SB01 - The Guardian's Mission Page 3

  “Maybe I’ll wait out here.” She tugged against Sky’s hold, but he didn’t loosen his grip. Nor did he slow his pace. They were heading toward the kind of trouble Martha had never dreamed she would find herself in, and it didn’t seem as though there was much she could do about it.

  “You’ll wait where I tell you to wait. Right in that trailer over there. After me and your friend are finished with business, we’ll decide what to do with you.” Johnson speared her with a cold, hard glare, his voice chilling in its callousness.

  What to do with her? As if she were some disposable thing. Martha’s heart raced, her breath came in short, shallow spurts. This was terror. Pure and stark and ugly. She forced it back, not wanting Johnson to see just how scared she was. “I’d rather—”

  “I don’t care what you’d rather. In the trailer. Now.”

  Johnson pulled his gun, pointed it at her chest.

  “Cool it, Johnson.” Sky stepped between Martha and the gun, his hand still wrapped around Martha’s wrist.

  “Do we have a problem?” The words were smooth as honey and cold as ice. A new voice, a new player, another danger. Marti didn’t need to see the man to know it, she could hear it in his voice.

  “Nothing that isn’t being dealt with.” Johnson still had his gun out, but his focus had shifted, his eyes on the man who was walking toward them—medium height, well dressed. Power. Wealth. Danger. They oozed off him. It was his eyes, though, that turned Martha’s insides to mush. If Johnson’s eyes were dead, this guy’s eyes were death. There was evil there, a blackness that no amount of polish could hide.

  He moved toward them, his gaze resting on Martha briefly before he turned his attention to Sky. “You’re Sky Davis. We were wondering if you’d show up.”

  “I got a little sidetracked.”

  “So I see.” Soulless eyes rested on Martha again, and she resisted the urge to look away. “I’m Buddy. You’ll have to forgive Johnson’s overreaction to your friend. He’s very zealous about his job. We’ve got client confidentiality to protect.”

  “Understood.” Sky spoke before Martha could. Which was for the best as she could think of nothing to say.

  “Then maybe next time you won’t bring a…friend.” He glanced at Martha again. “It makes things complicated.”

  “She’s a member of the Blue Ridge Mountains Militia. I’m teaching her the ropes.”

  “Not here you’re not. She’ll have to wait in the trailer. We’ll deal with her after we’ve concluded our business.” He nodded toward Johnson who strode forward, grabbing her arm.

  “Hold on a minute.” Sky pulled her back toward him, and she was sure he was going to protest, come up with some reason they had to stay together.

  Instead, he pulled her close, leaning forward, staring into her eyes. “Don’t worry, Sunshine. This won’t take long.”

  He pressed his lips to the sensitive flesh behind her ear, his words barely a whisper. “Sorry about this.”

  Then he kissed her.

  Not the bland, almost sterile kind of kiss Brian usually offered. Not a hard, quick kiss to silence her. A searing kiss that burned its way down her spine. A toe-curling, heart-pounding, honest-to-goodness, Prince-Charming-I’m-gonna-love-you-forever–type kiss.

  Too bad the guy was a stranger.

  Too bad Martha was scared out of her mind.

  Too bad.

  Because if he wasn’t, if she hadn’t been, she just might have enjoyed it.

  “Mr. Davis.” Buddy’s voice drawled into the moment, cold and slithery as a snake. “Sorry to interrupt your moment, but we’ve got business to attend.”

  Sky released his hold on Martha and she nearly fell.

  He didn’t give her another look, just walked toward the cabin with Buddy, while Johnson moved closer to Martha, waving the gun toward the trailer. “Let’s go.”

  He grabbed her arm and yanked her forward, nearly dragging her the few yards to the trailer, his grip painfully tight. She didn’t complain, though. No way would she give him that power over her. Let him think she was tough, that what he was doing didn’t scare her. Let him think that she really was Sky’s girlfriend, out for a jaunt and too dense to realize she wasn’t going to survive it.

  Please, Lord, let him think that.

