Running Blind (42 page)

When had Carlin become so important to him that he couldn’t imagine life without her? He’d gotten along just fine on his own for years, and now after just a few months he was in a near panic at the thought of losing her.

“I’m a good shot, you know,” Spencer said, his tone serious. “Never shot a person before, never wanted to shoot a person before, but if it comes to that I’ll do what has to be done.”

“Same here,” Zeke said, though that wasn’t strictly true. He wasn’t going into that now; it was ancient history.

Fifteen minutes was a lifetime.

C
ARLIN SLIPPED THE
pistol into her waistband at the small of her back, concealed beneath her parka and a long sweater, then turned off the ignition and got out of the truck. She didn’t recognize the pickup she’d parked behind, but it had to be Brad’s. It wasn’t the car he’d been driving when she’d met him. Like her, he’d made changes. Living on the road would do that to anyone, she imagined, even Brad.

She’d only been to Kat’s house once before, one Sunday afternoon a while back. The house was a neat one-story house on a quiet road of similar houses just outside of town. She had neighbors, but no one really close. On a normal day, she probably had no more than a fifteen-minute drive to the café. When it was icy, though, she stayed in the upstairs room where Carlin had once lived and saved herself the trip. If it had been icy today, would
Kat be safe? Would Brad have found her at The Pie Hole or would he be on his way to the ranch, without a hostage, and walking straight into the buzz saw that was Zeke Decker?

It didn’t matter. Kat was here; Brad was here. And now Carlin was here, too. The gun pressed into her spine, cold and hard. She knew how to use it, but she wasn’t a quick-draw artist. Her advantage was that Brad wouldn’t expect her to be armed. He saw her as weak, always had, otherwise he would never have fixated on her.

She saw the curtain in the front window move. Up and down the road, all was quiet. It was too cold for kids to be out playing on their lawns, too cold for folks to be barbecuing or washing their cars. She was effectively alone. Once bullets started flying, that would probably change …

Halfway between Zeke’s truck and Kat’s front door, Carlin stopped. If she just walked through the front door, she and Kat would both be dead. Inside that house, Brad would be the one in control. Kat would have served her purpose, and he’d have Carlin right where he wanted her. Maybe she’d die today and maybe she wouldn’t, but she would
not
sacrifice Kat.

She didn’t say anything, didn’t have to. The front door to Kat’s neat little house opened, and there he was, the man of her nightmares. Brad was still big, but oddly enough not as big as she remembered. Her imagination had made him more than he was, had made him a boogeyman when in fact he was just a man, and a sorry one at that.

The storm door hung crooked. He pushed it open, and it squealed. No, it
shrieked
, as if warning her to go no closer. “Come on in, darlin’ Carlin,” Brad said calmly, using the sickening cutesy name he’d called her before.

She took a deep breath. Her feet were planted a couple of feet apart; she was as steady as possible, given the
circumstances. “No. Not until you send Kat out, not until I see that she’s alive and well.”

He glanced back, for a moment, then looked at Carlin again. “She’s alive. If you want her to stay that way—”

“I’m not walking into that house until Kat walks out,” Carlin snapped. “You sick bastard.”

Even from the distance of thirty feet, she saw the anger flash in his eyes. “You’re not running this show.”

“Until Kat comes out, I am.”

Brad drew his gun and pointed it at Carlin. “If you run, I’ll shoot you.”

“I know.” The way he’d shot Jina, the way he’d shoot Kat if he got the chance. But she wasn’t running; she was standing her ground.

If he’d just wanted to shoot her, he could’ve done it the minute she’d stepped out of the truck. He could’ve lurked around town until she showed up and shot her in the back. No, he wanted her to suffer. That was her advantage, at the moment. If he wanted to really hurt her, she had to be in the house. She wasn’t going into the house until Kat came out.

Brad left his position in the doorway; without him holding it open, the storm door swung drunkenly shut. He was back less than a full minute later, hauling Kat behind him. He pushed open the storm door again, shoved Kat onto the porch. Her hands were bound behind her back; her face was swollen and already turning blue. She limped, almost fell as she tried to run to Carlin. She stumbled, and Carlin caught her.

“I’m so sorry,” Carlin whispered. She wanted to cry, but tears would have to wait.

