Too Sexy for his Stetson (30 page)

“Blade… Blade.”

“I’ve got you, Brandy. I’ve got you… and I’m never letting go.”

Rambo took point. Clinging to one another, the three of them plowed against the current toward the bank. When Brandy glanced up, Tonya was less than a yard away. A dark–haired muscular–looking stranger crouched beside her. Two pairs of arms reached out. Tonya grabbed Brandy’s shirt as Blade boosted her up, and the man reached for her, his biceps rippling as he grabbed hold of her hands and pulled her onto land.

Rambo scrambled up the muddy incline and shook off water, while Blade crawled onto the rocky bank. He pushed to his feet and gripped the man’s hand. “I like the way you operate, Thigpen.”

“I saw you go over the falls. Couldn’t fucking believe my eyes.”

Blade nodded, dropped down beside Brandy, and pulled her on top of him. Aware of the glorious feel of his solid body beneath her, she soaked in his heat and simply breathed.

His mouth came up to meet hers. A charge of lightning, not from the sky, jolted through her heart as he captured her in a soul–tingling kiss that warmed her to the core. She almost read more into the way he clung to her than she should have. But she’d take the moment for what it was worth. Tightening her arms around him, she savored his closeness and the calming hum of his voice in her ear. “Are you okay?”

“I’m better than okay.” Her mind started to drift. She was alive, and she was in Blade Beringer’s arms, wishing she could stay there forever. For now, she wouldn’t think about the fact that Blade wasn’t the settling–down kind of man. Yet that thought pressed against her lungs and swamped her, making her feel like she was drowning all over again… She heaved in a breath, and oxygen filled her lungs. Reality hit.

“Ah–hum…” The stranger cleared his throat, a get–a–room expression on his face. “We need to get to the dam.”

Blade tensed and sat up. “This is Benjamin Thigpen, our HS contact.”

Everything came into sharp focus. Brandy jerked out of Blade’s arms. They were in a race against time. “The bomb? You know the supremacists intend to blow up the dam?”

“Yes, we know.”

“We have to stop them.” And she had to nail Skip Coogan. “Coogan—”

“We’ll get him…” Betrayal. Anguish. The agony on Blade’s face tore her heart to pieces. But she forced herself to tune out his pain and focus on the terrorist threat. They had survived for a purpose and had ended up on Lake Shoshone’s south shore, less than a mile from the dam’s powerhouse.

They launched into action and raced toward the dam. The 200–foot–high dam arched over the river, looming in the mist. They took cover in a stand of trees. After catching her breath, Brandy asked, “How much explosive material would it take to blast through three feet of steel–reinforced concrete? Can they actually take it down?”

“They most likely have Semtex and/or C–4,” Thigpen said.

Blade added, “There’re vulnerable spots in the penstock, and we know they’ve got the manpower to haul in enough shit to get the job done.”

Brandy shivered. “Fort Shoshone Dam supplies something like forty percent of the energy for the state of Idaho. If it goes—” The blood that had started working its way back through her veins froze when she looked at Tonya. The full implication of the impending catastrophe hit. If the dam blew, it would destroy the Scuppernong Reservation. “Oh my God, Tonya, your family.”

“We didn’t make it this far to fail.” Tonya cocked her rifle.

Thigpen snapped a twig off a fallen tree limb, kneeled down, and drew the layout of the powerhouse in the soft earth. “Here’s the plan. The penstock channel runs along here. Logically, they’ll rig a detonator in the turbine room and run a fuse to the charge. Here’s the penstock,” he said, tapping the stick, “and the control gate. The turbine’s here, and below that’s the outflow channel. X marks the spot. If they detonate underwater, the transfer of energy will be doubled.”

He looked at Blade. “Once we’re inside, I’ll verify the location of the explosives. You and Brandy’ll crash the party in the turbine room.”

From a nearby mound of brush, Thigpen retrieved an AK–47 and tossed it to Blade. “I borrowed this from one of the NNFF brothers who was on guard duty when I first arrived. He’s no longer part of the equation,” he said, reaching for his shoulder holster, sliding out a Springfield .45 handgun.

“Beringer, I’ll take point until we get inside. You and your deputy cover my six.”

Blade gave Brandy a glance—more than a glance—a look that warmed her insides, a look that said he cared about her. A look she hoped said he trusted her. It touched her heart, but damn it, did he really trust her to back him up?