  Because if he did, if they all did, then they wouldn’t be expecting her to escape—they wouldn’t waste the time and effort guarding her, and she just might have a chance.

  Johnson opened the trailer door and shoved her with enough force to send her sprawling on a pile of dirt, trash and other things she’d rather not examine. Before she could right herself, the door slammed shut, cutting off light. A key scraped in a lock, and Martha heard a bolt slide home.

  Obviously, Marti wasn’t the first to be locked in here. She’d be the last, though, because once she escaped, she was going to the authorities and she was going to shut down whatever illegal activities were going on here.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and she surveyed the room. Trash. Debris. Probably snakes, rats and mice, too. Not her favorite things to share space with, but a lot better than the men outside.

  And at least here she wasn’t in danger of having a bullet put through her heart.

  The thought got her moving across the room to a plywood board that she was sure covered a window. All she had to do was pry it off, slip out the opening and run. She searched the debris for a tool, her mind ticking away the seconds and telling her she was running out of time. Finally, desperate, she wedged her fingernails under the board and pulled. Pain speared through her hands, her nails bending back as the board gave slightly. Blood seeped from the wounds, but she ignored it, shoving her fingers into the wider space she’d created.

  “Please, Lord. Please let this work.”

  She braced her legs, yanking against the plywood with all her strength. It gave with a crack, and she tumbled backward, landing hard on a pile of garbage. Stunned, she lay still for a moment, her pulse racing frantically, demanding that she get up and go. Now. Before someone decided to check on her.

  She stood, her thoughts jumping forward, planning a path through the forest that wouldn’t be easy to follow, but that would lead her back to her Jeep and her cell phone quickly. She’d call for help while she was driving away.

  Her keys!

  They were in her backpack. The one with an identification card that listed her name and address. The one that Sky had taken from her. The one that Johnson could just as easily take from him.

  This wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

  For a moment she didn’t move, just stood frozen in place unsure of what to do.

  “Don’t be an idiot. Of course you’re sure. If you don’t get out of here soon, Johnson won’t have to use the identification card to find you, because you’ll be dead.” She muttered the words as she hurried to the window and peered outside.

  Rain still poured from the steel-gray sky, the sound masking any noise she might make as she dropped to the ground. For a moment she hesitated, her mind conjuring an image of Sky as he’d looked when he’d stood between Johnson’s gun and Martha. Fierce, protective. Heroic. Would he be blamed for Martha’s escape? Would he be hurt because of her?

  She shook her head, forcing the thoughts away. Sky knew what he was doing, and whatever it was had only become more complicated because of Martha’s presence. Without her to worry about, he could easily do whatever it took to survive. She knew it as surely as she knew that staying and waiting for him to return might get them both killed.

  She eyed the tufts of overgrown grass that were fifteen feet below, scanned the area, then hoisted herself onto the window ledge.

  “Lord, I just need a little head start. Can You help me with that? Because I’m pretty sure that on my own, I’m in big trouble. And while You’re at it, could You watch out for Sky, too?” She whispered the prayer as she twisted, grabbed the windowsill and slid out into the rain. Suspended by her throbbing fingers, she took a deep breath and
willed herself to drop.

  FOUR

  Tristan glanced at his watch as Buddy pulled a sleek M16 from a box Johnson handed him and held it up for his audience—a ragtag group of militia men from various organizations around the area. The auction was underway and in two minutes an organized team of law enforcement officials would stream from the woods and take everyone present into custody. It was what Tristan had spent months working toward. Knowing it was about to happen should have filled him with satisfaction. Instead, he was worried. If guns were fired, if bullets flew, Martha Gabler was a sitting duck. The trailer she was in offered about as much protection from Buddy’s arsenal of weapons as a sheet of aluminum foil.

  He waited until Johnson stepped into a back room to retrieve another case of weapons, then slipped from his position at the back of the crowd and walked out the open cabin door. By the time Johnson realized he was gone, Tristan would have Martha out of the trailer and to safety.

  That was the plan anyway. Tristan prayed it would go off without a hitch.

