Deadly Powers (Tapped In Book 2) (16 page)

I had to stifle a laugh with a fake cough. I signaled to the ranch hand: “I’ll take the gray.”

Jordan, the ranch hand, arrived at the corral as we were mounting up. He told us to follow the path heading east. “When it forks, stay to the left; it’s a half-mile farther on from there. I’ll be no more than ten minutes behind you.” He dismounted from his own ride. “I need to deal with this matter first.” Jordan pulled his Colt and entered the corral.

“Hold up there … um … Jordan,” I said, watching him head toward the sleeping mare. “She’s just sleeping … probably tired from—”

The shot rang out, echoing across the hills, then fading away into silence. Startled, my horse pulled against his reins. I continued to stare at the now-dead mare. There’d been nothing particularly wrong with the horse that I’d observed, only that she was old and tired.

* * *

The three of us—Billy the Kid on his chestnut, me on my gray, and Butch Cassidy on a pinto paint named Potts, rode side by side on the path heading east. Potts seemed to be a fine horse, like my gray, who went by the name Gunner. But Billy’s chestnut, Ticker, true to what the dog had messaged me—spent a significant amount of time stretching his neck back, trying to nip at his rider with his large teeth.

“Fucking horse,” Billy said, abruptly yanking the reins he was holding in the opposite direction. He leaned forward, bringing his face closer to Ticker’s flinching ears: “There’s another bullet … it has your name on it.”

Butch and I exchanged a quick glance.

A Bad Man
,
the dog added, keeping pace with us. Now that he’d found someone who could understand his thoughts, he hadn’t shut up since we’d left the stables. I tried not to encourage him—ignoring his chatty inner dialogue for the most part.

“This is beautiful countryside,” the congressman remarked.

“It should be … for what it cost.”

I looked at Billy. “What do you mean by that?”

“I meant just what I said. I own this land … the lodge … the town up ahead.”

Again Butch and I exchanged a look.

“You did … all this … for your boys?” I asked, gesturing toward the horizon.

“They mean everything to me, those two.” He shrugged. “But it’s for me, too. I can afford it.” He looked at me, the brim of his Stetson shading his face. “So tell me, Mr. McAlister, what makes you want to be a part of this?”

He’d overemphasized the name
McAlister
. I was immediately on guard. Was he aware of my true identity? He was an intelligent man, with unlimited resources, and I had no idea what he did, or didn’t, know about me.

Slightly behind us—to both our left and right—were his mounted security team. They were attempting to stay out of sight in the flanking trees, but I knew they were there, and I knew more than one periodically had me in his crosshairs.

“I’m Troy McAlister … just a business man.”

“That’s not what I meant. You think I didn’t have you vetted? Everyone here has seen your face on the cover of Forbes, plus other magazines, in recent months. You’re on the rise … making a name for yourself.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“We’ll talk more later. I may be able to assist you. Significantly.”

I looked at him without responding.

“Later. We’ll talk later. Let’s enjoy our nice ride; it’s not the time to talk business.”

* * *

We entered the town three abreast, beneath an arch that spanned the width of the rutty road. I looked up and saw freshly painted signage:
Welcome!
Not knowing what to expect, I found myself taking in what lay before me with a sense of wonder. Right here was what it was all about. Not the immense luxury lodge perched on the ridge behind us, or the distant stables, or the miles of open, untouched, landscape. No, it was this town. Even with a cursory first glance, I could see that everything was a hundred percent authentically constructed and meticulously conformed to the time period of the mid-to-late 1800s. Rough-hewn timber boardwalks, and the somewhat cloudy and misshapen glass windowpanes on the storefronts, went far beyond a Hollywood movie set, or a Western gimmicky amusement park.

We slowed our horses, continuing down the middle of the street. Butch whistled, obviously as captivated by what he was seeing as I was. With a quick glance back I saw Ol’ Yeller 2 still tagging along behind us.