He turned to Tonya. “Brandy’ll need your rifle.”

Thank you, Beringer.
She studied his face, and something arced between them.

Tonya sputtered, her feathers obviously ruffled. “And what do I do? Sit here and twiddle my thumbs?”

“Here,” Thigpen said. From a CrossBreed inside–waistband holster, he whipped out a Sig Sauer and gave it to Tonya. “Watch for any rats trying to escape the sinking ship.”

Already heading for the powerhouse, he said, “Let’s move. If we’ve got one thing going for us, it’s that these guys aren’t suicide bombers. They’ll likely rig the detonator with a timer to allow getaway time. That’ll buy us an extra five minutes if we’re lucky.”

From nowhere someone shouted, “Hold your fire!”

Brandy swung the rifle around as Blade jerked the AK–47 into position, and Thigpen took aim with the Springfield.

“Sheriff’s Department! Hold your fire! Hold your fire!” Christiansen, hefting a rifle, rumbled toward them.

After a collective sigh of relief, Blade asked, “How the hell did you get here?”

“Once I made it to the access road, I finessed my way on foot through the washout and hiked in.” The deputy grinned. “Thought I’d even up the odds.”

And what were the odds? Brandy wondered. The surrounding forest was probably crawling with Neo Nazis. And inside the powerhouse? Who the hell knew how many crazy white supremacists it took to blow up a dam?

CHAPTER TWENTY–EIGHT

B
randy crept through the entrance to the powerhouse, pressed tight against Blade’s back. Thigpen and Christiansen darted to the right. Brandy followed Blade to the left. She startled at the sight of a body, a man in a navy coverall sprawled on the floor near the generator room. Her toe bumped a yellow hardhat that lay several feet from the man’s blood–smeared chest. It rattled, the sound echoing against hard surfaces. Her pulse kicked up, and she held her breath.
Jeez, Wilcox, stupid rookie mistake.

Blade cut her a reassuring look and signaled her to drop down. She and Rambo followed him, crawling along the perimeter of the wall.

Once they passed through the door to the generator room, the huge machines gave them cover. Voices boomed and reverberated from behind the equipment. Brandy and Blade stole up and drew tight against the first generator. She followed Blade’s lead and inched her head higher for a better visual. Four men crouched between the first and second generators, laboring over what had to be a timing device. She raised another inch and identified—
holy shit—
Reverend McKee. She hadn’t expected him to be involved in the hands–on phase.

She locked glances with Blade, and he nodded, mouthing,
On three.

One, two, “
Three!” He sprang up, aiming his weapon dead at McKee’s chest. “Hold it right there, McKee.”

The reverend’s head jolted up. He zeroed in on Blade. “Well, well, if it isn’t Lieutenant Blade Beringer.”

Two of the men beside McKee reached for their weapons.

“Freeze!” Brandy yelled, her heart beating at triple speed, her trigger finger tense.

McKee held up his hands, and his cohorts followed his lead.

Brandy eased closer to the mad bombers, her rifle steady on the man to the left of McKee, watching for any sign that he was going for his weapon.

Edging backward, McKee said to Blade, “You really want to take time to play hero, boy? This thing’s going to blow in five minutes. I suggest we take off
now
and sort things out later.”

From the opposite end of the cavernous room, Thigpen and Christiansen crept in, weapons sighted on the terrorists.

Blade stalked McKee, moving closer, rifle against his shoulder. “No one’s going anywhere until you disable that timer.”

“You’re looking at the wrong man, boy. I’m versed in the set–up phase, but once the clock starts ticking, I don’t have a clue how to disable it.”

“You’re lying.”

McKee’s eyes narrowed. “You calling your own father a liar, Son?”

What?

Brandy’s heart climbed into her throat. What had the SOB said? She had to have heard wrong. He was trying to distract Blade.

She took her eyes off her target for an instant and glanced at Blade. His jaw hardened. A muscle in his cheek ticked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Don’t let him rile you, Blade.

“What’s the matter, Son?” McKee pressed on. “Haven’t you figured it out yet? I finally tracked you down a couple of years ago when your momma died. By then I knew it was too late to bring you into the fold or drum a lick of sense into your head.”

Blade’s finger twitched over the rifle’s trigger. “
Richard Lutz?
You bastard, you’re Richard Lutz?”

Brandy’s heart pumped at the revelation, and she ached for Blade.

