Wyoming Undercover Escape
Автор
Juno Rushdan
Прочтений
16,1K
Глав
18
Chapter One
Rip Lockwood crossed the field of his elderly landlady’s property, heading to his Airstream parked a few hundred feet away, to grab a screwdriver to repair her dishwasher. Wishing he’d worn his jacket in the chilly November night air, he noticed his front door ajar. Only cracked a couple of inches, but he hadn’t left it open.
He drew his gun from its holster on his ankle and trained it on the door. Glancing around, he searched for anyone lurking outside as a lookout or any sign of a parked getaway vehicle. Nothing that didn’t belong and no one around, from what he could tell.
A slam from inside the trailer, followed by dishes clattering.
Creeping closer, he caught the creaking tread of heavy footfalls across his floor. More than one person. He listened carefully. Two were skulking inside.
“Hurry up,” one said from deeper within, trying to keep his voice low.
Rip eased onto the wood deck under the awning and up to the door. Pleased with himself for oiling the hinges last week, he swung the door open wide and rushed inside the Airstream.
Two men—one with a tall, burly frame and the other with an average build—wearing black hoodies and ski masks spun in his direction. The tall one grabbed the microwave from the counter and hurled it at Rip.
He blocked the blow of the sturdy appliance, but a third guy emerged from the bedroom behind him and charged. No way to sidestep the inbound assault in the tight confines, Rip took aim. But the heavyset guy tackled him around the waist. Rip’s weapon discharged at the same time, three bullets hitting the ceiling. He and the guy fell out of the trailer, tumbling off the deck while wrestling, and hitting solid, cold ground.
Unfortunately, the stocky guy landed on top of Rip. Another squeeze of the trigger and a shot fired off low to the side, the slug spitting bark from a tree. The thickset man landed a blow across Rip’s face before knocking the gun from his hand and sending it sailing across the grass.
Rip threw a hammer fist up into the man’s chest, the meaty part of the swinging blow hitting the solar plexus. Gasping for air, the wind knocked from his lungs, the heavy guy fell backward.
The tall one rushed forward with the microwave hoisted overhead, ready to bring it down on Rip’s skull. Rip rolled out of the way an instant before the appliance smashed onto the ground. Still on his back, Rip used the position to his advantage and kicked at the other man’s knees. Felt a kneecap give way with the snap of broken ligaments. The man hollered in pain.
As Rip tried to climb to his feet, a punch caught him in the ribs. A second fist struck him in the kidney. The thickset guy hit hard, like a boxer. Rip could guess who it was, but rather than focus on identifying him, he needed to immobilize him first. He spun, vision blurring, swinging his elbow up and around, using the added momentum to drive the blow hard into the side of the guy’s head. If he’d punched him with that much force, Rip would have broken his hand, whereas his elbow barely registered it.
The heavy guy staggered, clearly disorientated, but he was strong and could take a solid punch. Rip charged straight at him, a wounded bull, lifting the heavy man off his feet and slamming him backward against the ground.
Steel glinted in the moonlight. His gun.
They both went for the weapon.
Then Rip reconsidered. Instead, he launched a fist into his assailant’s face, throttling him with jabs until his attacker was dazed.
Where was the third guy?
Adrenaline hot in his veins, Rip reached for his gun. In his peripheral vision he spotted a shadow moving. His fingertips grazed cold steel. The third assailant tried punting his head off with a front kick. Abandoning the gun, Rip jerked away from the incoming boot, but not fast enough. The tip caught him in the jaw.
The tang of blood filled his mouth. He scrambled up onto his hands and knees, reaching for the sheathed Marine Corps KA-BAR on his hip. Or rather, the one that should’ve been on his belt.
Swearing, he realized he’d left the knife in his trailer.
Mr. Average, who’d gotten in him the jaw, stood with gloved hands clenched and a knapsack on his back. The tall man, now limping, pulled a 9mm gun from his waistband that had been concealed by his sweatshirt.
Rip groped around for something, anything he could use as a weapon, and his fingers closed around a large rock.
“No!” the average one said to the tall guy, his tone sharp with alarm, his palm raised. “Remember, you can’t shoot him.”
The voice familiar, Rip thought he might be able to pinpoint it.
The man holding the gun hesitated. “No, I just can’t kill him.”
Rip threw the rock, hitting the guy holding the gun square in the forehead. The man swore, stumbling backward and holding his head with one hand while maintaining a shaky grip on the pistol with the other. Rip spun on to his knees, ready to lunge.