  He jogged across the clearing, planning to open the front door of the trailer and hustle Martha out. Before he reached the steps, a muffled scream and quiet splash sounded above the pouring rain.

  Apparently the woman he’d dubbed Sunshine hadn’t needed his help escaping after all.

  Tristan switched directions, racing around the side of the trailer just in time to see Martha struggling to her feet. He didn’t give her time to react, just lunged forward, grabbing her arm and tugging her toward the trees. “Next time you attempt an escape, you might want to keep the volume down.”

  “There isn’t going to be a next time, because if I live through this one I’m never leaving my house again.” Her teeth chattered on the last word, her face devoid of color.

  “You’re going to be fine, Sunshine.” He’d barely gotten the words out when the world exploded. Gunfire. Shouts. White-hot pain sliced through his upper arm, warm blood seeping down his bicep. Dark figures swarmed from the trees, surrounding them as Martha screamed.

  “Freeze! Police! Hands on your head. Down on the ground. Down! Down! Do it now.”

  Tristan did as he was commanded, pulling Martha with him. Cold, wet earth seeping through his clothes. It was over. Martha was alive. He was alive. God had gotten them both through. The rest was gravy.

  An officer frisked him, cuffed him and pulled him to his feet, calling in a request for hospital transport as he eyed the blood seeping down Tristan’s arm. Tristan barely heard. He was looking around, searching for something he didn’t see. Someone he didn’t see. Martha stood a few feet away surrounded by uniformed men and women. Her baseball cap gone, her hair plastered against her pale face, mud streaking her cheeks. She must have sensed his gaze, because she met his eyes, tried to smile, but failed.

  Tristan wasn’t smiling, either.

  Something was wrong. Really wrong.

  No way had law enforcement started the gunfight. Someone else had pulled a weapon, and Tristan was certain he knew who that someone was. Gordon Johnson had no qualms about shooting a man in the back. No doubt he’d been intent on doing just that. And no doubt he would have been successful if his aim hadn’t been ruined by…what? A gunshot wound?

  Tristan turned to the police officer. “Who started the gunfight? Your men? Did they shoot someone?”

  “We’re the ones asking the questions here.”

  The officer shoved Tristan forward, apparently not knowing Tristan was one of the good guys and not caring that blood was seeping down his arm, or that the bone was most likely broken.

  Tristan couldn’t say he blamed the guy. The guns being auctioned today were the latest in advanced armor-busting weaponry. The kind that killed cops.

  “Look, if the guy who shot me isn’t in custody, you’d better make sure you find him. He’s Buddy’s right-hand man. If he escapes, there’s going to be trouble.”

  The officer stopped walking and turned to Tristan, something flashing in his eyes. Maybe concern. Maybe recognition of Tristan’s humanity. Whatever it was, he shrugged. “The guy was coming around the trailer with his gun drawn as we were moving in. Must have seen something that spooked him because he jumped back behind it just as he fired.”

  “And he’s not in custody?”

  “Couldn’t tell you. Seems to me, though, that you should be a little bit more concerned about yourself and less concerned about your buddy.”

  “He’s not my buddy.” Tristan couldn’t say more. Not here. Maintaining cover until he was brought away in handcuffs was part of his job. If the wrong person saw him being chummy with cops, he’d have a difficult time working undercover again.

  “Right.” The officer said something to one of the other uniforms, and walked away.

  Tristan tried to relax. Tried to tell himself that he’d accomplished his goal—Martha was safe.

  He didn’t believe it. Not if Johnson had escaped. The man didn’t believe in leaving loose ends, and Martha was definitely that.

  He grimaced at the thought, blood seeping in warm rivulets into his palm, his head swimming as the officer he’d been left with marched him toward the other handcuffed felons in the center of the clearing.

  Officers and agents milled around, relaxed. Smiling. Box after box of weapons were being numbered and photographed. Thousands of dollars’ worth of death confiscated. Hundreds of lives saved. The raid had been a success. A huge one.

  Tristan should be happy. He wasn’t.