“You can imagine my surprise when my boy showed up right in Little Chute, wearing a badge, and siding against the Church of God’s Chosen People.” His glance darted from the timer to the exit. “If you don’t get a move on, we’ll be settling this at God’s pearly gates.”

Blade had turned white as sun–bleached aspen bark, but he managed to say, “We’re not going anywhere until the bomb’s disabled.”

“Headstrong and foolish. But you’ve got grit. Proves you’re a chip off the old block.”

“Fuck you. Stop that timer. Now.”

“Judgment day’s drawing closer by the second—you’re not using common sense, boy.”

“I hope to hell I’ve got more sense than you.”

“Ye who stray from the flock shall suffer the wrath of the Lord. Sorry, Blade, I guess today’s your day to die.” McKee seemed resolved to let the timer tick down.

Brandy’s gaze stalled on the ticking timer. Blade nodded at Thigpen. Immediately, Thigpen lunged toward the detonator while Blade moved his rifle sight to the terrorists Thigpen had been covering. At that instant, McKee’s hand slipped into his front pants pocket.

Shoot!
Brandy’s finger reacted automatically. She squeezed the rifle’s trigger. McKee’s hand never left his pocket. He howled and blood spattered from his chest, even as he got off a shot of his own that exploded directly from his pocket, through the fabric of his pants. A reflex reaction of his right arm as it jerked up revealed a pistol, which flew six feet into the air then dropped, thudding against the generator. McKee–Lutz, whoever the hell he was, crumpled to the ground.

“Cuff him,” Brandy yelled, but Blade didn’t move. She glanced to her left.

Blade dropped to his knees, his weapon clattering to the concrete floor. Blood oozed from his thigh through a hole in his pants.

“Oh my God, you’re hit! Man down!”

It all seemed to happen at once. Christiansen charged the trio of terrorists, disarming one and slamming him to the ground. Thigpen somehow managed to disarm the other two. Instantly, the three men were face down on the concrete floor with Rambo growling and baring his teeth as he stood guard.

Brandy threw herself down next to Blade and tried to ignore the timer.
Three minutes and counting.

Thigpen lunged for the bomb while Christiansen handcuffed two of the Neo Nazis together. Blade tossed a pair of flex cuffs to Brandy. “Secure that last guy. Then you and Christiansen get these bastards out of here.”

Two minutes.
Heart hammering, Brandy shook her head.

“Go… please.” Blade hissed out a breath while the circle of blood saturating his pants spread wider.

Brandy’s insides went numb. “Damned if I’m going anywhere without you, Beringer.” She tossed the cuffs to Christiansen and stayed on her knees next to Blade. Ripping his tattered pants, tearing off a hunk of fabric, she pressed it over the blood oozing from his leg.

Christiansen motioned the terrorists to their feet and pushed them toward the exit, Rambo backing him up with fierce snarls.

One minute, thirty seconds.

On his knees, still laboring over the timer, Thigpen swore. Blade scooted next to the agent, studied the setup for a second, then tapped Thigpen’s arm.

Thigpen’s head jerked up.

“The wire on the left?” Blade said, letting the agent read his lips.

Brandy clung to Blade’s leg, applying pressure. “How do you know? The wires are all black.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Yeah,” Thigpen grunted, “the left was my guess too.”

“Guess?” Brandy willed her mind not to compute.

“Educated guess,” Blade added. “Residual brain clutter from Special Forces demolition training.”

“Hold the other wires out of the way, Beringer.”

“Got ‘em.”

“One minute,” Brandy whispered, the fabric beneath her fingers now soaked with sticky warmth. How much longer before he bled out? Or was she imagining a geyser of blood erupting from Blade’s leg, exaggerating the seriousness of his injury because she couldn’t bear the thought of him dying?

Blade stretched, firming his grip on the intricate weave of wires. Thigpen slid a knife across the wire. Brandy leaned into Blade and pressed the cloth tighter against his thigh. She closed her eyes for a second, a prayer beating in her heart—he couldn’t die. But then, what chance did any of them have of escaping obliteration?

She leaned in and pressed her body against his heat and touched her mouth to his ear. “I love you, Blade.” Had she said it aloud or in her heart?

Blade’s muscles tensed another notch, and he shot a quick glance her way. He nodded. Just as quickly, his blue eyes flicked back to the wires.