Pure Dynamite (12 page)

"Holed up in some emergency clinic in North Carolina. His partner forced some lady doctor to treat him. Lyle's pretty lucky."

"Lucky? You mean stupid," Willy spat. "He goes off all brash-assed and gets himself shot. Damn impatient kid!"

"It's not like he did it on purpose, Pa, he—"

"Stop right there. I'm tired of excuses. Lyle's gotten too used to you boys cleaning up after him. Wiping his butt. I had hoped a little time behind bars would toughen him up. That's why I told him to stay put."

That was one of the reasons anyway. Willy grabbed a bottle of antacid tablets, shook a couple into his hand.

Only a few weeks old when his mother died, Lyle had been a sickly infant who'd been spoiled rotten by his brothers and a maternal aunt while Willy was imprisoned. By the time Willy was released, the mold was set.

Lyle had been in and out of trouble since junior high. In the beginning it was easy to get him off the hook. A bribe here, a favor there, and charges were dropped; evidence disappeared.

But instead of learning his lesson, Lyle grew cockier. On his eighteenth birthday he was charged with attempted rape when a police chief's daughter got caught with her panties down. The little whore died in a car accident before the case ever went to trial, but consequently the chief's men made damn sure Lyle went down for something else. Framed him, with an ironclad case.

Willy popped the chalky antacids in his mouth before shaking out a few more.

"He was desperate, Pa," Burt continued. "Nevin said those two guards were threatening to castrate Lyle if he didn't start talking. Shaved his nuts and everything."

"What makes you so sure he didn't talk already?"

Tristin leaned forward. "Lyle's done a lot of stupid things, but he'd never betray us. In the nine months he's been behind bars, the guards couldn't break him— but this castration stuff. What would you have done?"

An ominous quiet settled over Willy. "I want those guards taken care of. Everything they did to Lyle, give back in spades."

"One guard's already missing," Burt said. "Chicken shit probably ran off."

"Find him. I assume Lyle's well enough to travel?"

"He doesn't have a choice. Police have kicked off a manhunt in the Carolinas. Nevin told them to bring that doctor along until they're sure Lyle's out of the woods."

Willy disagreed. "Dragging another person around will only hamper them."

"Nevin says Lyle's wound is bad."

"Has Nevin seen it himself?"

"No, and I know what you're thinking—"

"Then cut the bullshit. We all know your little brother has a tendency to blow things out of proportion. So where are they headed?"

"Nevin's working on that now," Tristin piped in. "The cops set up roadblocks at the state line, so getting them out is tricky. The good news is they don't have the manpower to guard every single road not with all that flooding."

"Good news?" Willy grabbed the antacids again. "I hate that term. What aren't you telling me?"

Once again the twins exchanged nervous glances. "The governor's asked for federal help with the search," Burt said.

"I'm sure it was the other way around the FBI pressuring the governor to let them take over. The Feds will expect Lyle to run home to daddy. Mark my words, they'll give him a wide berth and try to follow."

Burt shrugged. "Yeah, so? We've made monkeys out of them time and time again. This won't be any different."

"The hell it won't! It gets harder each time. Don't ever forget that. You get overconfident, you hand them an opportunity." Willy stood and started pacing. "What's the story on the guy Lyle's with? What's his name again?"

"Adam Duval. He was Lyle's cellmate. He was busted for stolen property. Big shit, like tractor-trailers loaded with telephone switching equipment. His partner got away, but they nabbed Duval's girlfriend" Burt explained. "And get this: The girlfriend was never charged. She apparently cut a deal with the Feds; tipped them off that Duval and his partner were also hijacking military goods."

"Bet he'd like to strangle the bitch."

"She disappeared last month on her way to a deposition. I figure Duval's partner arranged it."

His heartburn under control, Willy lit a cigarette. "What do you know about his partner?"

"Not much. A name: Daniel Montague. He slipped out of the country, but I bet that's who helped Duval set up the escape."

"Something doesn't feel right," Willy said. "If Duval's got help on the outside, what does he need Lyle for?"

"He doesn't," Tristin grunted. "That's what's got Nevin worried. Duval didn't want Lyle along in the first place. But Lyle promised we'd provide sanctuary until the heat died down and Duval can get a fake ID and skip the country—probably to meet up with Montague."

"Yep. As it is, Nevin had to do some fast talking to keep Duval from dumping Lyle," Burt said. "Duval's not too happy with our little brother."

