Too Sexy for his Stetson (27 page)

Before she could jump, lightning split the sky and reflected off the SIG Coogan held aimed at her heart. Morrisey lurched toward her again, blocking Coogan’s aim for a second. Brandy slammed into Morrisey and knocked him off–balance. But it resulted in him swiveling and thudding down on top of her. She squirmed beneath his girth. Pounded her fists into the thick wall of his chest until she felt the muzzle of Coogan’s pistol against her head.

“Stop.”

Morrisey laughed.

“Get into the boat,” Coogan ordered.

His stooge rolled off her.

She stiffened her jaw, pushed to her feet, and stepped aboard the luxurious
Tequila Sunset.
Morrisey followed and slammed his fist into her back, shoving her to her knees. Spinning, she lashed out with her right foot and targeted his groin. But he sprang backward, and her blow barely clipped his thigh. He dropped onto her legs.

“Bring it on, bitch. Danny Boy needs some loving. I like a little spit and sass in my women, especially when they focus it on something more interesting than talking.”

Yeah, he probably did need some loving if what Tonya had said about his abusive father was true. Some parental love, not the kind of loving the converted white supremacist had on his brain–washed mind at the moment.

With an eerie grin, he hovered over her. The last thing Brandy remembered was a fist rocketing toward her face.

CHAPTER TWENTY–FOUR

B
lade flicked on the light bar, floored the Cherokee and raced west on Interstate 220, driving like a crazy man toward the marina. Rain cascaded down the windshield, creating a veil of water the wipers hadn’t a prayer against. Suddenly, through the blur, a pile of debris came up to meet him. He slammed on the brakes and skidded to a stop at the edge of a landslide that obliterated the highway.

Damn, damn, damn, no!
He glanced at Thigpen and notified dispatch, then checked to see if any LCCS units or other law enforcement units had made it to the marina.

Christiansen came on the line. “By the time our squad reached the dock, the place was deserted. No sign of Brandy or the
Tequila Sunset.
And no sign of Coogan.”

Jesus!

Morrisey’s leering comments hammered in Blade’s head:
Let me take care of her… come on, Blondie, it’s party time… We’re going to the cabin, and the only way to get there is by boat…
His stomach churning, Blade turned the Jeep around as he spoke and started back toward Little Chute.

“Christiansen, set up road blocks on Interstate 220 on the south side of Fort Shoshone and the west end of County LC. Inform all law enforcement agencies to be on the lookout for Fort Shoshone Police Chief Skip Coogan and detain him.”

“What the hell’s going on?”

Blade came back with a question. “Where is there a cabin on Lake Shoshone that can only be reached by boat?” Morrisey had said something about taking her to a cabin.

“Give me a sec.”

“Hurry, damn it.”

Meanwhile, Thigpen silently communicated with his people via an electronic device he called robo phone, a voice–to–print–transcription system.

Christiansen came back with, “There used to be a dozen of them, primitive fishing cabins at the end of a channel on the south–east side of the lake. Only one left. No road access. That’d be about fifteen, twenty minutes from downtown Fort Shoshone by boat. The channel connects to the Shoshone River.”

“How can I get there?”

“Fastest route—take Trestle Creek road just past your place. That’s assuming your vehicle has high enough clearance and the creek doesn’t rise. The thing is, once you reach the end of the road, you’ll have a devil of a hike to reach the cabin.”

“Give me the coordinates. You’re sure there’re no other cabins without road access around here?”

“Not according to our most current maps. Most folks nowadays like the luxury of civilization—”

Blade cut in, “Dispatch our water patrol unit immediately.”

“Copy that.”

A flash of lightning lit the sky. Static. Then silence.

“Ten–one, Christiansen,” He gave the code indicating he had static again. “Do you copy?”

Precious seconds ticked by.

“Ten Four,” Christiansen’s voice broke through. “We’ve got a problem, Lieutenant. Fort Shoshone is fogged in, big time. The responding water patrol team’s not going anywhere until that shit lifts. They’re reporting they can’t even see the lake, let alone find the channel that leads to the cabin.

Damn the weather.
In Little Chute, fog wasn’t the problem. They were still plagued with torrential rain that had lodged between the mountains and settled in like uninvited relatives.

“How far on Trestle Creek Road to the foot trail?”