Folks here were dressed appropriately for the older time period, milling about from one location to the next, not giving us any special notice. I estimated the town’s main thoroughfare was approximately a quarter mile long. Smaller structures, some attached, some detached, were at the far edges of the town. The closer we came to what I figured was the town’s center, the bigger, and closer together, were the buildings. The women were wearing long dresses; some carried parasols and wore fashionable bonnets, while the men were either dressed formally, in business attire appropriate for the time—most with bowler hats on—or were dressed in real cowboy attire. We three, wearing today’s blue jeans and brightly colored Roy Rogers-style shirts, didn’t remotely fit in here.

What was so easy to forget was that none of this was real—none of it. The townspeople here were, in fact, actors—performing in a large-scale production. They didn’t notice that we were dressed inappropriately, because they were paid not to. I remembered what Baltimore had told me earlier about the five-million-dollar admission charge; for that kind of money, everything sure better be authentic.

I glanced over at Butch. He’d sucked in his paunch and was smiling broadly at a pretty young woman in a frilly dress, standing in front of the town’s General Store.

Billy the Kid was watching me—watching my reaction to everything. “Almost enough to make one truly believe it’s really 1881, somewhere in Arizona. Perhaps Tombstone?”

“It’s certainly something,” I agreed.

Billy sat up higher in his saddle and, with a confident air, seemed to look down his nose at those scurrying around on the street. The elaborate town—the old-world Western setup he’d commissioned at some point in the recent past—was it simply on a whim? Barking off orders, like:
Build me an Old West town
so real you forget what fucking year you’re living in!
It was unfathomable to me the kind of wealth one would need to have something like this town commissioned. All the scenic acreage he’d acquired; the actual construction of the town; all the actors dressed appropriately in vogue, milling about? It was my guess Billy the Kid, aka Rudy Palmolive, hadn’t given the venture that much thought once he’d barked off his initial orders. For he too was looking at the town as though he were seeing it for the first time, just as we were. What he’d probably set in motion, perhaps on a whim, had changed the lives of hundreds, maybe thousands, of people. It occurred to me right then that this elaborate staging was what he was all about; and on a small scale, what he got off on—transforming the world to suit his own desires. As the newly appointed leader, head of the table of the Council of Five, he was planning something far more sinister for the real world and on a much grander scale.

The short Napoleonic man smiled at me and gestured toward what was clearly the largest building in town. “That is our destination.” He gave Ticker a kick and moved out in front, veering off toward the two-story building. Its signage read Hotel and Saloon.

Butch reined up, close to me. “This is going to be fun … nice getting away from the kids and wife for a few days.”

“I’m sorry?”

He chuckled. “You didn’t know?” He gestured, using the brim of his Stetson. “Wives and kiddies are staying at the lodge; they’ll do some nature hikes and fishing, and visit a wild wolf preserve. Nope … this town is no place for them.”

As if on cue, a gunshot rang out by the swinging doors of the saloon. Butch and I pulled back on our horses’ reins, trying to settle them down. A man lay still on the dusty road, about twenty feet in front of us; a splash of red was spreading across his chest.

Butch leaned in close and said with childish enthusiasm, “And let the show begin …”

But something didn’t seem quite right about the way the man on the ground fell—the way one leg was drawn back, lying beneath him … unnaturally. There was also the red splash on his chest, now spreading outside his shirtfront and onto the dirt. Standing in front of two, still-swinging, saloon doors was Jude, a now-familiar ranch hand, whose six-shooter still pointed at the fallen, clearly dead man lying in the road.

Deceiving, her face passive of expression, Pippa’s eyes stayed locked on the man approaching her, wearing a white windbreaker. She took in his every movement. One thing was certain—he was coming for her.

Earlier, she’d heard Baltimore say into the phone, “I’m having Ackerman take him out.” Ackerman and Moody, agents brought up from Washington the previous evening, were seasoned operatives. Both vetted—neither worked for the Order in any capacity. While Moody kept guard on Heidi and Taffy, sitting in a vehicle nearby, Ackerman waited a mere twenty yards from where Pippa was standing. He was ready to move in, pull his weapon, and shoot the would-be assassin at a moment’s notice. But that option Pippa didn’t elect to utilize; the mere thought of someone harming Arly, her dear niece, was too personal. She needed to handle it herself, or die trying.

