Blood Lines (45 page)

“No.”

“Then maybe he didn't. Maybe this is all just a—”

“He did it, Don,” Shel stated. “I saw it in his face right before he hit me. I've seen guilty men before. And Daddy's guilty.” Now that he'd seen that in his daddy's face, he realized he'd been staring at it his whole life. But he'd never recognized it before now.

The silence in the SUV stretched out lean and hard. Shel didn't know what to say. He knew he'd thought everything that must have been on Don's mind. He just had to wait till Don caught up with him. Then they could talk about what they were going to do.

What
you're
going to do,
Shel told himself.
You're not hanging this on Don. You're just letting him know what's going down before you do it. And you know what you have to do. Somebody out there, somewhere, deserves to know what happened to their son or husband or father. There are too many who didn't come back from that war. Even one more is going to make a difference.

“Can you imagine what that must be like?” Don asked. “Living with a secret like that for over forty years?”

“I can't,” Shel said. “Mostly I can't because I'd never do what Daddy did.”

“You've killed people, Shel.”

Shel didn't respond. He had killed people. There was no reason to contest it or point out that every time he'd ended a life it had been to save another that was hanging in the balance.

“Did you ask God's forgiveness for those deaths?” Don asked.

“No. Taking those lives in those situations was what I was trained to do.”

“That doesn't mean you shouldn't seek God's forgiveness.”

“I figured God forgave me when he kept me from getting killed,” Shel said.

Displeasure tightened Don's face. “This isn't something you should take so lightly. You should always—”

“Don,” Shel interrupted gently but firmly, “this is about Daddy. Not about me. Save your sermon for Sunday.”

Don breathed in and out. “I know. You're right. The first thing we need to do is talk to Daddy.”

Shel touched his bruised face. “Trust me when I say he's not exactly in a talkative mood over this particular subject.”

“I don't mean any offense, Shel, but you're not the most tactful person on earth.”

“Probably not. But I don't know many ways to ask someone if they killed somebody.”

“That's exactly the kind of attitude I'm talking about.”

Shel couldn't keep the irritation out of his voice. “I'm not the one that did anything wrong here, Don.”

Don took another slow breath. “You're right. One thing I've learned about dealing with church members plagued by guilt is that you have to go slow. Allow them time to tell you something in their own good time.”

“Daddy's had forty years to do that.”

“He might have told someone.”

“I didn't get that impression while he was whaling the tar out of me.”

“Something like this takes . . . diplomacy.” Don shook his head. “That's not you.”

“I did the best I could.”

“Yeah,” Don said dryly. “I can see how that worked out for you.”

“I walked out of there under my own power.”

“Daddy was all right when you left?”

“He was. Looked like he was a mite winded, but he had some rounds left in him.” Shel's attention was suddenly caught by the sheriff's deputies inside the diner.

As one, the deputies stood and dropped money onto the table. Then they rushed out of the diner.

On impulse, wanting some kind of distraction to break the tension inside the car, Shel pushed his door open and stepped out. He had his NCIS ID in one hand.

“Hey,” Shel called. “Gunnery Sergeant Shelton McHenry. NCIS. Where are you guys headed?”

One of the older deputies stopped in his tracks. “Did you say McHenry?”

Don got out on his side so the truck stop's parking lot lights could shine on him. “Andy,” he said. “It's Don McHenry. This is my brother, Shel.”

“Got some bad news, Don,” the deputy said. “Dispatch just called in, said there's trouble at your daddy's ranch.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Dispatch said she heard gunfire. The sheriff told us to keep a lookout over the place. Wayne Hayscott was out that way when dispatch lost communication with him.”

“Get in,” Shel growled as he dropped into the seat and keyed the ignition.

Don didn't argue. He yanked his seat belt on at the same time Shel did.

By that time Shel had already reversed the SUV and turned the vehicle toward the highway. He glanced at the dashboard clock. It read 21:36 because he'd set it to military time.

Hang on, Daddy,
Shel thought fiercely as he blew by an 18-wheeler and barely made the lane change to get out of oncoming traffic.
We're coming.

By his estimate, they were almost twenty-five minutes from the ranch. The engine screamed in his ears.

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 2136 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Tyrel was surprised how calm he was in the darkness. It had been forty years since he'd been hunted.

I guess some things just never go away,
he told himself. He still sat a horse the way he always had, still managed posthole diggers with an easy authority, and could still trail a cow across baked earth. The years had added up, but he hadn't changed much and hadn't lost much.

The fight with Shel proved that. Even though his face hurt and his heart was leaden in his chest, part of him still took pride in the fact that he could match Shel. Tyrel hadn't ever let up on himself a single day in his life.

A shadow fell across the bedroom window.

Tyrel's breathing slowed a little more. He didn't move. Instead of staring at the window, he looked away from it. In the darkness, peripheral vision was better than looking at something directly.

Moonlight glimmered on a thick blade that pried at the window.