A shotgun cocked, not too far in the distance, pumping a shell into the chamber. The sound was loud and unmistakable. “You’re trespassing!” Mrs. Ida Hindley called out. She was his landlady and friend and the closest thing to family that Rip had left. “You better leave because I shoot to kill.”
That warning was meant for Rip. He dropped to the ground before Ida opened fire. She could only see a few feet clearly in front of her and that was in bright light. Eighty big steps away, at night, she was just as likely to shoot him as his attackers.
The shotgun cracked, sounding like a mini explosion, the shell getting dangerously close to the big guy.
The three assailants took off toward the woods, one hobbling impressively fast.
Ida pumped off one deafening shot after another, changing her aim each time, determined to hit something. Even if it only ended up being trees and his trailer.
The men disappeared into the darkness.
Motorcycle engines grumbled to life, the sound faint, the sight of the bikes concealed by the woods. They must’ve been parked on the auxiliary road near the property. Seconds later, the bikes sped off, and Ida was finally out of ammo.
Rip lumbered to his feet and started making his way to Ida. She had lowered the shotgun to her side, but better to be safe than sorry. “It’s only me,” he said, in case she had extra shells in the pockets of her robe. “They’re gone.”
Getting closer, he spotted her late husband’s snub-nosed revolver in her other hand.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’ll live.” He slipped the shotgun from her trembling hand, touched his jaw and winced. “You’re going to kill someone one day.”
“Only a trespasser who deserves it.” Giving him a sly grin, she took the arm he offered, and they headed to her house. “I dare anyone to doubt that I would, son.” Even with her frail body racked with rheumatoid arthritis, white hair in rollers, wearing winter boots and a flannel bathrobe over pajamas, she was a formidable woman who shouldn’t be tested.
“Well, I’m not fool enough to doubt you, Auntie Ida.” They might not be related by blood but were still kin.
Shoving the revolver in her pocket, she wheezed, and he slowed their pace.
Tragedy had claimed the lives of their closest relatives. When he was a young teen, Ida had taken him in along with his younger brother. Despite her love and lectures and desperation to keep them away from the motorcycle club their father had been a part of, they had joined the Iron Warriors MC anyway.
If only they had listened.
If only they hadn’t chased after some illusory birthright.
If only Rip hadn’t failed to protect his brother, he might still be alive.
If only...
“Now, what was all the ruckus about?” she asked.
“MC business,” he said.
“Iron Warriors business or Hellhounds?”
The Iron Warriors were his, at least those who still wore the MC cut displaying their patches and insignia, and he had their unwavering loyalty. The Hellhounds, the newly formed OMG, outlaw motorcycle gang, were his cross to bear.
Somehow Todd Burk had dragged the club so deep into illicit and illegal activity, right under his nose, that Rip had to put a stop to it, drawing a line in the sand. In the end, Rip had made a mess of things and caused his club to split.
Those who agreed that they should not deal drugs stood with him as Iron Warriors. The vast majority who didn’t, who loved the money, who craved power and refused to give any of it up, had broken away with Burk as their leader and become the Hellhounds.
The group’s existence was yet another failure Rip had to atone for and deal with.
He helped Ida up the steps of her back porch and inside the house. “It’s best if that’s all you know.” Gently, he set her down in a chair.
“There’s been a lot of ugly, unfortunate MC business around here and in town lately.” Ida was back up on her feet, plodding to the refrigerator. She grabbed milk and went to the stove.
“Precisely why I don’t want you to pull another stunt like that,” he said, setting the shotgun on the kitchen counter. “Understand? I don’t want you to get hurt.”
She waved a dismissive hand at him. “I’ve had eighty-nine good years on this earth. They weren’t always easy, but I’ve gotten to see the world, make my mark on it, known the love of family and cherished friends.” She put a delicate hand on his arm and squeezed. “What I will not do is hide in here while someone I care about is in danger out there.” She pointed through the window at the land in the direction of his trailer.
“I don’t want you to risk your life for mine.” No one should die to save him.
Giving a dry chuckle, she poured milk in a pan and turned on the fire. “Remind me, how old are you?” She counted on her fingers. “Thirty-five?”
“You flatter me. Thirty-eight.”
She opened a cabinet and grabbed hot chocolate. “My life has been full and rich, though not with money.” Another dry laugh. “When my time comes, I’ll be ready. And I want you to be at peace with it. But you’ve got more than half your life ahead of you, son.”
