, she opened them again. “I’m ready.”

After one more tug on the lapels of her coat, he left her there and climbed the stairs. At the top, he turned around to check on her. He couldn’t see her. Everything below him was a lake of darkness.

That was good.

He nodded in her direction, knowing she could see him, then reached out toward the doorknob. His hand stilled just millimeters from the knob as qualms assailed him.

“Here we go, Min,” he whispered. “Be ready for anything.” He turned the doorknob carefully, repeating the warning to himself. Then he pushed open the door.

The room in front of him was nearly as shrouded in darkness as the basement below. He took a careful step forward as his eyes sought the source of the faint light he’d seen under the threshold. It seemed to be coming from behind the open door. Probably daylight from the dining room and lobby.

Without moving, he listened. Nothing. Still the uneasy feeling that had prickled his nape—the feeling that someone was watching—wouldn’t leave him.

He took a step forward so he could pull the door shut behind him. A blinding bright light flared in front of his face.

He squeezed his eyes shut and whirled toward the light, swinging his clasped fists like a sledgehammer, hoping to take down whoever was holding it.

Fireworks exploded inside his head, snapping it backward. He grabbed at the doorknob, but his hand barely brushed it.

He managed to get his feet under him, even though the blow still rang in his head and his eyes were still blinded. He swung his fists, seeking a target, but just as he connected sidelong with what felt like an arm, something heavy and forceful hit him in the middle of his chest.

He fell backward through the open door. He managed to grab the stair rail, but it didn’t hold. Nails screeched as the wood gave way. He heard a scream. Mindy?

His butt bumped down a couple of stairs before he managed to stop himself.

He still couldn’t see, but over the years he’d honed all his senses. Now they came to his aid as he reacted instinctively, like an animal.

He heard a heavy step on the hollow stairs, felt the swish of air that indicated movement close to him.

He scrabbled to get his feet under him and prepared to launch himself at his attacker. Before he could do more than tense his thighs to spring, a dark figure loomed in his blurry vision and swung something shiny at his head.

MINDY KNEW SCALP WOUNDS BLED a lot. That was Nursing 101, but she’d been an administrator for so long she’d forgotten a lot of the everyday side of nursing, like how bad a little bit of blood could appear.

The cut on Deke’s forehead wasn’t little. An inch-long diagonal slice was laid open above his right eyebrow, and he looked like he’d lost a fistfight with a heavyweight.

The guy standing over him wouldn’t have made middleweight soaking wet. He was medium height and skinny, and dressed as if he’d stepped out of a B Western, down to the curled-brim black hat and the red bandanna tied over his nose and mouth. He still clutched the big six-gun he’d used to coldcock Deke.

As she watched, he cautiously nudged Deke’s ribs with a silver-toed cowboy boot.

Deke stirred and groaned.

The man jerked his foot away.

Mindy held her breath, trying her best to stay still. She’d almost given herself away by jumping up when Deke tumbled down the stairs. She had screamed at him.

He’d rounded on her and warned her in a gruff, fake Texas drawl that if she didn’t shut up he’d stuff a rag in her mouth and blindfold her. She’d nodded meekly and stayed as still as her worry and agitation would let her.

“Get up, Cunningham,” the gunman growled. He stood over Deke, watching him warily, one hand pointing his gun and the other resting on what looked like a stubby billy club. “You think you’re pretty smart, don’t you? Getting yourself untied. How come you didn’t untie your girlfriend? Oh, wait. She’s your wife, ain’t she? Or is that your ex-wife?”

Deke pushed himself up to his hands and knees and shook his head, slinging droplets of blood in a semicircle around him.

“Min?” he rasped.

At that instant the cowboy reared back and kicked him in the gut. He dropped with a pained grunt.

Despite her resolve, Mindy gasped aloud.

Deke’s grunt stretched out into a growl. He bowed his back and dropped his head.

She watched in stunned awe as he got his feet under him and sprang up like a big cat. He hurled himself at the gunman.

The gunman barely sidestepped in time to avoid being bowled over. Deke checked his lunge, twisting and falling on his shoulder.

The man turned toward Mindy, pressing the barrel of the gun into her temple. “Don’t make another move,” he yelled. “I’ll kill her. She’s disposable now that I’ve got you.”

“Stop!” Deke shouted, as he rolled and shot to his feet. His hands spread in a gesture of surrender. “What do you want? Just tell me what you want.”

Don’t, Mindy wanted to cry. Don’t give in to his scare tactics. But even if she could have spoken, she was too terrified to put up a brave front. She was terrified—for herself, yes, but more for the baby.

