The Right Kind of Trouble (37 page)

Gideon hadn't bothered to tell her that the tall
hot
British guy a likely a criminal, quite possibly a murderer and a kidnapper.

Charles Hurst.

The son of a bitch had been planning this, playing them all for years.

Now he had Moira—

His phone rang.

He didn't bother fucking with the Bluetooth. He grabbed it and hit the talk button when he saw Zeke's name pop up. “Go,” he said shortly, falling back on long ago protocol.

“It's her.”

Those two words from Zeke made a harsh sigh burst out of Gideon's lungs, a breath of air he didn't even know he'd been holding. “You see them?”

“Not her. Not now. But I did see her, I'm pretty sure. Short, skinny redhead, runs like a demon. I can see him though. She dunked him the river. He's wetter than a drowned fish and madder than hell. She took off. He's looking for her. Marshall, we've got a problem.”

A moment later, Gideon dropped the phone. He blew out two slow breaths and told himself that he had to stay focused to help her.

He had to.

Then he reached for the radio.

“We need to put on a bit more speed.”

*   *   *

“Damn.” Zeke breathed out a sigh of admiration as the red-haired woman scrambled up the steep embankment. The admiration didn't last long, though.

He doubted she realized where she was. The asshole who had her—what was his name … Hurst, yeah—that Hurst guy had kept her down in the bottom of the boat and she wouldn't have been able to see shit. But she didn't have much of anywhere to run.

Moira McKay was trapped.

He'd taken her to an island, and it wasn't one of the bigger ones either.

Zeke knew that island.

There wasn't much about the miles around his property that he didn't know. Even the acres that belonged to Abe—the land that would soon be his—were familiar to him. Abe hadn't minded at all if Zeke used the Bittner property to train his dogs, and more than once Zeke had used the river and the islands.

That island there, though, he avoided.

If anybody called him superstitious, he would have laughed at him, but the truth was, just being on that island gave him a bad, bad feel. His skin crawled and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end even passing by it.

Bad things had happened on some of these islands in the country's earlier days and Zeke suspected that one had a bloody past. But that wasn't the problem.

It was small, it was treacherous, and there were only so many places to hide.
That
was the problem.

It had only been a few seconds since she'd toppled Hurst into the water. The surface rippled, then exploded as he came surging up like a Leviathan, arms clawing and tearing as if going after an attacker.

The one glimpse Zeke had of his profile was of a face locked in a sheer, utter rage.

Crouched in the tall grass, struggling to catch his breath, he flicked a look up just in time to see Moira disappear into the dense greenery.

Hurst was struggling to pull himself up onto the dock.

Zeke breathed out a bit of a sigh.

Then, after stroking Solo's head and giving him the command to stay, he lifted his rifle and settled the Remington into place.

He couldn't exactly shoot the man, he knew.

But he could lay down some fire and let him know he wasn't alone out here with that woman.

Smiling a little, he took a few seconds to take in the wind as he focused on his target.

Mouth open, he squeezed on the trigger.

He was on his belly and crawling to a new spot before Hurst had even figured out what had happened.

*   *   *

Moira darted between several trees, searching for a path or anything that might lead
away
from Charles. She was certain she was heading east—she had her back to the river and the Louisiana side of the Mississippi, so she should be on …

Water glinted just ahead.

She stumbled to a halt just as she burst into the open, right before she would have taken a header over the steep bank that sloped almost ninety degrees down—right back into the slow-rolling waters of the Mississippi.

She stared briefly at the far banks of what had to be her home state. Freedom and safety had never looked so far away. She briefly entertained the idea of diving in and swimming, but the idea was brief. Very brief.

It wasn't precisely freezing out. The temperature in Mississippi, especially this far south, never really got
cold,
but it would only take a minute or two in the water for it to affect her, and she knew it. She was a good swimmer but not a great one, and while she was in decent physical condition,
decent
wasn't going to be good enough to get her across the Mississippi in water that was likely fifty degrees or so.