"Do you blame him?" Willy grew thoughtful, then sighed. "Tell Nevin to cover Duval's back, for now.

Offer whatever incentive he needs and make damn sure he has nowhere to go but here. And get me more background on Duval. His partner, Montague, too. I want to know what makes Duval tick and how far he can be trusted. I also want to know how their escape was set up, how they got on the same road gang. Contact Kenny Ray—he'll know where to dig."

"I'm on it," Tristin said.

"And tell Nevin to call me ASAP. That wire transfer he was supposed to handle didn't go through. He put me in a bad spot." Willy blew out a streamer of smoke.

"I'll tell him."

"Emphasize that I don't want any more loose ends. Like this doctor. Nevin needs to make damn sure she doesn't show up on a witness stand some day. Women are the worst. They start crying and the jury turns to mush." Willy stubbed out his cigarette, indicating the meeting had ended. "Make it real clear that as soon as Lyle's out of the woods, she dies."

Renata clenched the scalpel in her right fist, uneasy with its potential as a weapon. Light glinted off the razor-edged blade. Held like a weapon, the handle bit uncomfortably into her palm.

"Back off," she demanded.

Instead Adam swung his arm in an arc toward her.

She ducked, remaining beyond his reach. Too late she saw the flaw in her strategy, realized he was purposely maneuvering her away from the door, away from her only avenue of escape.

Determined to regain lost ground she stabbed the air between them. He retreated. Buoyed by the small gain, she darted to the side.

He rushed her, crushing her against the wall beside a large ceramic planter.

"Let me go!"

"Hold still."

"Never." She fought back, catching a frond of the potted palm. It tilted and crashed to the tile floor. Desperate to be free, she windmilled her arms, felt the blade stab him.

He grunted in pain. Lightning fast, he caught her hands and yanked them out to her sides. His fingers dug into her right wrist, pinching. Hurting. "Drop it, Renata!"
"No way!"

Ignoring the pain at her wrist, she refused to relinquish her weapon. She tried kicking, unable to land a blow where she wanted.

Cursing, Adam squeezed harder.

A nail-like, debilitating pain shot up her arm, clear to the shoulder. She cried out, her hand opening reflexively, releasing the scalpel. It hit the ground and skittered across the floor into the dirt from the planter.

Immediately the pressure on her wrist eased.

Renata braced for retaliation, fully expecting to be struck. She had cut him with the scalpel. Where and how badly she didn't know, nor did she let herself dwell on it as she battled a rising nausea, afraid of what would come next.

Her knees shook and she was hyperventilating. From exertion. From tension. From waiting. This had to be the end.

The silence roared.

She blinked.

That he hadn't moved to punish her made her even more edgy. She noticed his breathing matched hers: harried, heavy. Daring to glance up, she found him staring down, the look in his eyes unreadable. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Automatically she did likewise.

"Again," he whispered. "That's right."

Confused she looked away. That's when she saw the blood on his forearm. Even as she told herself he had deserved it, the knowledge that she had inflicted the injury left her unsettled. Damn it, he held her at gunpoint. It was self-defense, self-preservation.

So why did her knees feel rubbery? Why did she want to throw up?

The burning in her wrist where Adam pinched the nerve had subsided. She shifted her eyes to his hands, which still braceleted her wrists. His hands were large. Powerful. She was very aware of their strength, their potential. He could crush her bones effortlessly. Which he didn't.

In fact the fingers that had wrought excruciating pain moments before, now stroked, easing the throb. This motion surprised her. Was he actually comforting her? Or was it a trick to throw her off guard? His actions were impossible to reconcile with her image of him as a cold-hearted criminal. Unless...

Did Adam have a conscience? Was he having second thoughts? And if so, could she play on that? She sought more proof of his lenience. While still guarded, he had relaxed his stance. Which didn't mean he was no longer a threat.

Raising her head she found him studying her just as intensely. The only clue her attack had indeed riled him was those gold flecks in his blue eyes. They glinted dangerously, a reminder she wasn't out of peril.

"You hesitated," Adam said in a low tone. "That was your first mistake. Always move swiftly. With confidence. Your second mistake was your choice of weapons. To stab someone, you have to step in close, less than an arm's length away. Which isn't wise when your opponent's reach exceeds yours."

He extended an arm. It dwarfed hers.