“All the way to the end. Fifteen miles, approximately. Which may be a moot point, because with the monsoons, you might need a Bobcat rigged with titan tracks to get through. That sucker’s not paved.”

“We’ll make it. And Christiansen, I want those roadblocks beefed up. As of now, there’s an NTAS alert for Fort Shoshone Dam. We need all available deputies on duty. The National Guard will assist.”

“Roger that, Lieutenant.”

As Mother Nature continued her rampage, Blade and Thigpen headed toward Trestle Creek Road, making a stop at Blade’s place to pick up Rambo. Minutes later, Blade navigated Trestle Creek Road amid streaks of lightning exploding across the pitch–black sky.

From the back seat, Rambo nuzzled his shoulder and twitched one ear. Blade reached back and patted his neck. “We have to find Brandy.”

Rambo whimpered softly.

“Nice dog.” Thigpen turned and scratched Rambo’s ears. “He’s not afraid of storms or thunder?”

“Nah, he’s a veteran. Born and raised around guns. My previous partner.” Blade let out a breath, but his hands remained white–knuckled, strangling the steering wheel as he tried not to think about the amount of time that had ticked by since Brandy’s call, or that Skip Coogan, a veteran cop and possible murderer, held her fate in his hands.

They’d barely made it a mile when they met a three–foot diameter horizontal tree stretched across the road.

“Son of a bitch.” So much for Trestle Creek Road.

“Alternate route?” Thigpen asked.

Blade reached for the radio and clicked it on, wishing he’d been around Little Chute long enough to become more familiar with the area, wishing headquarters would pick up quicker, wishing the damnable rain would stop.

But the deluge continued, the surrounding hillsides gushing like waterfalls gone wild. A flash of lightning stabbed the ground so close the smell of ozone permeated the air. A simultaneous clap of thunder shook the Jeep.

Finally, Christiansen came back on the line “Your only option is to take County Trunk LC and go into Fort Shoshone from the south. The problem is, you’ll end up in pea soup… Sorry, Lieutenant, but at the moment, it’s impossible to get to that cabin—except by river. And right now would be a hell of a time to launch anything in the pissed–off Shoshone. A couple of drowned rats won’t do anyone any good.”

Blade faced Thigpen and repeated the message.

The agent quietly considered the challenge for two heartbeats. “Then we better make sure we don’t drown ‘cause I’m feeling the urge for some whitewater rafting.”

“I like the way you think, Thigpen.”

“Call me Thiggy.” He tipped his head. “Something tells me Tonya from the tour company could expedite this adventure as efficiently as anyone.”

“Let’s do it.” Blade ground gears and headed for Tour d’Alene.

****

“You want to do what?” Tonya Crawford asked.

Blade’s heart was in his throat as he, Thiggy, and Rambo stood dripping in the sporting goods–rafting shop, creating rivulets that snaked across the polished hardwood floor.

“We need a raft, and we want to put in at your launch site.”

She raised a dark, graceful, yet doubtful eyebrow. “Now?”

“Exactly.”

“A suicide mission?”

“A necessary mission. We have to get to the east side of Lake Shoshone. Fast. Water patrol in Fort Shoshone is fogged in. A landslide’s blocking the Interstate, and the road to Trestle Creek is blocked with a downed tree.”

“You’re crazy, you know. Even if you made it all the way down the Shoshone, you’d have to bail eventually before the current took you the wrong way. There’s a drop—Scuppernong Falls—just before the river dumps into the lake, which would be impossible to navigate after this amount of rain.”

As far as Blade was concerned, nothing was impossible if it meant he could get to Brandy. “There’s a channel that connects the lake and the river. We need to reach a cabin that’s supposedly close to the confluence of the river and the channel.”

“Ah, this is getting halfway feasible. You’d still have to go over or around Quicksilver Falls and then hoof it on a trail to get to the cabin. Your chances of success would blossom
after
the storm.”

“Brandy’s in trouble. We think she’s at the cabin.”

“Serious trouble?”

“Morrisey’s got her.” The words scorched Blade’s throat.

Tonya’s chin jutted. “Oh my God. Why are we wasting time?”

She lurched toward the counter and grabbed a set of keys. “Make yourselves useful and load the blue raft out back. The one closest to the rear exit. Put it in the bed of my black pickup. Behind the store. I’ll grab the life vests and helmets, and—”

Blade was out the door before she finished. He and Thiggy muscled the raft into the truck, and Thigpen hopped into the driver’s seat. Tonya, wearing a life vest, ran after them, her arms loaded with vests, helmets, a dry pack, and her rifle.

