Deep Cover Page 4

  “Put the shovel down,” Carl said to Matt.

  Matt’s face was immobile, but his eyes blazed. “I’ll tell you what,” he said. “You let her go right now, I won’t kill you.”

  Carl barked, his laugh reverberating against Tara’s left eardrum. He was so close she could feel the heat of his breath. Smell its stink.

  He tightened his grip around her waist and pulled her backward a couple of steps. The heel of her shoe hit something hard and she glanced down, noting a thick tree root snaking through the ground. The butterflies in her stomach were back, worse than before, and she had to wonder if her mom had been wrong after all.

  “What are you doing out here?” she managed to ask Carl. “Didn’t your commanding officer tell you to stay put?”

  “I’ll be the first to admit I’ve always had a problem with authority,” he told her. “Besides, you still owe me some alone time.”

  Tara could feel him grinning behind her. Could see it in her mind’s eye. Then he reached up and cupped her right breast, squeezing it through the fabric, pinching her nipple between his fingers, and a wave of revulsion burned a hole in her stomach.

  Before she could stop herself, before she could analyze the riskiness of such a move, Tara jammed an elbow into Carl’s ribs.

  Caught off guard, he stumbled back with a groan, his feet catching the root. And then he was down, his face churning up in surprise and anger and humiliation as he let loose a string of obscenities—the particularly vile ones intended just for her.

  As he raised the gun, Tara knew she’d made a mistake, she’d stirred the hornet’s nest and no matter where she moved she was still a perfect target. But maybe, she thought, it was better to go out this way than to feel those grubby hands on her body again.

  And as Carl pulled the trigger, she quickly made her peace and sent up a prayer.

  But to her surprise, it was answered in a flash as Matt suddenly appeared—her rainbow, her protector—jumping in front of the bullet meant for her.

  Then he was on top of Carl, knocking the weapon from his hand, pummeling the creep’s face before he rolled over onto the ground, his upper left arm leaking bright crimson blood.

  Tara cried out and ran to him.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “You’re hurt.”

  “Help me up. We have to get out of here.”

  But he was big and hard and heavy and Tara had to use all of her strength to get him to his feet. And when she did, he staggered slightly, threatening to topple.

  She threw an arm around him, letting him shift his weight against her, using her as a crutch.

  “Your car,” he said, patting his pockets. “I think the keys are still in it.”

  She nodded and they turned to head back the way they came, when suddenly a shrill whistle filled the air. They swiveled to find the youngest of their executioners up on his elbows, the whistle between his lips, blowing frantically to alert his comrades.

  Matt slapped it out of the man’s mouth, then Tara grabbed hold of her protector and guided him across the clearing and through the trees.

  They could see movement ahead, a platoon of Zane’s men spilling out of their barracks, so they cut to the left, pausing only a moment for Matt to catch his bearings. He seemed to be growing weaker with every step.

  “Can you make it?” she asked.

  “I’m fine, just move. Keep moving.”

  They circled around until they came to the parking area, but Zane’s men were everywhere, weapons at the ready. The horses in the corral were braying and huffing noisily, fully aware of the chaos engulfing the encampment.

  Reaching the SUV would be hard to do without getting themselves shot.

  Matt felt heavier now, putting more of his weight on her, and she was afraid he might collapse. “What do we do?” she asked.

  He nodded toward the opposite side of the parking area, toward the lone horse hitched to a tree.

  “Can you ride?”

  Tara didn’t consider herself a woman of enormous talent. She didn’t sing or dance like her sister Susan or her young nieces, Kelly and Kimberly; she wasn’t as great with numbers as her brother-in-law Kyle; she couldn’t paint a beautiful watercolor landscape like her mom. But there were three things she was very good at: she could produce the hell out of a story; she could shoot straight and sure; and like any girl who had grown up in Whitestone, Colorado, she could ride a horse like there was no tomorrow.