Things had only escalated with Burk, going from bad to worse. Rip had been extorted, shot at, and had his tires slashed. No matter how hard he tried to avoid bloodshed that would only lead to a war, he wasn’t so sure he’d outlive Ida. And after tonight’s incident, with her getting involved, he’d reached a crossroads.
If he allowed this mayhem to continue, Ida would be burying him before the new year.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that.” He dug out the cold compress from the freezer and put it on his face. “I haven’t done much good with the first half of my life.” Maybe there wasn’t much point in the second half. “What do I have to show for it?”
“You left this small town and the club to join the military because I begged you to.”
And he’d also left his brother behind, who refused to leave.
Rip had seen the dark side of the MC culture and when Auntie Ida pleaded, no, dared him to see what else there might be in the world for him, he didn’t back down from the challenge.
Ida got out mini marshmallows and caramel syrup and set them on the counter, but not the chocolate syrup when she knew he liked a drizzle of both on his cocoa.
He was lucky to have her in his life, someone willing to shoot his attackers and make him hot chocolate. Dropping into a chair, he propped an elbow on his leg, resting his head in his hand, and put the compress to his face.
“You saved lives in the Marines,” Ida continued. “Looking around here, you can’t see it. But dig out your Navy Cross and look at that. It’s proof you made an impact. Not only on those you saved, but for their mothers and fathers and siblings and spouses and children. You also came back home to make an even bigger difference.” He opened his mouth to protest, and she raised her palm, silencing him. “You haven’t achieved what you set out to do. Not yet.” She handed him a cup of hot cocoa. “Not yet,” she repeated. “But there’s still time. And where there’s a will, there’s a way. Even if we don’t like the way forward or it happens to be unexpected, there comes a point where we have to make a choice. Do we keep at it, using the same methods that haven’t worked. Or find a new way to fight.”
There was time. As a Marine Raider, he was trained to deal with disaster and eliminate too many types of enemies to name. Stopping terrorists was his specialty. He was going to use his skill set and whatever time he had left to take down Todd Burk.
War wasn’t a possibility that he could prevent. It was already on his doorstep, and he was in the thick of it. But the one thing he knew how to do was fight a war.
He needed to be ruthless to win. Even if doing so killed him.
Ida picked up two mugs and left the kitchen.
“Why did you make three cups of cocoa?” How did he not notice until now?
She shuffled down the hallway and he followed behind her.
Red-and-blue flashing lights pulled up in front of the house.
“You called the sheriff’s department?” he asked. Irritation sparked through him. “I can’t talk to the law about MC business.”
No one snitched. Not even about this. That was the code. They lived by it. Died by it. Honored it. Even a legit biker and upstanding citizen like him did not get the authorities involved.
“But I got the pretty deputy to come,” she said.
Gritting his teeth, Rip sighed. There were a couple of female deputies in the sheriff’s department, but instantly he knew she was talking about the gorgeous one he had a complicated relationship with. “You asked for the one who hates me?”
And Ashley Russo had every reason to despise him, the club and everything the MC stood for. No matter how hard he’d tried to break down her wall of disdain—and he’d tried very, very hard—it was never enough to get her to change the way she looked at him.
There was a rap at the door. Light from the headlights and flashing strobes outlined a slender athletic shape wearing a cowboy hat through the glass pane of the door.
“I thought you two had some kind of thing going on. That you were at least friends,” Ida said.
“Friends trust each other. That’s not the case here. We’ve formed a tenuous...” He was at a loss for what to call it. Association? Acquaintance? Civility? No word was quite right. “I guess we do have some kind of a thing.” But it was held together by gossamer threads. One wrong move on his part and it would snap.
“That does explain all the questions she asked me a few weeks ago about whether you were living on the property against my will and if you were paying a reasonable rent or if I wanted you to leave. But I cleared it up. Set her straight about you. She gave me her card, with her personal cell phone number on the back, and told me to call her anytime, especially if there was trouble. So I did, tonight.”
“What? Why didn’t you tell me? When was she here?” How was any of that friendly?
Another knock. This time louder.
Ida looked at him with a wry grin. “There’s a thin line between love and hate. Now open the door and act like the man I raised you to be.”
“She blames me for the death of her brother,” he admitted, his voice low.
