A_Wanted Man - Alana Matthews (15 page)

Her heart pounding wildly, Callie peered out into the woods but saw nothing. She glanced at Harlan and Mercer. Harlan had a hand clamped over the wound in Mercer’s arm, trying to stop the flow of blood.

“How bad is it?”

“Not good,” he said.

“I’m fine,” Mercer grunted between gritted teeth, his face about three shades paler than usual. “Give me a gun. I’m gonna shoot this son of a—”

“Quiet,” Harlan told him, then cocked his head to listen.

Silence.

The shots had stopped.

He gestured to Callie. “Keep your hand clamped over the wound. I’m going after this guy.”

“What? How can you even tell where he is?”

“I’m guessing he’s on the move, either getting out of here while the getting’s good or looking for a better angle. Either way he’s bound to make some noise.”

She didn’t like the idea of Harlan going out there alone. “Why don’t we all just stay right here. Safety in numbers.”

“And let him get away? Or worse yet, get into position and take us down? I don’t think so.” He gestured to the wound. “Take over.”

Callie knew she couldn’t stop Harlan, and arguing about it would only waste precious time. When he released the pressure, Mercer groaned. Callie quickly took Harlan’s place, clamping her hand over the wound.

“See if you can stop the flow,” he said. “If he loses too much blood, he’s gone.”

Callie nodded, then immediately reached down and unbuckled Mercer’s belt. She’d have to use it as a tourniquet.

“Good thinking,” Harlan said, then got to his feet and disappeared into the trees.

Chapter Sixteen

Harlan had never been in the military, but he was lucky enough to have military training of a sort. When he was nineteen, he and his big brother Sam had gone to a three-week boot camp in Montana where they’d learned the same tactical and evasive maneuvers that were taught in the marines. Not quite the same thing, sure, but it had given him a confidence that would have been sorely lacking otherwise.

After he was recruited by the feds, he’d trained at Glynco and found that much of that training was similar. And in his time with the Marshals Service he’d been in his share of tight situations, including a hostage recovery that had nearly gotten him killed.

In other words, Harlan was no stranger to violence. He may not have encountered it on a day-to-day basis, but he’d seen enough to know how to maintain calm and to focus on his objective: finding the shooter.

He had no doubt that it was Landry out here. The bogus map had sealed that conclusion. And judging by the way Bickham had been so quick to defend Jonah Pritchard yesterday afternoon, to confront three officers of the law with a shotgun, it was obvious where his loyalties lay. Baked-in loyalties, so to speak, and Harlan didn’t think Jonah’s death had changed anything. Despite what Meg Pritchard may or may not have done to her grandfather, Landry’s mission was to protect and defend the family, and he was doing just that.

Harlan moved from tree to tree as quietly as possible, stopping to listen for any telltale sounds—the rustle of bushes, the scattering of birds, the crack of timber.

But he got nothing.

He was almost certain that the shots had come from this direction, but the more time he spent out here, the more he began to wonder if Landry had fled. The man wasn’t exactly a young buck, and he had to know that any physical confrontation would only end with him getting hurt.

Harlan was starting to think this was an exercise in futility, when he saw something out of the corner of his eye. Nothing more than a distant glint of light in the trees but it was enough to make him swivel his head and take a closer look.

And sure enough he saw it again, coming from higher ground, inside a clump of bushes. Light reflecting off a mirrored surface of some kind.

Or maybe the glass of a rifle scope?

If so, the shooter was about three hundred yards away up a slight incline, getting a bead on Callie and the others where they hid behind the trunk of that Douglas fir.

Knowing the shots would start up again soon, Harlan didn’t waste any time. He began working his way again from tree to tree, moving as quickly and as stealthily as possible, circling around and behind the shooter’s position.

Then taking his Glock from its holster, he crouched low and started inching toward that bush.

But as he got closer, his intuition kicked in and he suddenly realized that he was wrong. The shooter wasn’t hiding inside that bush, and the light he’d seen was, in fact, nothing more than a mirror.

A decoy.

And as this realization set in, Harlan felt cold steel on the back of his head for the second time in forty-eight hours.

The barrel of a rifle.

“You’ll want to drop that weapon, son.”

Harlan cursed inwardly. Landry Bickham was behind him. And Harlan couldn’t quite believe that he’d been duped twice in a row. All that training and what had it gotten him? He’d once again let his guard down in a tight situation and that wasn’t good. It wasn’t good at all.

What the heck was wrong with him?

“You’re making a huge mistake here, Landry.”

“Oh? How you figure? You folks’ll be dead, I’ll be alive and Meg and her friends will be able to ride out of here without you people interfering.”

“I don’t get it. Why are you helping them?”

“I don’t see as how that’s any of your business.”

“Call me curious,” Harlan said.

He honestly didn’t care about Landry’s motives, but he figured the longer he kept the man talking, the longer it would take him to pull the trigger.

“Well, you know what they say about curiosity,” Landry told him. “And it looks as if it’s about to come true for you.”

So much for that plan.

Harlan heard the faint rustle of fabric and felt movement behind him and knew it was now or never. Shooting a hand back, he grabbed hold of the rifle barrel and twisted, just as the shot went off. The sound of the blast exploded against his right eardrum, pain piercing it as he turned, swung out hard and landed a solid blow to the center of Landry’s face, using his Glock as a club.

Bickham shrieked and dropped the rifle as he stumbled back, grabbing at his broken nose, blood pouring between his fingers, his eyes wide with surprise and sudden horror.

Harlan kicked the rifle aside, then raised the Glock and trained it on him, saying, “One more move and I’ll consider it an excuse to shoot you.”