  In short, the answer was an enthusiastic “Yes.”

  Before they could think any of it through they were circling through the trees as quickly as they could, ducking for cover when needed, Matt relying on her more and more to keep him upright, his arm leaking blood.

  The horse was a powerfully built American paint that shuffled and huffed as Tara grabbed the reins, hoping it wouldn’t start. Slipping her foot into the stirrup, she climbed aboard and scooted forward on the saddle, straining to pull Matt up after her.

  Matt teetered for a moment, grimacing in pain, and Tara tugged on his good arm until he managed to hike his leg up and over. Once settled in, he slumped against her back.

  “Grab the horn,” she told him, and he reached his arms around her. Unlike Carl, the feel of his body pressed close to hers did not send a wave of revulsion washing through her. Just the opposite.

  But she didn’t have time to think about that.

  “Go, go,” he said, his breath on her neck.

  “Which way?”

  “Doesn’t matter. Just get us out of here. Now.”

  As she squeezed her thighs and dug her heels into the paint’s ribs, she heard shouts behind them.

  Bullets zinged through the trees, punching the ground all around them, and she frantically snapped the reins and nudged the horse forward.

  Chancing a glance behind her, she saw several of Zane’s men flood the corral and mount their horses. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she saw Carl’s battered face among them. How he had managed to get back on his feet so quickly after Matt’s beating was anyone’s guess.

  Remembering that greasy paw on her breast, Tara pushed the paint into a gallop and it careened through the trees, working its way toward higher ground.

  Six

  Carl Maddox rode hard.

  He was angry. Didn’t think he’d ever been so angry in all his life.

  First, he’s humiliated in front of The Brotherhood by Zane’s exposure of a federal rat, then, to add insult to injury, the rat’s girlfriend makes him look like a clod-footed fool. One minute he’s feeling her up, the next he’s sitting on his bony little backside with the rat right in his face.

  And that, frankly, did not make him happy.

  His only consolation was the shot he’d squeezed off, and he hoped he’d done some major damage.

  Maddox could take a beating, had lived through quite a few in his time, especially in the army stockade back in Kuwait, when he was caught stealing from some of the locals. But he’d never let a woman get the best of him. Never even dreamed it could happen.

  Once he got hold of her again—and he knew he would—he’d make that witch pay in ways she could never imagine.

  And take his time doing it, too.

  One of the other men—Cameron—shouted something to him and Carl brought his horse to a halt, waiting for him to catch up.

  “Jimmy wants us to back off,” Cameron said.

  Carl frowned at him. “What?”

  “He says we’ve got more important things to do, and we’re miles from nowhere. No way they’ll get back to the city by morning.”

  Several more men caught up to them now, their horses whinnying as they slowed to a stop.

  “What, is he nuts?” Maddox said. “I spent ten months in prison with that creep. I don’t care if he’s got a bullet in him, the boy is built to last, and his little party girl ain’t no slouch, either. They’ll do everything they can to stop us.”

  “Jimmy says shut it down.”

  “Oh, I’ll shut it down, all righ
t. But not the way Jimmy wants me to.”

  Cameron raised his eyebrows. “Are you disobeying a direct order?”

  Carl nodded. “Damn right I am. Is anyone with me?”

  Most of them remained silent, but a handful—at least five by Maddox’s count—chimed in with a “boo-ya.” As far as Maddox was concerned, that settled it.

  “Tell Zane to start the party without me,” he said. “I’m organizing one of my own.”

  Then he kicked his horse and shot forward, his compatriots falling into formation behind him.

  Tara was lost, had no idea which direction to go, once again feeling like that eight-year-old girl.

  They had been riding for less than hour, but it felt much longer. The trail they rode seemed to wind on and on through the woods, with no end in sight. Tara had chosen it because it was the easiest, most accessible route, but maybe they should have stayed off-trail, where they were less likely to be captured.