She closed her fist around the piece of rope in her hand, wishing she could figure out a way to surprise the gunman.

Something of what she was thinking must have shown in her face, because Deke shook his head, a subtle movement worthy of a major league pitcher refusing his catcher’s signal.

Meanwhile, the gunman thumbed his ridiculous hat up onto his forehead. His little beady eyes crinkled. The red bandanna tied around his nose and mouth stretched, suggesting a grin.

“Whadda I want?” he growled in his silly Texas accent. “I want answers—”

“Fine,” Deke broke in, spreading his hands wider. “Let Mindy go, and I’ll give you all the answers you could possibly want. Fire away.”

The man shook his head slowly from side to side. “Not yet. If I ask you now, you’ll just lie to me. I figure it’ll take a couple days to wear you down,” he drawled. “By then you’ll have tried everything you can think of to escape or get the drop on me, and you’ll fail every time. You’ll be hungry and thirsty and tired. Even better, your gal there’ll be pretty darn sick from hunger and exhaustion, seeing as how she’s that close to whelpin’ that pup. It yours?”

“That’s none of your damn business. Who the hell are you anyhow?”

“So it ain’t yours.” He chuckled nasally. “She been sleeping around on you, ain’t she?”

Deke went still. Mindy knew he was about two seconds from a firestorm.

“Deke—” she said quietly.

He shushed her with a wave of his hand and lowered his head. His dark eyes glowed dangerously. “Who are you?” he growled.

Mindy watched his fingers curl—not into fists. They curved like claws, ready to sink into the soft flesh of the man’s neck. His knees bent slightly, like a cat about to spring.

The gunman took a half step closer to Mindy’s side and pressed the gun barrel into her flesh. “I’m asking the questions here, Cunningham. You’ll find out who I am soon enough. Meanwhile, you can call me Frank James.” He chuckled. “Now it’s time for you to get a taste of what’s to come.”

“You come near me again, you’ll regret it for a long time.”

The bandanna stretched again, and the black eyes crinkled. “Don’t worry, Cunningham. I’m not planning to come near you. Not right now.”

He cocked his weapon slowly, drawing out the snick-snick of metal against metal. Mindy felt the end of the barrel scrape against her skin.

Deke’s head jerked slightly and his face drained of color. “Wait!” he snapped.

She closed her eyes involuntarily, and her shoulders tensed.

“Wanna play a game? How about Russian roulette? How about you Mrs. Ex-Cunningham?”

“Put the gun down,” Deke warned. He stepped forward, his hands still out, and still curved like claws.

Mindy pulled the end of the rope Deke had left in her hand. Just as he’d promised her, the ropes immediately loosened and dropped silently to the floor. She had no idea what having her hands loose would do for her chances. But if an opportunity presented itself, she planned to be ready.

“Don’t move!” Frank James shouted. Coward that he was, he moved behind Mindy, and put one hand against the side of her head while he pressed the barrel into her temple with the other.

Deke hadn’t taken his eyes off James since the instant he’d cocked his gun. His expression was a mask of fear and nausea. He believed Frank James would shoot her.

The realization of how afraid Deke was sent panic fluttering into her throat.

Right now they were in a standoff. Deke couldn’t rush James without fear that he’d pull the trigger. James couldn’t easily lower his gun without the fear that Deke might jump him. And she couldn’t do anything.

Or could she?

Her hands were free, and James didn’t know that. Considering his position, if she interlaced her fingers to form a double fist, she might be able to slam him in the groin and get away.

Okay, maybe not get away—not constrained by her bulk as she was. But at least she could give Deke a chance to jump him while he was doubled over with pain. Maybe Deke could even grab his gun.

Of course she could also get herself shot in the head. But at least she’d be shot trying to do something. Frank James didn’t sound like the most stable kidnapper on the planet. He could accidentally pull the trigger at any second.

Here goes. She looked up at Deke and slowly winked at him. His brows drew down slightly. He gave her another of his World Series-caliber head shakes.

But she couldn’t obey him. She had to try something. With excruciating slowness she pushed her fingers together, moving her shoulders as little as possible.

She moaned loud enough for James to hear her as she drew up carefully, until every muscle and tendon in her arms and shoulders were tense and poised, preparing for one ultimate purpose—driving her fists into Frank James’s groin.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

“But I’m hurting.” She made her voice small and hesitant. “I need to move my legs. Please?”

James made a growling sound in his throat, but he eased off the pressure of the barrel at her temple.