But the only move Landry Bickham had left in him was to drop to the ground, sitting in the dirt as he nursed his bleeding nose.

C
ALLIE SAID, “
T
HERE’S NO POINT
in holding out on us, Landry. We’re gonna find out one way or another.”

Harlan was having trouble hearing from his right ear. It had begun to ring, as if he had just come from a sound barrier-busting rock concert, and he wondered if it would ever go away.

Small price to pay for being alive, he supposed, but he’d much prefer to avoid having to wear a hearing aid for the rest of his life, if that was even remotely possible.

Once he’d gotten Landry back on his feet, he had cuffed his hands behind him and escorted the old fool back through the woods to where Callie and the others were situated. Callie had succeeded in stopping the flow of blood from Mercer’s arm and he was already sitting upright, his face no longer looking quite as pale as it had been a few minutes ago.

Not that he was the picture of health. They all knew they had to get him to a hospital. And soon.

As Rusty hobbled through the woods trying to rustle up the horses—and a much-needed first aid kit in one of the saddlebags—Callie took charge of questioning Bickham.

“You hear me, Landry? You might as well fess up.”

“He broke my nose,” Bickham said, a nasally twang to his voice.

“And you tried to kill us. Twice. So pardon me if I don’t have a whole lot of sympathy for you.”

“Shoulda done it back in that library. Taken that floozy of a librarian down with you.”

Callie sighed. “Your not winning any friends here, Landry. You might want to consider being a little more cooperative before one of us hauls off and breaks that nose again.”

Landry visibly winced. “I want a lawyer.”

“You what?”

“A lawyer. I don’t have to say nothin’ without one. I know you think I’m stupid—most everyone does—but I got enough smarts to know my rights.”

Harlan was a big believer in due process. More than once Callie had accused him of being a cowboy, but he had never been one of those law enforcement types who abused his power in the name of the greater good. He usually played it aboveboard and straight down the line. Collected his evidence the hard way, through good solid police work.

But to his mind today was different. This man had nearly killed them more than once. Had dedicated himself to the task. Not only that, the people he was protecting had torched a vehicle with a man still inside and had done the same to a house after shooting two people. Not to mention they’d started this little crime spree with a fairly solid knock to the side of Harlan’s head.

So seeing as how they were out in the middle of nowhere, and about as far from a lawyer as you could get without stepping foot on the moon, he didn’t figure the due process really applied right now.

Sometimes a man had to do what a man had to do.

He and Callie exchanged looks, then Harlan said, “Cal, maybe you should see if you can help Rusty round up the horses.”

“I’m fine,” she told him.

Harlan shook his head. “No, we’re talking plausible deniability here. The less eyes see what’s about to happen, the better chance we have of Landry’s complaint against us not holding up in court.”

“What’s about to happen?” Landry asked, fear now etching his face.

“Shut up, I’m not talking to you.” He looked at Callie again. “I mean it. Mr. Bickham and I need to have a private talk.”

Callie didn’t budge. “What about Sheriff Mercer?”

“In his condition I figure he’s got built-in deniability.”

Callie considered this a moment, and he could see the conflict in her eyes. He was half convinced she wouldn’t go along, but then she said, “You know what?”

“What?”

“I think I just heard Rusty calling. Sounds like he needs my help.”

Harlan nodded grimly. “Then I guess you’d better get moving.”

They exchanged another look, and he could see the reluctance in her eyes, knew she wasn’t completely in love with this plan of attack, but then she was gone and Harlan returned his attention to Landry.

“You touch me, you’ll regret it,” Bickham said. It was an empty threat and he knew it.

Harlan didn’t respond with words. He casually reached forward and pinched Landry’s nose between his first and middle fingers. He squeezed and Landry howled, dropping to his knees, tears popping into his eyes.

“Now, Landry, I couldn’t care less about the reason you’re here. I figure in that dim little brain of yours there’s some kind of motivation at work, but I’ll leave that for the forensic psychologists to decipher, assuming you’re still alive when we’re done.”

Landry burbled something unintelligible but Harlan ignored him.

“Now we can take you back to town and get you a lawyer and hope that lawyer will convince you to make a deal with us and tell us what we want to know. But I’ve been riding a horse all day long and dodging rocks and bullets, and I didn’t go through all that just to have to drag your sorry butt back home on the slim chance that you’ll cooperate. Especially when one of those bullets has put a man I’ve come to respect in very serious danger.”

Landry was moving his head around now, trying to break Harlan’s grip, but Harlan and his brother Sam had seen their share of Three Stooges movies and he’d had a lot of practice with the old knuckle pinch. And judging by the look on Landry’s face, fighting it was only making it hurt worse.

After a moment he gave up, now squeezing his eyes shut against what Harlan had to think was pretty unbearable pain.

“So here’s what you’re gonna do. From here on out, you’re gonna shut your mouth unless I ask you a question. And if I ask you one, you’ll answer me sincerely and without hesitation. You got that?”

Landry tried to nod his head.

“I’m glad we understand each other,” Harlan said, then released him. Landry collapsed to the ground, trying desperately to recover, fresh blood staining his upper lip.

Harlan couldn’t help feeling a little bad about it. Under normal circumstances he wasn’t prone to violence, and he wasn’t particularly proud of what he’d just done. But these weren’t normal circumstances and considering what they’d been through, he figured his actions were more than justified.

“You listening to me, Landry?”

“Yes,” the old fool croaked.

“Good,” Harlan said. “I want to you to lie there for a while, start feeling better. And once we’ve got the sheriff here squared away for travel, I’m gonna send him and Rusty and Callie on their way. Then you and I are gonna go visit that cabin. No more phony maps. No more ambushes. You understand?”