  Tightening the reins, she pulled the horse to a stop, then listened carefully to the echo of shouts and hoofbeats closing the gap.

  She had gained some ground, but Zane’s men undoubtedly knew the landscape much better and any slight advantage she had would all too soon disappear.

  It didn’t help that she and Matt were sharing one horse. The paint was strong, but Matt wasn’t a small man, and if Tara continued to push it hard, she had no idea how long it would bear the extra weight.

  “Why did you stop?” he asked.

  The words came out in a vague slur. She had no idea how bad his wound was, but he was still losing blood and should have been resting.

  “We can’t outrun them,” she said.

  “So you’re giving up?”

  “No, no, I’m just…” She tried to work it through. A thought was forming, half an idea. “If we can’t outrun them, maybe we can outmaneuver them.”

  “How?”

  Tara looked up through the trees. It was late in the day and the sky was darkening. They had ten, maybe fifteen minutes max before the sun was gone.

  “Right now they’re chasing two people on a horse,” she said. “But what if all they were chasing was the horse itself?”

  “A decoy?”

  “Exactly. It might not last long, but it would give us enough time to hide, or hopefully find shelter, so I can get a look at that wound.”

  “I told you, I’m fine. I think it’s only a flesh wound. Believe me, I’ve been through worse.”

  “That’s good to know, tough guy, but even the biggest trees can be knocked down if you hit them hard enough.”

  “Where’d you get that from? A fortune cookie?”

  “Back of a cereal box,” she said, happy to find some humor in this mess.

  She couldn’t explain it, but despite the seriousness of their circumstances—or maybe because of it—there was something about Matt that made her feel at ease. Or, at least, the closest approximation she could manage at the moment.

  Except for a shared glance or two, Matt had never been anything but business with her, yet she felt a kinship with him, a warmth, a natural, unforced camaraderie that, on the surface, seemed too good to be true.

  Tara knew this was merely a temporary feeling. She’d produced enough stories about strangers coming together in desperate situations to know that, while they usually remained friendly once their ordeal was over, the bonds they’d developed were slowly eroded by time and distance.

  If she and Matt ever got out of this, the weeks that followed would eat away at the memory, leaving only some silly schoolgirl fantasy in its wake. She wasn’t quite sure what that fantasy entailed, but the feeling of his hard body against her back gave her a few ideas.

  The hoofbeats drew closer. They had only a few precious moments to spare.

  “If we’re going to do this,” Matt said, “let’s do it.”

  With a grunt, he swung his leg up and over and quickly dismounted the paint, staggering slightly when both feet touched the ground. Steadying himself against the horse’s hindquarters, he waited as Tara climbed down, then swatted the animal hard, sending it galloping up the trail.

  They watched until it disappeared from sight, then Tara slipped an arm around Matt and once again let him use her as a crutch.

  “You’re stronger than you look,” he said.

  “Is that an insult or a compliment?”

  “A compliment,” he told her. “You’ve earned more than your share today.”

  Moving as quickly as they could, they wound through the trees and crouched behind a tall clump of bushes.

  With the trail still in sight, they waited, Tara feeling the erratic, nervous beat of her heart in her throat.

  Moments later, six riders burst through the trees on thunderous hooves.

  Carl was in the lead, his battered face full of grim determination, working the reins hard, pushing his horse as if it were a machine. His dead dark eyes sought out any indication of depressed earth or freshly trampled twigs before his riders streaked past and disappeared up the trail.

  Tara and Matt looked at each other, both visibly relieved.

  It had worked.

  Thank God, it had worked.

  “They’ll be back,” Matt said, and Tara noted that he was a little pale. Without a word, she undid the buttons on his shirt and pulled it down over his shoulder, exposing his wounded upper arm. He didn’t resist, just stood there silently as she went about the task.

  The light was waning fast, and all she saw was blood. Had no sense of how much damage had been done.

  “Pull your arm out of your sleeve,” she told him.