In the few seconds it took her to process this, several things happened.

There was a loud, echoing
crack
.

Somebody bellowed.

And she heard the familiar noise of an engine—a barge.

Her heart leapt in hope even as panic flooded her.

That crack.

A gun. Shit. Charles had a gun and she was standing there, right in the open.

She spun around and fled to the north, down a sloped, faint path that led deeper into the thick, enveloping growth of the island.

Dimly, she heard somebody shouting and her mind took in the words, but it wasn't until she stopped, back pressed to the trunk of a tree, that she realized what those words meant.

“Who the bloody fuck is out there?”

That was Charles.

What did he …

She sucked in a breath.

That hadn't been him firing.

Charles yelled again, and Moira focused on the sound of it. Although she knew that the river could distort or amplify noise, she thought he sounded farther away.

She eased herself along the path, keeping to the line of the river and moving north, opposite of the direction she thought Charles had taken.

Her goal was to circle around and draw nearer to the Louisiana side of the river again. She almost wished whoever had fired that shot would do it again, although that could be a dangerous wish. What if it was just some local yahoo out having fun and being stupid? The world was full of dangerous, stupid yahoos after all.

It could be an even-worse scenario, and her mind conjured up a dozen of them.

Another crack ripped the air just then and a scream bubbled its way up out of her throat. She barely managed to clap her hands over her mouth before it escaped.

Charles, however, apparently didn't see the need to be quiet. His bellow of rage erupted, echoing in the air almost as loudly as the gunshot had.

The echo of even that died and she lowered her hands, easing to the edge of the path and placing her back to a tree as she forced herself to blank her mind and think.

Have to think
 …
You can do this,
she told herself.
Breathe, just breathe.

Her heart rate slowed and her mind slowly cleared. She wouldn't call herself calm, but at least she was able to function somewhat past her terror.

As if it had been waiting, the anger that had been bubbling just below the surface surged up and took control, banishing the shaking hands and the panic, burying it all under a layer of icy calm.

Moira welcomed it.

Under that cold blanket of false calm, she was able to listen as Charles' mostly disjointed rambling came to a stop and he began to speak in a clear, furious tone.

“Who do you think you are, shooting at me? Do you have any
bloody
idea how fucking
stupid
you are, you idiot? I'll find you and take that gun from you, shove it up your ass, and pull the damn trigger.”

To Moira's somewhat surprised amusement, there was actually a response this time. It came from the Louisiana bank, a low, raspy voice that held a thick layer of scornful disdain. “Let me share something with you, son. What I'm shooting here isn't a
gun
. This here is a Remington 700, and I can put lead between your eyes from where I'm sitting without breaking a sweat. How about you get back in that jon boat of yours and leave the girl alone?”

Moira's heart leapt.

He knew.

Whoever that guy was … he knew she was there.

She lunged forward, determined to get to the bank. The sun beat down on her back, warming her, and she panted, putting on a burst of speed.

The low hiss was the only warning, and Moira instinctively froze, her eyes rolling to the right.

The reptilian gaze locked on her, dead and flat … and enormous.

*   *   *

It normally took Gideon two hours to make it from Treasure from to Zeke's place, maybe ten miles south of Lake Providence. Thanks to Trooper Bradley White from Louisiana, they made it in roughly ninety-five minutes. They probably could have made it a little faster if it wasn't for the rutted, crooked mess that served as the drive for the properties belonging to Abraham Bittner and Zeke.

Well, both pieces of land were Zeke's—or they would be soon enough.

The dirt road was the sort that would tear up anything short of a tank or a vehicle specifically meant for off-road driving unless the driver kept it to a slow, steady crawl.

The squad cards held up damn well as long as they watched their speed. Gideon might have been tempted to fuck caution—after all, he'd brought his truck and it could handle a rough drive, but White was in front and he was forced to keep his speed down.