  It was over, but not over.

  The knowledge edged out pain and frustration, his worry throbbing hotly as he was escorted to an ATV and taken to the main road.

  It was over. Marti told herself that again and again as she sat in a small room at the Lynchburg Police Department, visions of cold-eyed killers and blood filling her head. Her hands trembled as she lifted the cup of coffee a female officer had brought in forty minutes ago. Forty minutes. It seemed like hours.

  She stood, testing her still-shaky legs as she moved to the door. They held her weight. Barely. Since the moment she’d turned and seen blood seeping from Sky’s upper arm, her body seemed to have a mind of its own, her muscles loose, her limbs ungainly. Shaky, unsure, out of sync with her brain. It was like walking in a dream or a nightmare. Only she wasn’t asleep.

  A soft knock sounded at the door and Martha stepped back as a stocky, dark-haired man strode into the room, his expression neutral. “Ms. Gabler? I’m Officer Miller. Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “Can I get you something else to drink? A soda? Water?”

  “No. Thanks. I’d just like to go home.”

  “We’ll let you go soon. Right now, I need you to tell me what happened this afternoon.”

  Tell him what happened? Martha wasn’t even sure she knew what had happened. One minute she’d been stepping into her dad’s hunting cabin, the next she’d been running. Guns going off, men shouting. Total chaos. Sky bleeding. She shuddered, taking a seat again. “I just wanted to spend a weekend in the mountains.”

  She told the rest as quickly as she could, filling in as many details as she remembered until her words ran out and she had nothing more to say. “That’s it.”

  “Great.” Officer Miller looked up from the notebook he was scribbling in. “I think that’s all I need. Let me just check on a few more things and we’ll get you out of here.”

  “Before you go, I was wondering, is Sky okay?”

  “Sky?”

  “He was shot in the arm.”

  “Sky. Right. He should be fine.”

  “Should be fine? How bad was his injury?”

  “As far as I know, it’s not life threatening.”

  “But—”

  “Ma’am, you’ve had a long day. I’m sure you’re anxious to get home. Give me a few minutes and I’ll make sure that happens.” He cut her off, closing the notebook and leaving the room, firmly ending the conversation.

  Which should have been fine with Martha.r />
  After all, he’d said Sky’s injuries weren’t life threatening. She didn’t need any more information than that. As long as he hadn’t died trying to save her, she should be willing to let the matter drop.

  She wasn’t. She wanted to know more. Was Sky in jail? Was he going to be charged with a felony?

  How had a guy who’d willingly risked his life for a stranger ended up a criminal? It took uncommon courage to step between a bullet and another person. It took valor. Heroism. It took the kind of grit most people didn’t have.

  Sky had it, yet he’d been in the mountains to buy illegal weapons. That’s what Martha had been told by police, and she’d seen the evidence of those weapons as officers led her to waiting vehicles. Still, the gunrunning militia member didn’t seem to mesh with the courageous hero, and the dichotomy bothered Martha.

  She shook her head, forcing her mind away from Sky Davis. Hero or not, he’d committed a crime. He was going to pay for it, and she was going to forget him and move on with her life.

  She really was.

  She was still telling herself that as Officer Miller returned and escorted her outside into the cool gray evening. Her car was still parked in the mountains where she’d left it, so she accepted Miller’s offer of a ride. Her only other choice was to call her father or a friend, and either of those options would have involved explaining everything that had happened.

  She didn’t want to go there again tonight.

  Tomorrow, she’d find someone to help her get her car.

  Tomorrow, she’d tell everyone about her experience.

  Tonight, she’d just pretend that her life hadn’t changed. That she hadn’t become a different person. A person who suddenly understood her own limitations. Her own mortality.

  Dusk tinged the white siding of Martha’s story-and-a-half blue-gray Victorian and shadowed the small front porch with darkness as Officer Miller pulled up the dirt driveway. Cute and quaint when the sun was bright, the place looked lonely and old in the twilight.

  Martha hesitated as Miller pulled her door open, suddenly not so sure she wanted to be alone.