He remembered like it was yesterday, the conversation Ashley had overheard at her brother’s funeral, the way she came up to him, a fearless seventeen-year-old girl, slapped his face, pounded on his chest and screamed her anger and grief.
Ida’s smile fell. “Is she justified?”
Rip didn’t pull the trigger but shared the blame for Angelo’s death and for his own brother’s. “In a way, yes.”
“Then it’s high time you took responsibility for it and started righting your wrongs.”
Scratching his head, he wished Ida had warned him she had called the authorities. More specifically, one deputy in particular.
Ida switched on the porch light and the one in the foyer and gave him a get-on-with-it look.
Dropping the cold compress onto a side table, Rip stalked up to the door and opened it. His gaze met the deputy’s, her whiskey-brown eyes narrowing a fraction. He gave her the once-over, surprised she wasn’t in uniform. Her dark hair hung loose, falling past her shoulders rather than pulled into a ponytail or the tight braid she sported whenever he’d seen her working. Form-fitting jeans accentuated her long legs and rounded hips. A tucked-in flannel shirt and leather jacket didn’t do much to flatter her figure. But her classic hourglass shape on her five-foot-seven frame made it impossible to ignore the fact she was no longer a girl.
He flicked a glance over her shoulder. She had driven her personal truck, using portable red-and-blue emergency lights that could easily be mounted to the dash or windshield with suction cups, rather than a patrol SUV. “Are you off duty?”
The deputy unhooked her badge from her belt and held it up, making it clear she was working even if she might be off duty.
“I’ll ask the questions.” She gestured past him into the house.
The star in her hand reminded him what he didn’t like about her. Rip stepped aside, opening the door wide.
She came in, bringing with her the cold and the crisp, clean scent of frost.
Ida handed the deputy a mug. “I made it just the way you like it. With mini marshmallows and caramel syrup.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But you shouldn’t have gone to the trouble.”
Rip glanced down at his mug. He had neither the zhuzh of marshmallows nor syrup.
Sipping his plain cocoa, he shut the door and followed them down the hall. His gaze slipped below the deputy’s waistline and belt with flashlight, pepper spray, handcuffs and holstered gun, and locked onto the gentle sway of her hips. He liked her curves, and she had plenty of them. Appreciated the strength of her body from a combat standpoint. But he had to fight against the primal physical interest, the spark of heat that flashed inside him whenever she was near.
Inside the kitchen, he hurried to the table and helped Ida ease down into a chair. In the evenings her arthritis got worse, making her stiff.
The deputy glanced around the room, her gaze lingering on the shotgun on the counter, and took out a notepad and pen. “I’m responding to a report of shots fired. The best way for me to do my job efficiently is if you’re honest when answering my questions,” she said, all business, staring right at him as she spoke. “You might not be a Marine anymore, but tonight I need you to abide by the same uncompromising integrity of the corps instead of your MC code of silence.”
“Once a Marine, always a Marine,” he said, not turning away from her face, which he liked even more than her figure.
Satin-smooth complexion. The golden brown hue of her skin showed her multiracial heritage. Italian on her father’s side. Black Creole on her mother’s. Not that it was one thing about her, like her high cheekbones, but rather the complete package, the sum of her parts, that he found captivating. He could look at her for hours and often struggled not to stare.
“A distinguished Marine,” Ida chimed in, her voice full of pride. “Ripton lives by a set of core values that have formed the bedrock of his character.”
“Really? Is that so?” The deputy didn’t filter the sharp skepticism from her tone. “What kind of core values?”
He understood the law enforcement game she was playing. When a cop thought they might have trouble getting answers from a person, they warmed them up, getting them talking about something the reluctant party was comfortable with first.
Unfortunately for her, he’d been playing this game far longer and was better at it.
“I do my best never to lie unless there’s good cause. But I never cheat. Never steal. Don’t break the law.” Honor, strength to do what was right, commitment—an unrelenting determination to achieve victory in every endeavor—made him who he was.
He’d tried to tell her this before but she either didn’t listen or didn’t believe him.
“I only hope that’s true.” She stepped closer, dangerously close, inches separating them, studying his face as if searching for the truth, and heat flared again, coaxing him to thaw. Enticing him to strive for something far deeper than friendship with her.
But he backed away from the deputy, going around to the other side of the table. Regardless of how attractive he found her or how drawn to her he was, or that he needed to, and intended to, make amends for her brother, he had to be the same with her right now as he would be with any other badge investigating. Stone-cold.
An iceberg that wouldn’t crack.
