Susan Sleeman - Holiday Secrets

A dirt bike burst from the shadows and raced straight for them.

“Gavin?” her father asked.

“No. He’s riding over on his horse.”

“Take this. Now!” Panic wove through his tone. He shoved the envelope toward her.

She’d never seen the all-knowing doctor this rattled. Should she be afraid, too?

“Now!”

She reached for the envelope. He let go, but she didn’t have it in hand. The wind whipped it into the air.

“No!” He charged after the envelope dancing toward his plane.

As a pilot, he could jump in the cockpit and take off anytime he wanted, but he seemed more concerned about getting the envelope.

“Are you coming back or leaving?” she called after him.

He didn’t respond. She stepped away from the building to get a better look. He charged ahead, then froze in place, staring at the bike rumbling closer. He suddenly bent to grab the envelope. A gunshot rang out, cutting through the night.

Was it the biker? Was he the one shooting at them?

Her father took off, running toward the plane. The bike veered right, bearing down on him. He’d barely made it a few feet when another shot split the air. Then another. Her father went down.

Dad! No! She opened her mouth to scream.

No. Stop. The shooter will hear you. Maybe come after you.

She clamped a hand over her mouth as panic raced along her nerves. What should she do?

Hide. Yes, hide. Now!

She slipped behind the building. Held her breath. Fought the panic. Her horse Misty, tethered a few feet behind her, nervously shifted. Lexie raced to the mare.

“Shh, girl. Don’t give me away.” She scrubbed her hand down the mare’s velvety nose until she calmed. “What do I do, girl? I can’t just leave Dad out there.”

But could she do otherwise and not be shot?

She had to try. She couldn’t lose him when she’d just gotten him back. She was an ER nurse, after all, and she was sure she could help.

Hoping the shooter hadn’t seen her, Lexie left the horse behind and peeked around the corner. The biker roared close and came to a stop ten feet from her father. The biker sat there, his gun outstretched, his bike idling. Her father didn’t move.

“Stupid old man,” the biker yelled as he dismounted.

Gun waving, he strode toward her father.

Was he going to shoot her dad again? Should she intervene or would he shoot her, too?

She had to do something, but if she died, she’d be of no help to anyone. So she had to be careful. Smart. Assess the situation before acting.

She crept around the back of the building. Good. Dark shadows clung to the crumbling siding. She eased through the inky blackness. Not only did she have an improved view of the action now, but she would also have a better chance to offer aid if the opportunity presented itself.

The bike’s engine cut out and died, but the dying motor only stopped the biker for a second as he paused to look back. He shrugged and continued walking, holding out his gun in a gloved hand. He poked her father’s side with a pointy boot. Her father’s tortured moan rose into the stark night.

Yes! He’s alive!

“Stupid, stupid man,” the gunman said. “Running when bullets were flying.”

The shooter was tall. Over six feet. Thin. Lexie searched the darkness for his face, but his tinted helmet hid his features. She’d never heard his voice before, but he had a deep Southern accent, so he could be from around their rural Texas county.

He kicked her father again. “You didn’t actually think I’d let you meet with the head of the syndicate today, did you?”

The syndicate? Her dad mumbled something, but she couldn’t make out his response. She desperately wanted to know what type of trouble her father had gotten into. Even more, she wanted this man to take off so she could tend to her father’s injuries.

“You should have known I’d never let you bring me down,” the shooter continued. “Not when I’m facing three strikes. I’m not going to prison again and never coming out. You’re a smart man. How come you don’t know by now that I’m smarter than you? That I’d hunt you down?”

A sick laugh rolled from his mouth and he moved closer.

Lexie held her breath. Waited for a fatal shot to sound.

Instead, the gunman jerked the envelope from her dad’s hand and peered around. “So, who’s meeting you here tonight?”

Lexie strained to hear the answer.

“No one,” her father said, his tone weak and wavering. If she didn’t get to him soon, he might not make it. “Was just hiding the envelope. That’s all. I swear.”

The shooter bent down and pressed the gun against her father’s forehead.

Lexie almost gasped but caught herself in time.

The shooter waved the envelope in her father’s face. “Thanks for this. I also have the copy you left with your attorney in Mexico. You should never have given him the information. Now he’s dead.”

“No.”

“Yes.” His voice was calm, like committing murder was an everyday occurrence for him. “You obviously planned to hand this over to someone tonight. Who?”

“No one,” her father insisted.

“Not even your precious Lexie?”

Wait—the shooter knew her name? Knew who she was? Did he know her father was meeting her here? Would he come after her next?

Her heart stammered and panic ricocheted through her.

“Well, old man?” he demanded. “Lexie. Is she meeting you here?”

“No. I was hiding it. In the building. Would’ve called her later. Told her where to find it.” Her father’s voice was growing weaker, blood loss likely taking his strength. She hated seeing him in this situation, suffering at the gunman’s hand, but she appreciated his effort to distract the shooter from learning she was there.

A noise sounded from across the field. She listened. Heard a horse trotting. Gavin? Or was it just wishful thinking?

The gunman spun. “So, you were meeting someone, after all. No worries. I’ll be long gone by the time the horse reaches us.”

He shoved his hand into his pocket and came out holding a cell phone. He pressed his thumb to it, the phone coming alive and illuminating his face shield. She squinted to get a better look at his face, but the light reflected against the shield.

“I’m assuming you have another copy of these documents on the plane. Well, buh-bye, plane.” He tapped his phone.

The plane erupted in a ball of fire. The ground beneath her feet rumbled in concussive waves. Fragments of the plane flew through the air and hit the dusty ground. A rush of heat washed over her face even at this distance.

She stared in stunned disbelief. Just who was this guy and how was he involved with her father?

“See how much you underestimated me,” he shouted. “And don’t think I believe you when you say you didn’t give this information to your daughter. I won’t rest until I’m sure she doesn’t have it. Even if that means she has to die, too.” He laughed, the sound high and maniacal, his craziness sending her fear skyrocketing.

He was willing to kill her father, so what would he do if he spotted her?

Horse hooves thundered on the open field.

Please let it be Gavin. As a former local deputy and now an FBI agent in Houston, he’d be armed and know what to do—how to save them.

Are You there, God? Listening? Please don’t let this psycho fire on him, too.

The shooter mounted the bike. Kicked the engine awake then screeched to a start and roared forward, stopping to take a final shot at her father. The gun report sounded like thunder.

No. Oh, please, no. Had he done the unthinkable and killed her father?

Her head swam. Her leg muscles turned to mush. She grabbed the wall to keep from dropping to the ground.