For a moment, Tyrel allowed himself to think about the men coming for him. Victor Gant attracted a certain kind of man to his flag. Those who stayed with him during the long term were hard men with agendas of their own. They placed their lives above the lives of everyone else.

In Vietnam, Victor's cool composure and emotionless control had drawn several young soldiers to him. He'd promised them that if they listened to him, he'd get them through the war alive and in one piece. Since most of the guys who'd been assigned with him worked reconnaissance, the young soldiers had listened.

Then they'd started counting the body bags and realized that Victor Gant might have been better at keeping himself intact, but that wasn't necessarily how it worked out for others.

And some of them, a lucky few that Victor had gone after, had seen the darkness in him and fought shy of it.

Tyrel hadn't been one of those. He'd been twenty-one years old, scared and alone and far from home in a country he couldn't even begin to understand.

You stay away from there,
he told himself.
You got business here to tend to.

The knife wielder popped the window latch free without difficulty. Security wasn't a big issue in the area.

The man waited a moment. Whispers reached Tyrel's ears and let him know the man wasn't alone.

Tyrel knew he wasn't going to have much time when everything broke loose. He hadn't believed Shel when he said Victor Gant might come after him. Or maybe he hadn't cared. Maybe he'd thought it would be payment of a debt long overdue.

Despite the guilt that had plagued him for forty years and kept him distant from his family, Tyrel was shamed that he wasn't ready to give up his life. He didn't know why that was.

So he lay in wait. Not all of Victor Gant's men would be trained fighters. They might be killers, but there was a world of difference between a man willing to kill and one who had been trained to.

The window lifted soundlessly in its tracks. A man climbed across the sill. A gun was clearly visible in his right hand.

Calmly Tyrel shot the man through the head. The sound of the gunshot was loud in the bedroom. Before the echo had died away, Tyrel crossed the room and took up a position across the dead man's back.

Another man stood only a few feet away. Tyrel shot him through the heart at point-blank range. Satisfied that none of the other men were in the immediate vicinity—though they would undoubtedly be coming soon—Tyrel pushed the dead man back through the window, then threw a leg over and dropped to the ground only a few feet below.

Going out through the window the invaders had tried to come in was a nervy response to the threat. But it was the correct one. Most people who knew they were being chased ran
from
the perceived threat, not toward it.

Tyrel stepped across the other dead man and ran toward the barn.

Hoarse shouts rang out. Footsteps closed on that side of the house.

Ignoring the sounds of pursuit, knowing it was a footrace, Tyrel headed toward the barn.

“Over here!” someone shouted. “He's headed for the barn!”

Tyrel pulled the door open and slid through just ahead of a fusillade of bullets that drummed the heavy wood. Splinters ripped free like confetti.

Pale moonlight filtered into the building, but there wasn't enough to accurately see anything. Tyrel went by feel. He knew every inch of the barn. He'd built it, and he'd been inside it every day since construction had finished.

He took a bridle from the tack hanging on the wall and headed for the mare in the first stall. He'd been riding her for years. When he was in the saddle, he'd often felt they shared the same thoughts. There wasn't a move either could make that the other didn't already know.

Tyrel opened the stall door and called to the mare. She whickered and came to him immediately. He slid the bridle into place, and the bit clacked in between her teeth as he snugged the leather behind her ears. Then he vaulted up across her back. There was a moment of hesitation on the mare's part; then she recognized Tyrel's gentle voice and calmed.

Seated on the horse's back, Tyrel watched as someone pushed the barn door wide. All out of time, Tyrel put his heels to the mare's flanks and guided her toward the barn door. He pulled the .30-30 around, pointed at the center of the shadow revealed in the wide rectangle of soft light, and pulled the trigger. The mare tightened a little beneath him but never broke stride. He'd trained her to deal with him firing from the saddle at wolves that occasionally stalked his cows and calves.

The man in the doorway stumbled but didn't go down. Then the mare hit him and sent him sprawling. Tyrel stayed low over the horse's back as he rode her from the barn. Even without the saddle, he sat her easily, sticking tight.

He had a brief impression of the men scattered around the front of the barn and around the corral. Shots rang out. Some of them cut the air near his head, but none of them touched him or the mare.

Encouraged but knowing how dangerous it was to ride at full speed at night, Tyrel gave the mare her head and let her run. Her hooves drummed the packed earth. She slowed only a moment at the fence, bunching and uncoiling as she sailed over the top post.

She landed roughly on the other side. For a moment Tyrel was certain he and the mare were going to go separate ways, but he clamped his knees tight and hung on. When she recovered and he remained atop her, they had the whole of the wide-open range before them.

Tyrel's heart sang when he realized they'd made it. But he knew he'd never see the ranch again. He'd planned this moment for forty years, but he'd always hoped it would never come. It was ironic that Victor Gant, who'd been the man responsible for all the guilt that Tyrel had felt over those years, would be the one who chased him from the land that had been Tyrel and his family's home.

He put that out of his mind. This life, poor as it had been, was over. Whatever was left, however meager and sorry it might be, lay ahead of him.

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