“Ma’am,” Thiggy said, “this is a two–man operation. Official business. You’d best stay here—”

“Shut up and move over. This is my truck, my raft, and Brandy’s my friend. I know this river better than either of you.” She climbed into the driver’s seat, forcing Thiggy to slide over, while Blade and Rambo crammed into the cab from the passenger side.

“Experienced in whitewater rafting, are you, boys?” Tonya tossed a smug look their way as she nestled her Remington in a spot behind the driver’s seat. “The Shoshone River’s a mother when a downpour floods it like this.” She turned the ignition key and slammed the truck into motion.

“How long do you think it’ll take to get to the cabin?” Blade held his breath, knowing whatever the answer was, it was too damn long.

“Depends whether we portage around Quicksilver falls or take the extreme ride.” She glanced his way for a second. “Via water we could manage it in less than fifteen minutes today. That, of course, is assuming we make it.”

Already shrugging into his life vest, Blade leaned forward past Thiggy to look at Tonya. “And if we take the sissy route and portage?”

“Half hour.” She half–grinned. “You telling me your mammas raised a couple of pansies?”

“Uh–uh.” Blade accepted the inevitable. “Just calculating the time we’ll save by proving what he–men we are.”

The truck bobbled over a pothole. Rambo shifted to gain purchase, nudging Thiggy closer to Ms. Crawford. The agent had an up–close–and–personal encounter with their tour guide—his mouth, her cheek.

Thigpen cleared his throat. Tonya grinned, her grip tightening on the wheel. She tipped her head toward a pile of orange jackets on the floor. “There’s a Fido Flotation vest for your four–legged buddy.”

“Thanks.” Blade scrounged through the tangle of straps, and Thigpen hauled out his phone. After he read the screen, he said, “The National Terrorism Advisory System alert is official. The Department of Homeland Security believes there is an imminent threat to the dam.”

“What?” Tonya’s head swiveled toward Thigpen. “The dam? There’s a Scuppernong village downriver—my family…”

Blade touched Thigpen’s shoulder. “What about a counterstrike at the encampment?”

“The Joint Terrorism Task Force boys have been there. The supremacists have vacated the premises, equipment and all. We’ve got people securing every road that leads to the dam.” He faced Tonya to read her response.

“And every waterway?” she asked.

“We’re working on it.” Phone in hand, Thigpen thumbed in a series of numbers.

Blade’s head pounded. Coogan was mixed up in this? He intended to help radicals blow up the dam and kill hundreds of innocent people? The information didn’t compute. God. No matter how hard he tried, Blade couldn’t wrap his mind around the cold hard fact that Coogan was a murderer. A bad cop.

On the other hand, he could no longer buy into the undercover theory.

So what was Skip planning to do to Brandy? Kill her and destroy the evidence in a flood? Anger forged every muscle in his body to steel. He set his jaw in determination.

Tonya slammed the brakes, and the truck skidded to a stop a foot from another felled tree spread across the road.

“It’s not that big.” She jumped out and was already tugging at one of the branches by the time Blade and Thiggy tackled the opposite end.

“On three,” Blade shouted.

They grunted in unison and dragged the water–logged aspen aside, leaving room for the truck to squeeze through. After that, it took another five minutes bumping along the muddy road to reach Tour d’Alene’s official launch site. Tonya leaped out, rifle in hand, and ran to the tailgate.

“Grab the equipment, Thigpen.” She tossed her Remington into the raft and heaved the rubber monster, pulling it across the truck’s bed toward the open tailgate. Blade latched onto the opposite side of the raft.

“To the left of that clearing,” she shouted, pointing toward the river. “Don’t forget the paddles. And put your helmets on. Come on, let’s move!”

Christ, Blade had had drill sergeants less bossy than the willowy dark–haired beauty with biceps like Sheena of the Jungle. Thigpen gave him a sober–faced nod, although his eyes held a grin. They both knew enough to keep quiet and follow the lady in charge. She
was
the expert, and the Shoshone awaited, frothing white, daring them to launch into its angry waters. Too bad it wasn’t just a typical day of extreme summer adventure.

CHAPTER TWENTY–FIVE