At five feet out, he made his move. He lunged, his hand holding something—probably a knife—jutted forward with unbelievable speed. If she hadn’t been ready and prepared for it—training for years in various forms of close quarters combat—it would have been all over for her.

Pippa had just enough time to bring her backpack up, blocking his initial strike. In a blur, she could see it wasn’t a knife he held but a box cutter—the early morning sunshine reflecting for a moment off the small razor-like blade. The attacker, his face only inches from her own, showed momentary confusion when he realized she was not Arly—that he had been set up. He recovered quickly, stepping back just enough to spring forward again, this time using a left-to-right slashing movement with the razor, aiming toward her exposed neck. Pippa blocked his arm, using the proper knife-hand defense, and brought him up short with a precisely placed blow to his wrist. The blow, intended to send the box cutter flying, was unsuccessful.
This guy is good
, she thought, realizing she might have underestimated her opponent. Either that, or she’d overestimated her own abilities. Pippa then punched out with her left fist, connecting with nothing but air, and received a staggeringly hard punch to her left cheek. More from instinct than anything else, she brought her right arm up defensively to block the next inevitable strike.

She saw the spray of blood before she actually felt any pain. He’d sliced her forearm at an angle, from elbow to wrist. She quickly clenched her fingers, and was relieved to find she could still move them.
Good … no tendons were severed.

Ackerman was halfway to her, bounding forward now and pulling his Glock from beneath his own windbreaker.

Pippa had discovered early on, when working for the CIA, that men routinely underestimated women’s abilities—had underestimated hers. Instead of taking it personally, she learned to take advantage of it, requiring both patience and strategy. In the end, she’d used men’s overconfidence or, as in this case, assumptions, against them. Men assumed women, even well-trained ones like herself, would never use a head-butt in a close-quarters combat—that it was something only a man would do. But Pippa didn’t even have to think about it. His face, in that one instant, was aligned perfectly—not too close and not too far away. In a fast combination of thrusting forward and using a jerky bowing motion, she used the top of her forehead—where the skull bone was thickest—to spring forward with all the speed and momentum she could rally forth. She heard the gratifying sounds of cartilage and bone splintering and cracking. She knew she had crushed her opponent’s nose. Warm blood sprayed into the air, then onto her cheeks and even into her mouth.

Ackerman was upon them, thrusting the muzzle of his 9mm pistol into the assailant’s neck, directly below his chin.

“Move and I’ll open a window at the top of your head, asshole.”

With the man now subdued, Pippa stepped back and assessed her own injured arm. The nine-inch slice was still bleeding, but didn’t seem particularly deep.

“That could use a few stitches,” Baltimore said, out-of-breath after sprinting around the pond.

“I think it’ll be fine.” Pippa wrapped her arm in the sweatshirt she’d taken from Arly’s backpack.

“You showed some nice moves there … and having him alive to interrogate is even better.”

They heard sirens blaring off in the distance and a crowd of onlookers had formed around them. Since local NYPD, for the most part, had also come under the influence of the Order, they knew they needed to vacate the park quickly. “I think we better get moving,” she said.

Baltimore took ahold of the man’s left arm as Ackerman grabbed his right. They manhandled him toward the park entrance where, parked at the curb, a black Navigator idled. “I’m a step ahead of you. Our ride’s there waiting for us.”

Pippa followed closely behind them. Approaching the awaiting SUV, she saw Heidi sitting in the front passenger seat, Taffy sitting behind the wheel, and agent Moody perched on the rear seat, holding a gun pointed, undoubtedly, toward the back of Taffy’s head.

* * *

Baltimore reclaimed the front passenger seat, so Heidi now sat alongside Pippa in the big vehicle’s third-row seat. So far, Heidi hadn’t even so much as acknowledged her injured employee.

Pippa asked, “What’s his name, Heidi?”

Heidi continued to look forward toward the windshield. “He goes by Guntner, but it’s an alias, I’m sure.”

Pippa leaned back, her eyes on the back of Guntner’s head.

“He’ll be properly dealt with,” Baltimore said from the front seat, “just as soon as he’s interrogated.”

Pippa nodded. “So what now? Where are we going?”