“Come on, Carlin,” Brad called. “Get inside.” Over Kat’s shoulder she saw him take aim. “If you make me shoot, Miss Bailey gets it first. Then you.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“You packing?” Kat whispered. She lifted her head
enough that Carlin could see the pure fire and hatred burning in her eyes.

Carlin nodded.

“Good. Blow his brains out for me, will you?”

Again Carlin nodded, then she looked Kat in the eye. “If everything goes wrong and I don’t make it—”

“Don’t even say that!” Kat snapped, her voice surprisingly strong.

“Tell Zeke I love him.” Carlin spun around so her back was to Brad, rather than allowing Kat’s back to present a clear and tempting target.

“Tell him yourself,” Kat whispered.

Before Kat could say anything else Carlin released her hold and turned again to face Brad. She stepped toward him; he lowered his gun—slightly—and smiled at her.

When she was not much more than a yard from the door he whispered, “I’ve missed you.”

Z
EKE TURNED ONTO
Kat’s road, and there it was, straight ahead—his blue truck, parked at the curb. A vehicle he didn’t recognize—another truck, this one white—was parked in front of it. He caught a too-quick glimpse of fair blond hair at the door to Kat’s house, and by his truck a brunette bent over in what—even from this distance—appeared to be pain.

It was Kat, wearing jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt and no coat. Hands held awkwardly behind her back, she lurched away from the truck and into the road, as if struggling to cross to another house. She was going for help.

He wanted to rush in, wanted to drive his truck into Kat’s front yard and storm the house, but one last shred of common sense made Zeke take a deep breath and pull to the side, where Brad couldn’t see him. There was no need to let him know that anyone was here. Let him
think, for now, that Carlin was on her own. But how long would he wait, knowing that Kat would obviously go for help? Not long. Maybe he’d tie Carlin’s hands behind her and come out the door any second now, taking her to his truck.

Kat stopped in the middle of the road, looked his way, turned, and attempted to run toward him. Spencer was out of the truck in a heartbeat, running to meet Kat as he slipped off his heavy coat. He’d take care of her, do what he could. Knowing Kat was in good hands, Zeke headed for the house. He was so angry he was seeing red, could barely think. Damn it, he had to do something,
now
. A sense of urgency gnawed at him.

“Zeke, stop,” Kat said weakly as she and Spencer met in the road. Spencer pulled a knife from his pocket and quickly cut the duct tape that bound her hands. Then he wrapped his coat around her and offered her a shoulder to lean on—literally. Zeke stopped, getting a good look at her. Oh, God, Kat’s face, and the way she held her body, as if standing was a real effort. That son of a bitch had done a real number on her. But she said, “If you go barging in and surprise him, he’ll just shoot her.”

“He’s got a gun,” Zeke said, to clarify.

“Yeah.” Kat winced as she put her weight on her right foot. “But so does Carlin.” She looked at him, square on. She was hurt badly, but she still had her wits about her and she was no wimp, not even now. “She traded herself for me, even though she knows damn good and well Brad doesn’t intend for either of them to leave that house alive.” She turned gingerly and glanced back. “If he did, he never would’ve let me go.”

She was right. She’d seen something Zeke hadn’t seen. Brad wasn’t taking Carlin anywhere, he intended to die there with her.

Time was short, too short.

Storming the house would get Carlin killed. Standing here and doing nothing would get Carlin killed.

“I think the back door is unlocked. The kitchen door,” Kat said.

“You
think
?”

“I’d just taken out a sack of garbage when he knocked at the door, and … I just don’t remember. Sometimes I lock the door immediately when I come back in, out of habit, but sometimes I forget.”

Women and their locked doors.

It was his best shot. Zeke turned to Spencer. “Get her in the truck and warmed up, and call the sheriff’s department. Tell them to head this way, no lights and no sirens. Talk to Billy, if you can. He knows what’s going on.”

With that, Zeke slanted across a neighbor’s yard with the intention of cutting along the back side of the houses until he got to Kat’s kitchen door. He could only pray that she wasn’t as paranoid about locking her doors as Carlin was.

C
ARLIN STEPPED INTO
the house, her head high. She’d be a fool to pretend she wasn’t afraid, but in the months she’d been running from Brad she’d changed. She wasn’t going to run, wasn’t going to hide, not ever again. Zeke was worth fighting for. No, her
life
was worth fighting for.