Mindy shifted position, using the movement to brace her feet on the floor. Then she took a long, slow breath, and sighed, as if in relief.

Deke’s body tensed expectantly. At that instant, she rammed her fists backward, putting all her weight and all her determination behind the blow.

She connected.

James squealed and dropped his gun.

Deke dove forward.

Mindy froze, staying as still as possible. She felt Deke’s hands sliding under her arms. He lifted her up off the crate and out of the way.

But by the time he’d turned back to James, the man had retrieved the short baton from his belt. He flicked his wrist and it telescoped.

Deke stopped in midlunge and backpedaled. He held up his hands, palms out, and glanced back her way.

James flicked his thumb and a faint crackling hum filled the air.

Mindy stiffened. What was that thing?

Then he lunged, as if with a fencing sword, right for Deke’s solar plexus. Deke tried to pull back, but she was too close behind him, so he took the full brunt of the attack. His spine arched sharply and he growled between clenched teeth. Then he flopped to the ground like a discarded rag doll.

Chapter Four

“Deke!” Mindy screamed, as he collapsed to the dirt floor of the basement. “What did you do to him?”

“Shut up, honey, or I’ll give you a dose of the same.”

She cradled her belly and glared at Frank James, or whatever the heck his name was. She was so damn helpless.

I love you, Sprout, but you’re crippling me.

Deke heard Mindy’s scream, but he couldn’t make sense of what she’d said. He had to get to her.

Cold dirt scraped against his cheek.

What the hell was the ground doing there?

He tried to lift a hand, but his hand wasn’t paying attention to his brain. Nor were his feet. Even his eyelids seemed stuck open.

He saw a movement in front of his eyes. Something glittery—silver? James’s damn cowboy boots. Fake and all show, just like the lowlife who was wearing them.

Kick me again, bastard, and I’ll make you regret it. At least that was what he wanted to say, but his mouth wasn’t cooperating, either.

From somewhere he smelled the aroma of tangerines, mingled with dirt, mildew and the faint odor of burnt hair.

Then, more static filled his ears, his muscles spasmed in unbelievable pain and lightning struck his head.

WHEN HE GOT BACK TO HIS ROOM it was almost midnight. The strategy meeting Irina had called had lasted a lot longer than planned, mostly because they couldn’t agree on a course of action.

He’d tried to sound helpful but neutral. Trouble was, everybody else was doing the same thing. Ultimately the only decision that was agreed upon was that Irina would not leave Castle Ranch until the threat from Novus Ordo was over.

He could see in the other guys’ eyes that they were as skeptical as he was that she’d be able to stay put that long.

He bolted his door and put the chain on, made sure the blinds were closed, then went into the bathroom and dug in his shaving kit for the miniature cell phone.

Sure enough—a missed call. Reluctantly, he pressed the callback button, wishing he had good news to report.

THE INSIDE OF DEKE’S EYELIDS screamed with pain.

It was that damn sand. It got into everything. Slowly, he opened his eyes to a narrow slit. The tent was dark, so he had a few hours before Novus’s man came to torture him again.

He came every day. Every damn day. With that laugh. That gun.

That sound.

An icy shudder of helpless terror crawled up his spine as he relived those awful few seconds. They never varied.

First, the pressure of cold steel against his temple. Then the split second of screaming panic and soulwrenching sorrow before the hammer clicked against the empty chamber.

The sound triggered a cold sweat of relief, and the casually curious question of whether he would hear that same clicking sound if the hammer impacted a live round.

Finally came the regret that he’d lived through one more day. Because that meant tomorrow he’d have to face the same fate again. The inside of his mouth turned to sand-blown desert.

Taking a deep breath and cringing against the anticipated agony of his dislocated shoulders, he moved. Pain shrieked through him, but not the pain he’d expected.

What the hell? He hurt everywhere—not just his shoulders. His hands weren’t even bound behind his back.

Something had changed. But why? He’d been in this hell called Mahjidastan so long he’d lost count of the days. The predictability, the inevitability, had become as torturous as the pain and fear.

He carefully lifted his head, which hurt like a sonofabitch. Taking a cautious breath, he coughed.

Dirt, mildew, old wood—completely different from the stink of urine and camel dung he’d expected. This wasn’t Mahjidastan, the tiny disputed province in the region where Afghanistan, Pakistan and China joined.

He opened his eyes. Not easy. They were matted with dried blood and caked with dust. Blinking and wincing as he stretched his sore neck tendons, he lifted his head again, even more cautiously this time, and looked around.

Slowly, his brain gathered up his scattered, disorganized memories.

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