Just ahead and off to the right, the road veered a bit. Zeke had told them to ignore the fork in the road and come straight to his place. He'd been on the old Bittner property when he called, but he'd made it clear that it would be faster to cut across his land.

It was another few minutes before they finally reached Zeke's place. His wife Ida was out there waiting. She had a harness in her hand and smiled when she saw Frost jump out of the truck at Gideon's command. Frost wagged her tail when she saw Ida, but the dog didn't run to her. “Good girl,” Ida said approvingly before shifting her attention to Gideon. “I wasn't sure if you would have thought to grab her harness or not. I have one you can take.”

She held it out and Gideon accepted, awkwardly trying to fumble it into place.

“Here,” Ida said, moving to take over after thirty or forty seconds passed. “If you don't mind?”

“Not at all.” Gideon called to the men as Ida gave Frost the command to sit.

A few of the men gave the big white shepherd a sidelong look but most of them were focused on Gideon and the trooper. White folded his arms over his chest, muscles bulging under the short sleeves, his dark eyes flinty. Bradley White was a big man, nearly six feet five with a broad chest, wide shoulders, and a voice like a booming cannon. He'd gone to college on a full scholarship, playing football. Everybody had assumed he'd tried to go pro. He'd already been planning on a career in law enforcement though and as soon as he'd graduated, he'd returned to Louisiana and his home parish, applying for a job with the state police.

He and Gideon had met during an inter-agency investigation when Gideon had still been working in Memphis.

He was a good cop, and right then he wasn't overly happy.

But he was a friend and he knew Gideon—Gideon's gut was screaming and he knew it wasn't just because it was Moira. Nor was it because he hated Charles Hurst with a passion.

“You're sure she's out there,” White said, his dark face set in a hard mask.

“I had eyes on her, Brad.”

White narrowed his eyes and looked around, blowing out a hard breath. “Okay. My sergeant's been talking to me and he says I'm to stay with you. We go back a ways, Marshall. You're a good cop. Don't do something stupid and fuck things up … for either of us.”

Eyes on the woman stroking the dog, White cocked his head. After a moment, he glanced at Gideon. “This Sander's place?”

“Yes.”

White gave a thoughtful nod. “He the man who had eyes on your vic?”

My vic …
Gideon's gut rolled. He hadn't let himself think of Moira that way, not even once, and he wouldn't do it now either. She was his heart. His world. His everything. But he nodded tersely. “He had a radio on. Somebody heard the BOLO and his dogs were raising a ruckus about something. He headed out for a walk, looking around.”

“Okay, then. We'll do the same.”

Most of the law enforcement around here knew of Zeke. He did a lot of work with cops. Zeke and Ida had joined in on volunteer searches with Solo and Chewy more than once. They weren't search-and-rescue dogs, but they were good at it nonetheless.

Zeke was also a hardass.

Sometimes, hardasses got into trouble.

Ida approached them and Gideon accepted the lead. “If you tell her to find Zeke, she will. Remember how he'd play hide and seek?”

At those words, Frost's body tensed.

Gideon glanced down at her, watched as her tail thumped the ground hard and fast. Just once, but everything about her changed. Her eyes were brighter, her ears perked.

He nodded.

Ida was smiling a little.

“Okay, then. I'll get out of the way.”

She turned and started back toward the house.

The dog's excitement seemed to vibrate up the lead and transfer to him as he turned to speak with his men. “Okay, people. Listen up.”

By the time he was done, Frost was all but quivering, her entire body practically straining, although she hadn't moved a muscle.

He knelt down in front of her.

“You want to play?” he asked softly, rubbing her behind the ears.

Frost whined low in her throat and started to wag her tail.

“Yeah, I bet you do.” It took a lot of control to keep his voice easy, but he did. This was all a game to her and he had to make sure he didn't communicate any of the worry or fear he had. Slowly, he unclipped her lead. “Quiet, though. Frost. Understand? Quiet.”