Lethal (52 page)

Honor continued shouting her name. Emily screamed in his ear.

He released her. She slid to the pavement, then ran toward the car, directly into the bright headlights.

Doral aimed his pistol at Honor’s chest.

Before he could get off a shot, something smacked him in the back of his head hard enough to make his ears ring.

Simultaneously the car’s headlights went out, their twin beams replaced by two bright purple circles on a field of black.

He blinked wildly, trying to restore his vision, even as he realized what Coburn’s strategy had been. Blind him, rattle him, deafen him, and then attack from behind. He spun around in time to catch the full brunt of Coburn’s impetus as he launched himself over the hood of Doral’s car, landing on him like a sack of cement and forcing him down onto the pavement on his back.

“Federal agent!” he shouted.

Coburn’s impact had knocked the wind out of Doral, but he’d been fighting all his life. Instinct kicked in along with a surge of adrenaline. He whipped his gun hand up.

A gunshot rang out.

Coburn backed off Doral.

There wasn’t much blood, actually, because Coburn had fired point-blank into the man’s chest. In death, he didn’t look all that sinister, only bewildered, as though wondering how someone as clever as he could have been done in by a soccer ball. Doral had stalked prey. His target was always in front of him. He hadn’t thought to check his back.

“You should have learned from your brother. I don’t negotiate,” Coburn whispered.

He patted down the body and found Doral’s cell phone. He feared it would conveniently disappear when the police investigated, so he slipped it into his pocket before standing up and walking quickly to the car where Honor was sitting in the driver’s seat, clutching Emily to her, rocking back and forth, crooning to her.

“Is she okay?”

“Limp as a dishrag and already asleep again. He must’ve given her something. Is he…”

“In hell.”

“He refused to surrender?”

“Something like that.” He paused, then said, “You did good.”

She smiled shakily. “I was scared.”

“So was I.”

“I don’t believe that. You aren’t afraid of anything.”

“First time for everything.” His words telegraphed a much more meaningful message than he would allow himself to say. But Honor seemed to understand both the message and why he wouldn’t say anything more. They shared a long look, then he said briskly, “You get Emily to a doctor and have her checked out.”

He lifted Emily from her and gently placed her in the backseat.

“What are you going to do?” Honor asked.

“Call this in to Hamilton. He’ll want the skinny. He’ll want me to wait here till agents arrive. Then—”

“Lee Coburn?”

The quiet voice, coming from behind him, surprised them both. Honor looked beyond him and registered puzzlement. Coburn turned.

The woman was completely expressionless when she pulled the trigger.

C
oburn grabbed his middle and sank to the pavement.

Honor screamed.

Coburn heard Emily react to the commotion, asking groggily where Elmo was.

But the sounds seemed to come to him from the pinpoint of light at the end of a very long tunnel. He struggled to remain conscious, but it was a hell of a fight.

He’d been shot twice before. Once in the shoulder and once in the calf. This was different. This was bad. He’d seen allies and foes alike get gut-shot, and most of them died. A small-caliber bullet could make you just as dead as a big one.

He worked his way into a half sitting position but kept his palm clamped over the pumping hole in his belly. He braced his back against the side of the car and tried to bring into focus the ordinary-looking woman who had shot him.

She was ordering Honor at gunpoint to stay put inside the car. Already she had disarmed him. He could see his
pistol lying on the pavement a short distance away, but it might just as well have been a mile. Fred’s .357 was under the driver’s seat of the car, but Honor couldn’t get to it without getting shot, too.

She was sobbing, asking the woman, “Why, why?”

“Because of Tom,” she replied.

So. Tom VanAllen’s wife.
Widow
. At least he wouldn’t die without knowing why. But for a woman who’d just committed a crime of vengeance, she seemed remarkably cold-blooded. She didn’t even appear angry, and Coburn wondered why not.

“If Tom hadn’t gone to those train tracks to meet Coburn,” she said, “he would still be alive.”

She blamed him for her husband’s death tonight.
Last night
, Coburn corrected himself. The eastern sky had taken on the blush of predawn. He wondered if he would live to see the sun break the horizon. Watching one more sunrise would be nice.

He just hated that he would bleed out with Honor watching. And what if Emily woke up and saw blood gushing out of him? She would be afraid, when up to this point he’d done everything within his power to protect her and guard her against fear.

He’d dragged Honor and her through enough shit already. Strangely enough, he thought both of them liked him. A little bit, anyway. And now he was going to put them through one more trauma, and he wouldn’t even be around to apologize for it.

He’d always thought that when his number came up, it would be way overdue, and that he would be okay with it. But, Jesus, this sucked.

Lousy timing. He’d just learned what it was like to make love to a woman. Not just satisfy a hard-on, but really soak
up the person that belonged to the body. Fat lot of good it would do him to know the difference, now that he had gone and got shot.

Yeah, this sucked really, really bad.

These were silly thoughts to be entertaining when he should be trying to figure out something. Something just beyond his grasp. Dammit, what was it? Something important, but teasingly elusive. Something winking at him like that last holdout star that he could see in the lightening sky just beyond Janice VanAllen’s head. Something he should’ve caught before now. Something—

“How’d you know?” Not until he gasped the question did he realize what that something was.