“You didn’t have to rough Kat up,” she said, allowing her anger to show.

“If she’s hurting it’s her own fault,” Brad explained in a calm voice. “She wouldn’t tell me where you were.”

“Well, here I am.” She held her arms out to the sides, all but offering herself up to him.

“Take off the coat.” He gestured with his gun. “I want to see you.”

“You can see me just fine with the coat on.” She wondered
if the bulge of the pistol showed through her sweater; it would, almost certainly. If he made her turn around after she removed the parka, if he suspected she was armed … she would never get the chance to fight back.

Brad took a step closer. “Take the coat off. Now.”

Carlin didn’t move back. She actually wished he’d move even closer. Zeke had taught her to defend herself, and though she’d never actually put the proper force into those moves, she knew she could if it came to that. If she went for her gun now he’d get his shot off before she had a chance to even aim in his direction. The object wasn’t just to disarm, capture, or kill Brad; it was to survive.

She wanted to survive to see another day; she wanted to wake up in Zeke’s bed, again and again. She wanted to see spring and summer in Wyoming.

She slipped her parka off and tossed it onto the closest chair. “Fine. No more coat.”

She couldn’t outdraw him, not on a good day and definitely not with his gun already out and aimed in her direction. She couldn’t beat him in a fair fight. What she could do, what she needed to do, was catch him off guard—and fight dirty.

“Do you love me?” She tilted her head, took a step toward him.

“What?” He seemed surprised. Whether it was the question or her willingly coming closer to him, she didn’t know.

“I can’t think of any other reason you’d come after me this way. After all this time, all the miles I tried to put between us … here you are. It must be love.” She almost choked on the word. She knew what love was, now, and it wasn’t this. It wasn’t anything like
this
.

“Of course I …” Brad choked himself, unable to say the word. His eyes darkened. “You’re mine.”

“Do you think you own me, is that it?” She moved
another step closer, her heart thudding, the blood rushing in her ears.

“Yes.” She’d manage to confuse Brad, at least. He’d expected terror or hysterical confrontation or both. Instead she spoke to him of love and moved gradually and steadily closer.

His gun shifted slightly, no longer pointed directly at her. If he were to fire now a bullet might get her in the side, or the shoulder. His head cocked to the side. Carlin prayed no sirens—police or ambulance—broke the spell. Not yet. She needed one more minute, maybe two.

“I don’t like running,” she said. “I don’t want to run anymore. Please, Brad, let me stop.”

“Why did you leave?” he asked, and the gun lowered a few more inches.

She reached out, touched his chest. She saw the surprise in his eyes, the sudden leap of sick lust, the insane smugness, as if he’d known all along that she really wanted him. She moved closer, put her other hand on his chest, too. Then she gripped his shirt hard in both fists and pulled him toward her. If she hadn’t already been moving his way he might’ve been alarmed by the move, but instead he opened his freakin’ mouth as if he intended to
kiss
her.

She held him close and rammed her knee into his groin.
His
nuts she didn’t care about at all, so she gave it everything she had. Once, twice, pumping her knee back and forth like a jackhammer. The first blow took him so by surprise he didn’t react, and the second blow made him howl in pain. The gun swung toward her again, but without releasing his shirt she threw up her elbow and blocked his arm. The third knee to the nuts sent him to the floor; he dropped to his knees, cussing a blue streak. She released his shirt and kicked at his arm, hitting it hard enough to knock the gun out of his hand, sending it clattering across the floor.

Swiftly she backed up and pulled the pistol from her waistband, held it firmly in both hands, and aimed at Brad’s head.

She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t pull the trigger. As she had suspected all along, she couldn’t shoot an unarmed man, not even Brad. She fought to keep him from reading it in her face. All she had to do was hold him here until Zeke and the guys and the sheriff arrived. A few minutes; surely no more than that. Kat had already had time to make phone calls. Was Zeke already on his way? Had whoever was watching the road away from the ranch realized she was the one headed to town?

Gagging, cupping his balls, Brad struggled to his knees. Tears of pain filled his eyes, and his voice didn’t shake or quiver as he said, “Shoot me. Pull the trigger.”