  As he did, she grabbed hold of one of his shirttails and ripped off a narrow strip of denim. She slipped it around his bicep, just above the wound, pulled it taut and tied it with a double knot.

  “We have to find shelter,” she said. “I need to clean this. Stop the bleeding.”

  “No,” Matt told her, pulling the shirt back on. “We have to get to Whitestone. Let my handlers know about Zane’s plans.”

  “And how exactly do you propose to do that? We’re at least twenty miles from civilization and we’re losing light. There won’t be much of a moon tonight, so we’d be stumbling around in the dark.”

  “We have to try,” he said.

  “You’re in no condition to try anything. At first light we can start toward the city, maybe find a cabin along the way, someone with a phone.”

  Matt was quiet for a moment, and it was obvious that he didn’t like this plan. “When we were prepping for the mission,” he said, “we got some intel that The Brotherhood might have a hidden compound in this area. We did a bunch of flybys, used a thermal scanner to look for hot spots, but never found anything.”

  Tara nodded. “We once ran a story on thermal imaging. The tech told us you can fool the machines by using sheets of mylar. I wouldn’t be surprised if Zane’s compound is full of the stuff.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Matt said. “But that’s not what I’m getting at. At one point, we thought we’d found our target, but it turned out to be an abandoned mining camp. It looked like it had been there for decades.”

  “The Coldwater Mine. It was a tourist attraction when I was a kid. I don’t think it ever got much business.”

  Matt scanned the hillside behind her. “I’m flying blind without a GPS, but if my memory is any good, it should be just over that hill.”

  Tara looked toward the steep incline. It wasn’t an easy climb, but if they hurried, they might find a place to hide until morning.

  Assuming Matt was right.

  She slipped her arm around him again, and slowly guided him up the hill.

  Seven

  It turned out that Matt was only partly right. The miner’s camp was not directly over the hill, but over another smaller one behind it, which they somehow traversed before the sun was gone.

  There wasn’t much left but a cluster of shacks, most of which were little more than piles of rotting lumber. Only two of them were still standing�
��if somewhat precariously.

  A warped, bullet-riddled sign lay in the dirt near what Tara assumed had once been the entrance to the camp. The encroaching darkness and decades worth of erosion, however, made it difficult to tell.

  The sign read:

  COLDWATER MINE

  Coffee and Sodas Inside

  The mine itself was just a boarded-up hole in the mountain several yards beyond the shacks, atop a long incline dotted with trees. Tara wondered why anyone had ever thought they could turn this into a tourist attraction.

  There was very little light when they made their way into the first shack, but it seemed to be in decent shape. It looked as if it might have been occupied fairly recently.

  Someone else running from The Brotherhood, perhaps?

  There was an old wood-burning stove near one wall, a small pile of chopped wood beside it and a cot with a ratty blanket sitting directly opposite it.

  Tara guided Matt onto the cot, then told him to take his shirt off and lie down.

  By the time he settled in, however, she could barely see him. A wan, almost useless slice of moonlight filtered in through a broken window. She could see edges of things, silhouettes, and not much more.

  We might as well be blind, she thought.

  Crouching beside the cot, she ran her fingers up Matt’s arm until she found his bicep. Despite a growing chill in the air, his flesh was hot and sticky. But the blood seemed to be drying now, no longer leaking, and that was a good thing.

  Probing the area, she gingerly touched the wound with her fingertips, hearing Matt’s sharp intake of breath as the muscle tensed.

  “Sorry,” she said.

  He shrugged. “It’s just an arm. Not like I really use it for anything.”

  She smiled. “So you’re a comedian and a tough guy. How impressive.”

  “Wouldn’t want to disappoint you.”

  Tara carefully pressed the wound, unable to feel the hardness of a bullet. Maybe Matt was right and it was only a flesh wound, but she couldn’t be sure without light.

  “I wish I could see,” she said. “There have to be some matches around here somewhere.”