Janice VanAllen looked down at him. “What?”

His breath soughed through his lips. He blinked against the collecting darkness of unconsciousness. Or death. “How’d you know I was at the tracks?”

“Tom told me.”

That was a lie. If Tom had told her anything before leaving for that meeting, he’d have told her that he was to meet Honor, because that’s who Tom had expected to be there. Tom hadn’t been around later to tell her differently.

She’d learned it from somebody else. Who? Not the agents who would have been sent to notify her of her husband’s death. They wouldn’t have known. Even Hamilton hadn’t known until about a half hour ago when Coburn himself had told him what had transpired at the railroad tracks.

The only people who could have told her were the ones he’d spotted near the tracks, the ones who’d planted the bomb and who’d been there to make sure it did what it was supposed to—obliterate Tom VanAllen and Honor.

Honor was begging her to call for help. “He’s going to die,” she sobbed.

“That’s the point,” Janice VanAllen said coldly.

“I don’t understand how you can blame Coburn. He’s a federal agent like your husband was. Tom was only doing his job, and so was Coburn. Think of your son. If Coburn dies, you’ll go to prison. What will happen to your boy then?”

Suddenly Coburn sagged forward and groaned through clenched teeth.

“Please, let me help him,” Honor implored.

“He’s beyond help. He’s dying.”

“And then what? Are you going to shoot me, too? Emily?”

“I won’t harm the child. What kind of person do you think I am?”

“No better than me.” Saying that, Coburn cut a vicious swath with Stan Gillette’s knife, which he’d slid from his cowboy boot while hunched over. It connected with Janice VanAllen’s ankle and, he thought, probably had sliced through her Achilles’ tendon. She screamed. Her leg buckled, and when it did, he found enough strength to topple her with a push from both his feet.

“Honor!” He tried to shout, but it came out barely a rasp.

She practically fell out of the car, seized the pistol that Janice had dropped while falling, and aimed it down at her, ordering her not to move.

“Coburn?” she asked breathlessly.

“Keep the gun on her. Cavalry’s here.”

Honor realized that squad cars were speeding toward them from a dozen different directions. The first to reach them bore the sheriff’s office insignia. Stopping the vehicle, the driver laid rubber on the pavement. He and his passenger, Stan, were out of the car in a flash. The uniformed man had his pistol drawn. Stan was carrying a deer rifle.

“Honor, thank God you’re all right,” Stan said as he ran up to her.

“Mrs. Gillette, I’m Deputy Crawford. What happened?”

“She shot Coburn.”

Crawford and two fellow deputies took over guarding Janice, who was writhing on the pavement, clutching her ankle and alternately groaning in pain and cursing Coburn. Others who were now out of their cars ran over to Doral’s corpse.

Stan reached for Honor and hugged her. “I forced Crawford at gunpoint into bringing me along.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Stan. See to Emily, please. She’s in the backseat.” Honor pushed herself free of his hold and shouted for the EMTs scrambling out of the ambulance to hurry, then dropped to her knees beside Coburn.

She touched his hair, touched his face. “Don’t die. Don’t you dare die.”

“Hamilton,” he said.

“What?”

He nodded and she turned. Two black Suburbans were disgorging officers wearing assault gear, along with a man who looked even more intimidating than they, although he was dressed in a suit and tie.

He made a beeline for her and Coburn, although his eyes darted about, taking in the various elements of the grisly scene. “Mrs. Gillette?” he said as he approached her.

She nodded up at him. “Coburn is badly wounded.”

Hamilton nodded grimly.

“Why aren’t you in Washington?” Coburn growled up at him.

“Because I’ve got a pain-in-the-ass agent working for me who won’t follow orders.”

“I have it under control.”

“I beg to differ.” His tone was querulous, but Honor could tell that the seriousness of Coburn’s wound was obvious to him. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here in time to stop this. We were at her house,” he said, nodding toward Janice, who was being attended by other paramedics.

“We found evidence that she was going to skip out. Even leave the country. We found notes, texts on various cell phones, indicating that she had a vendetta against Coburn over what had happened to Tom. I contacted Crawford, who had just received word of gunshots in this area. I left one man behind to stay with her son and got here as quickly as I could.”

“Let go,” Coburn snarled up at the paramedic who was trying to get an IV into his arm. He wrestled with the EMT and won, managing to slip his hand inside his pants pocket—the khakis that had formerly belonged to Honor’s father, now soaked with blood.

He took out a cell phone and held it up where Hamilton could see. “Doral’s. Moments before he got out of his car, he made a call.”

While speaking in starts and stops, his voice growing increasingly weak, Coburn had used his bloodstained thumb to work the phone. He depressed a highlighted number and said, “He called The Bookkeeper.”

Seconds later, all heads turned toward the sound of a ringing cell phone coming from the pocket of Janice VanAllen’s windbreaker.

For Honor the next hour and a half passed in a blur. After making the startling revelation that Janice VanAllen was The Bookkeeper, Coburn lost consciousness, which made it far easier for the EMTs to see to his immediate needs and get him into the CareFlight helicopter that had been summoned.

Honor considered it a miracle that Emily had slept
through the entire traumatic event. On the other hand, a sleep that deep was worrisome. She was transported to the ER via ambulance.