Diana Palmer - Wyoming Bold

Mallory nodded, waiting.

Tank sighed. He perched himself on the arm of the sofa. “Well, it turns out that there actually is a sheriff in Texas who was kidnapped by a drug cartel—maybe the same cartel that shot me up.”

“Son of a gun!” Mallory exclaimed.

“His name is Sheriff Hayes Carson. There was an assassination attempt against him by one of the drug lords he arrested, just before Thanksgiving. He and his fiancée were kidnapped by some of El Ladŕon’s men and held across the border in Mexico. They escaped. But Carson says he had a run-in with one of the drug cartel henchmen before that. There was a DEA agent in a suit who was at the scene. The local police chief’s secretary saw the guy, and has a photographic memory, but even when the police artist drew him, neither Carson nor the feds could recall him.”

“Curious,” Mallory murmured.

“Yes. I remembered, after Merissa came here, that it was a DEA agent, in a suit, who led me into the ambush on the border.”

Mallory let out a long breath. “Good God.”

“Merissa says the same guys are coming after me because they’re afraid of what I’ll remember. The damnedest thing is, I don’t remember anything that would help convict someone. I only remember the pain and the certainty that I was going to die, there in the dust, covered in blood, all alone.”

Mallory got up and laid a heavy, affectionate hand on his shoulder. “That didn’t happen, though. A concerned citizen saw you and called the law.”

He nodded. “I vaguely remember that. Mostly it was a voice, telling me that I’d be all right. Had a Spanish accent. He saved my life.” He closed his eyes. “There was another man, arguing with him, telling him to do nothing. It was too late—he’d already made the call by then. I remember the other man’s voice. He was cussing. He had a Massachusetts accent.” He laughed. “Sounded like old history tapes of President John Kennedy, actually.”

“What did he look like?”

Tank frowned. He closed his eyes again, trying to remember. “I just vaguely remember. He was wearing a suit. He was tall and very pale with red hair.” He started. “I never thought of that.” He opened his eyes and looked at Mallory. “I think he was a DEA agent.” He frowned. “But why would he tell the other man not to get help for me if he was a fed?”

“Was he the same one who took you out there?”

Tank frowned. “No. No, it couldn’t have been him. That guy, the DEA guy, had dark hair and a Southern drawl.”

“Did you describe him to the sheriff?”

Tank got up. “No, but I’m about to.”

He picked up his cell phone, found Hayes Carson’s number in the stored files and autodialed the number.

It only took three rings before Hayes answered. “Carson.”

“It’s Dalton Kirk, in Wyoming. I’ve just remembered a man who called for help when I was shot. There was another man with him who tried to stop him from calling 911. The other man was tall, with red hair and a Massachusetts accent. Does that sound anything like the man you remember?”

Hayes actually laughed. “No. Our guy was tall and sandy-haired and had a slight Spanish accent.”

“A Spanish guy with blond hair?” Tank chuckled.

“Well, people from Northern Spain are often blond and blue-eyed. Some have red hair. And they say the Basque people of Spain settled in Scotland and Ireland.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Neither did I, but one of our federal agents is a history nut. He knows all about Scotland. He told me.”

“This whole thing is really strange. The man who led me into the ambush was tall and dark-haired. The man who was with the guy who called 911 was a red-head. But I remember them both wearing the same suit.” He shook his head. “Maybe the trauma unseated my memory.”

“Or maybe the man uses disguises.” Hayes was thinking, hard. “Listen, did you ever see that movie The Saint that starred Val Kilmer?”

Tank frowned. “Once, I think.”

“Well, the guy was a real chameleon. He could change his appearance at the drop of a hat. He could put on a wig, change his accent, the whole deal.”

“You think our guy might be someone like that?”

“It’s possible. People who work in the covert world have to learn to disguise themselves to avoid detection. He may have a background in black ops.”

“If I knew somebody in military intelligence, I might be able to find out something about that.”

“We have a guy here, Rick Marquez. He’s a police detective in San Antonio. His father-in-law is head of the CIA. I might be able to get him to check it out.”

“Great idea. Thanks.”

“I don’t know if he can find out anything. Especially with the odd descriptions I’ll have to give him.”

“Listen,” Tank said quietly, “it’s worth a try. If he’s ever used disguises in the past, there’s a chance somebody will remember him.”

“It’s possible, I suppose. But in covert work, I don’t imagine using disguises is exactly a rare thing,” Hayes said. He hesitated. “There’s another interesting connection, in my case.”

“What?”

“My fiancée’s father, her real father, is one of the biggest drug cartel leaders on the continent.”

There was a very significant silence on the other end of the line.

“He helped us shut down El Ladŕon,” Hayes added quietly. “And he saved the man’s family who helped rescue me and Minette. For a bad man, he’s something of a closet angel. They call him El Jefe.”

“A sheriff with an outlaw for a future father-in-law,” Tank said. “Well, it’s unique.”

“So is he. I can ask him to dig into his sources and see if he can come up with anything, like a budding politician with drug cartel ties.”

“That would be a help. Thanks.”

“I’m just as much involved as you are. Stay in touch.”

“I’ll do that. And we should both watch our backs in the meantime.”

“Couldn’t agree more.”

TANK’S NEXT MOVE was to drive over to Merissa’s house through the blinding snow. What he wanted to talk to her about wasn’t something he was comfortable discussing over the phone. If there was an assassin after him, he might monitor calls. Anyone in black ops would have that talent.

When he pulled up at the front door of the small cabin, Clara, Merissa’s mother, was waiting there. She smiled as Tank got out of the truck and came up the steps.

“She said you’d come,” Clara said with a sheepish smile. “She’s lying down with a migraine headache,” she added worriedly. “She woke up with it, so the medicine isn’t working very well.”

“Medicine from a doctor?” Tank asked softly, and with a smile.

Clara lowered her eyes. “Herbal medicine. My grandfather was a Comanche shaman,” she said.

His eyebrows arched.

“I know, I’m blonde and so is Merissa, but it’s true just the same. I had a little boy just after I had Merissa. He died—” she hesitated, still upset about it after all the years “—when he was just a week old. But he had black hair and dark brown eyes. It’s recessive genes with Merissa and me, you see. Our coloring, I mean.”

He moved a step closer. He noticed that Clara, like Merissa, immediately backed up, looking uneasy.

He stopped dead, frowning. “Recessive genes.”

She nodded. She swallowed, relaxing when she saw that he wasn’t coming closer.

“Clara, I don’t really know you well enough to pry,” he began softly, “but it’s noticeable that you and Merissa start backing away from me if I come close.”

Clara hesitated. Oddly, she trusted Tank, even though she barely knew him. “My...ex-husband...he was scary when he lost his temper.” She managed a laugh. “It’s an old reflex. Sorry.”