Patricia Rosemoor: Someone To Protect Her

“Actually, he’ll blend better than any of us.” At the far end of the table, Daniel fiddled with what looked to be one of several dossiers spread out in front of him. “Brody grew up in this neck of the mountains—a positive for us. And he’s only on loan from the FBI until I can recruit another permanent agent.”

“As long as he doesn’t think he’s in charge and doesn’t get in our way,” Frank said.

He had no fondness for special agents, not after the Bosnia debriefing.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.”

As one, all three men at the table turned toward the deep voice coming from the other side of the room.

Speaking of the devil…

Court Brody had sneaked up on them all. He stood at the elevator, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hidden by sunglasses undoubtedly meant to intimidate.

Daniel cleared his throat and stood. “Come in, come in. We’re just getting to know one another.”

“So I heard.”

Frank watched the big man—tall, rather than wide—stalk them. He didn’t seem too happy.

Well, neither was Frank.

He felt flushed and outside of himself. What the hell was wrong with him? Hadn’t he learned to be on guard at all times? The elevator operated almost silently, true, but what had happened to his instincts?

Without instincts, in a combat situation, a man could be dead in the blink of an eye.

A rush of adrenaline exacerbated the pounding of Frank’s heart. It pounded so loud the sound filled his ears. Surely they could all hear it. He glanced around the table, but no one was paying him any mind.

Daniel and Kyle were focused on the FBI man, who took the end seat as far from them all as he could. Only then did he remove the sunglasses to reveal cold gray eyes. If he and Kyle didn’t welcome Brody…well, the feeling was too obviously returned.

“Welcome to Montana Confidential.”

Daniel returned to his seat and made formal introductions. “Court Brody, special agent, FBI. Frank Connolly, pilot and ex-military man. Kyle Foster, chemist and former member of the L.A. bomb squad.” He took a big breath and paused, but no one else spoke. “Well, I hope you’re all ready to get to work.”

“Horses or otherwise?”

Court drawled. Daniel smiled in the face of the man’s tightly held hostility. “This morning I received information that members of a terrorist group called the Black Order have been slipping into Montana via the Canadian border.”

Court appeared skeptical. “To what end?”

“Rumor says they want to get their hands on a new biological weapon—D-5, a water-borne virus.”

“To what end?” Court asked again.

“We don’t know yet, but if they succeed and get it into a major water supply, it could mean big trouble for a lot of folks.”

Frank jumped in before Court could hold center stage. “D-5?” He’d heard about the virus. As far as he knew, “big trouble” spelled death. “Where?”

“The Quinlan Research Institute. Scientists there are working on an antidote, so they have a quantity of the virus, of course.”

“And without the D-5 at the lab, there will be no antidote,” Kyle said. “How close are they to developing one?”

“Not even in the ballpark. That’s why we’re bringing in British scientist C. J. Birch from the National Center for Aquatic Research.” Daniel turned his gaze to Frank. “Rather, you are as soon as we’re finished here. The ranch plane is online, waiting for you at the Boulder Municipal Airport.”

“What about a first officer?” Frank asked. The plane was a twin-engine DC-3, requiring two in the cockpit.

“Rent-a-pilot by the name of John Vasquez. He’ll meet you at the field tomorrow morning. Your cover is that you’re picking up some prize quarter horse mares for the ranch’s breeding program. But your real mission is getting C. J. Birch to the Quinlan Research Institute tomorrow, safely and without drawing too much attention.”

Frank didn’t voice the opinion that flying in horses would raise more than a few eyebrows. Normally the only horses transported by air rather than truck were Thoroughbreds being ferried from Europe or Japan or the Middle East, or across country to big-money races.

But rather than a fancy jet, they would use a reconditioned pre-World War II DC-3. The old tail-draggers were workhorses—no pun intended—usually put to use these days hauling cargo that didn’t move around, hence the need to palletize the horses.

The plane itself wouldn’t draw too much attention, especially since it would land on a runway already laid out on Lonesome Pony land. Lots of the bigger ranches had their own planes, Frank knew, if normally single-prop jobs. And he guessed if the locals heard about the horses, that would merely serve as proof of Daniel Austin’s madness in setting up what was sure to be a money-losing breeding ranch.

But back to the operation and the reason the scientist needed to be brought in undercover. “You’re expecting trouble?” Sweat trickled down Frank’s spine at the thought.

“Hopefully not, but just in case, I want Birch protected by the best.”

Which wasn’t necessarily him, Frank feared, though he kept his mouth shut on that score. Too late to raise questions about his capabilities at this point. He’d already committed himself.

But question himself he did as Daniel wrapped up the meeting and sent him off to pack an overnight bag before being driven to the Bozeman airport, where a charter would get him to Boulder before dark. Was he ready to be responsible for another’s life? Or had he been a fool to let Daniel sweet-talk him into Montana Confidential?

Truth was…he just didn’t know.

He only knew he had to prove himself. To make up for what he’d been unable to stop from happening…to make amends, somehow.

Maybe then the nightmares would quit him.

As the agents left the house, a dark green SUV pulled up with a screech of tires. A woman with red-gold hair slid out from behind the wheel. The moment her high-heel-clad feet touched the gravel, Frank recognized Whitney MacNair.

She pushed down her designer sunglasses and murmured, “Just what I need, some hunky men.”

Opening the back of the SUV, she revealed a pile of designer luggage. She turned her gaze on Frank.

“Sorry, ma’am, I already have an assignment.”

Undaunted, she walked right up to Court and slipped a hand around one arm. “Ooh, so strong,” she cooed. “And I can tell you’re a real gentleman.”

Frank kept going, glancing over his shoulder to watch the show. It did his heart good to see a scowling Court Brody be forced to haul the woman’s luggage inside.

Frank’s log cabin was the farthest from the swimming pool. The most isolated, the reason he’d chosen it. The living area, bedroom and bath all had been decorated by the same hand as had done the main house. Some would consider these to be small quarters, but after the hellhole that had been home for five months, Frank considered them palatial.

Quickly gathering a few articles of clothing and throwing them into an overnight bag, he set it next to the rucksack he never traveled without. Then he grabbed his Stetson, left the cabin and wended his way around the swimming pool. Waiting next to the ranch truck, Patrick McMurty was talking to Daniel and Kyle.

As he caught up to the men, Whitney stuck her head out a second-floor window. “Excuse me, but I’m desperate. I need some more muscle up here…to move the furniture around. If I’m going to be happy living here, then I need to mix things up a little.”

Frank figured she was going to mix things up a lot.

“Damn, we don’t have time for such nonsense,” Daniel muttered.

As if she expected the objection, Whitney pulled a helpless expression. “Pretty please.”