Sandra Brown: Lethal

“You need an ambulance.”

“I said forget it. I’m okay.”

“Coburn beat you?”

“He looks worse.”

“Mrs. Gillette was complicit?”

His lips hardened into a firm, straight line. “She had her reasons.”

“Honest ones?”

“She thinks so.”

“What do you think?”

“Are you going to get me out of this chair or not?”

Crawford replaced his pistol in the holster. As he sawed through the tape with the sharp point of his pocketknife, Gillette filled him in on what had taken place. By the time he’d finished with his story, he was free from the chair, stamping to restore feeling to his feet, flexing and extending his fingers to increase circulation.

“They took the USB key with them?” Crawford asked.

“As well as the soccer ball.”

“What was on that key?”

“They refused to tell me.”

“Well, it had to be something significant or your late son wouldn’t have gone to such great lengths to hide it.”

Gillette said nothing to that.

“Did they tell you where they were going?”

“What do you think?”

“Give you any hint? Did you pick up on anything?”

“They were in an awful rush when they left. As they raced through here, I demanded to know what was going on. Coburn stopped and leaned down, putting us eye to eye.

“He reminded me that when a Marine has a duty to perform, he doesn’t let any obstacle stand in the way of performing that duty. I told him yes, of course, what of it? Then he said, ‘Well, I’m a former Marine, and I’ve got a duty to perform. Intentionally or not, you could be an obstacle. So you should understand why I gotta do this.’ Then the son of a bitch slugged me, knocked me out. Next thing I know, you’re here.”

“Your jaw is bruised. Is it okay?”

“Have you ever been kicked by a mule?”

“I don’t suppose you saw what kind of car-”

“No.”

“Where’s your computer?”

Gillette led him down a hallway and into the master bedroom. “It’s probably in sleep mode.”

Crawford sat down at the functional desk and activated the computer. He checked the email server, the home page on the web browser, and even Gillette’s documents file. He didn’t find anything, nor had he expected to.

“Coburn wouldn’t have left us a trail that was that easy to follow,” he said. “I’d like to take your computer with me, though. Give it to the department techies, see if they can find what was on that key. I guess all we can do now-”

He drew up short when he stood up and turned around. Stan Gillette was holding a deer rifle in one hand and pointing a six-shot revolver at him with the other.

It’s Coburn.”

Hamilton yelled at him through the phone. “About time. Damn you, Coburn! Are you still alive? Mrs. Gillette? The child? What happened with VanAllen?”

“Honor is with me. She’s okay. But they’ve got her daughter. I just talked to Doral Hawkins. The Bookkeeper wants to trade. Me for Emily.”

Hamilton exhaled noisily. “Well, that sums it up.”

“It does.”

After a beat, Hamilton asked, “VanAllen?”

“Honor didn’t meet him, I did. I suspected a trap, but I thought it would be him springing it. As it turned out…”

“Tom was clean.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe? I understand he was practically vaporized.”

“Bad guys get double-crossed, too. Anyway, he answered his phone before I could warn him not to.”

“Where are you now?”

“Later. Listen, I found what I’ve been after. Turned out to be a USB key loaded with incriminating information.”

“On who?”

“Lots of people. Locals. Some not. A shitload of stuff.”

“You’ve actually seen it?”

“I’m holding it in my hand.”

“To swap for Emily.”

“If it comes to that. I don’t think it will.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that I don’t think it will come to that.”

“No more fucking riddles, Coburn. Tell me where you are, I’ll get-”

“I emailed you the file a few minutes ago.”

“Nothing’s come in from you on my phone.”

“I didn’t send it to your regular email address. You know where to look.”

“So it’s good stuff?”

“Yes.”

“But it doesn’t ID The Bookkeeper.”

“How’d you know?”

“If it had, you’d have told me that first.”

“You’re right. We weren’t that lucky. But this will make him traceable. I’m almost positive.”

“Good work, Coburn. Now tell me-”

“No time. I’ve got to go.”

“Wait! You can’t do this without backup. You could be walking into another trap.”

“That’s a chance I gotta take.”

“No way. And I’m not going to argue with you over this. I spoke with Deputy Crawford. I think I can safely vouch for him. Call him and-”

“Not until Emily is back with Honor. Then she’ll notify the authorities.”

“You can’t confront these people alone.”

“That’s the condition of the swap.”

“That’s the condition of every swap!” Hamilton shouted. “Nobody sticks to the conditions.”

“I do. This time I do.”

“You could get that little girl killed!”

“Maybe. But it’s a sure thing she’ll die if cops and feds swarm the scene.”

“Doesn’t have to be that way. We can-”

Coburn disconnected, then turned off the phone. “Bet he had some choice words for me,” he said to Honor as he tossed the phone onto the backseat.

“He thinks you should call in reinforcements.”

“Just like in the movies. Give him his head, he’d have S.W.A.T. guys, choppers, every badge within fifty miles converging on the scene, an army of Stallones who’d only fuck it up.”

After a moment, she said quietly, “I was very angry at you.”

He glanced over at her with silent inquiry.

“When you ruined Eddie’s football.”

“Yeah, I know. My cheek still stings where you slapped it.”

“I thought you were being unreasonably cruel. But actually your intuition was right. You just picked the wrong sport.”

It hadn’t been intuition that had caused him to plunge the knife into that football. It had been jealousy. Raw, fierce, animalistic jealousy over her facial expression as she’d stroked the football’s lacing and lovingly reminisced about her late husband. But they’d both be better off if he didn’t correct her misconception. Let her think he was an intuitive jerk rather than a jealous wannabe lover.

She was rubbing her upper arms, a sign of her anxiety. “Honor.” When she turned her head toward him, he said, “I can call Hamilton back. Have him send in the cavalry.”

“Two days ago, you wouldn’t have given me an option,” she said, her tone throaty and intimate. “Coburn, I-”

“Don’t. Whatever else you were about to say, don’t.” Her misty expression alarmed him more than if she’d launched an RPG at him. “Don’t look at me all calf-eyed. Don’t nurse any romantic notions about me just because I told you that you’re pretty or related a sob story about some old horse.

“The sex? Mind-blowing. I wanted you, and you wanted me back, and I think even before we kissed on the boat we both knew it was a sure thing, only a matter of time. And it felt terrific. But don’t delude yourself into thinking that I’m a different person than I was when I crawled up into your yard. I’m still mean. Still me.”

He made himself sound harsh, because it was important that she understand this. In an hour, possibly less, one way or another, he would exit her life as swiftly as he’d entered it. He wanted to make that exit painless for her, even if it meant wounding her now. “I haven’t changed, Honor.”