huddled inside her thin blue sweater with sleeves that barely came past her elbow. She looked cold and exhausted and not much older than that Jewel girl back at the ranch. That distracting urge to protect trickled into his thoughts again.
He’d planned to go back for her. But Whitney had found her way here.
Vincent pushed aside the impulse to swallow her up in his arms and warm her with his own body heat. He didn’t have time to deal with the hostage’s needs right now. He had to get her to freedom. That meant making the rendezvous that was fast approaching.
Besides, Whitney had more resiliency than he’d expected for a pampered society girl from a privileged family back East. He had to give her credit. She might lack common sense, but she had stamina and determination to spare.
“No.” He reached out and took her by the elbow, more gently this time, and led her up the rise to the top of the shaft. “Decoy.”
“So Chilton will think we’ve gone in there?” She crouched behind the rocks where he pointed.
“I hope. Stay here.”
He slid back down the slope to grab his bag and cover their path. When he returned, he held out his hand to help her to her feet. She studied his hand with the same trepidation she might use if he’d stuck a gun in her face.
“It’s not much farther.” Distancewise, he spoke the truth. But he couldn’t promise that Chilton and his men would make this an easy trip.
Her shoulders lifted with a determined sigh and she reached up to fold her hand into his. The ground was flatter up here. Still rocky and dotted with trees, it provided less cover, but they could move more quickly. Vincent broke into a loping run, and Whitney kept pace behind him.
When they reached the road, they ducked behind a pile of decaying tree trunks that had burned and fallen to the ground after a recent forest fire. Whitney leaned back against the wood and seemed to concentrate on her breathing. Vincent pulled the two-way radio from his pack and called in.
“The hawk has his prey. Repeat. The hawk has his prey. Over.”
A blip of static answered, then cleared. “Understood. Hawk’s nest on the move. Out.”
“I don’t think I like being referred to as prey.” She breathed in quick, shallow breaths, but her voice sounded stronger. “Chilton’s a smart man, you know. That’s not much of a code for him to break.”
“He’ll have us in his line of sight any minute. He doesn’t have to eavesdrop.”
Preparing for that certainty, Vincent pulled out his gun, checked the clip and reloaded. In the light from the moon, he saw those quicksilver eyes of hers pool up like saucers.
But was it the gun, or Chilton’s imminent arrival that frightened her?
“Is there something I should do?” she whispered.
“Shh.”
“Of course. Always with the shush thing.”
Thankfully, she settled in beside him to do her brooding in silence and no doubt think of the next line of questions she wanted to ask. Vincent squeezed his eyes shut. Fatigue was starting to tell in the protest of his muscles as he knelt behind the cover of the trees. But his senses were working just fine. He fine-tuned his ears and listened for the crunch of footsteps in the underbrush.
He heard the order to spread out and widen the search first. Chilton hadn’t taken long to discover his ruse, and was closing in. Vincent opened his eyes to check his watch. Their ten-minute flight had taken twelve. “Where are you?” He breathed the urgent wish between clenched teeth.
Right on cue, the roar of a four-wheel-drive engine echoed through the rocks of the plateau. But Chilton heard it, too.
A black pickup topped the crest and bounced down the mining road toward their position.
“There he is.” Whitney popped up and pointed at the truck.
“Get down, dammit!” He palmed the top of her head and pushed her down to the ground just as the first bullets hit.
The rapid fire of semiautomatic weapons flashed like fireworks in the darkness. Vincent braced his elbow on the top rotting trunk, took aim and fired at each burst of light.
A spatter of bullets hit his position, splintering the wood and sending chunks of bark flying. Vincent ducked to the ground, pinning Whitney beneath. With his hand on her head, keeping her flat in the dirt, he rose again, pointed his gun and fired.
He hit his mark. The flash fire of one weapon sank to the ground and went out. But the bullets kept flying.
The truck engine gunned and picked up speed.
Two of the terrorists were close enough to make out their shapes as they dodged from cover to cover, spraying bullets in their direction.
The squeal of brakes behind him gave a small measure of reassurance. “Romeo! Get in!”
Vincent grabbed his bag, pulled Whitney up by the arm and pushed her toward the open door of the waiting truck.
“Go! Go! Go!” he ordered.
The driver stomped on the accelerator. Whitney had climbed in, headfirst. Vincent flattened his hand on her butt, pushed her across the seat and tossed his bag into the bed of the truck. The wheels spun on the gravel and dirt, giving him time to get his feet on the running board before the truck sped away. Clinging to the open door with his left hand, Vincent turned back and fired at their pursuers.
A spray of gunfire hit the truck. Bing. Bang. Thunk.
The truck lurched and Vincent fell inside. They’d hit the back window and shattered it. “Gun it, Carl!”
Whitney sat in the middle of the bench seat, brushing the broken glass from her shoulders.
“You hit?” he asked, keeping his eye on the side-view mirror, mentally calculating the distance before they’d be out of range of Chilton’s weapons.
“No.”
The truck continued to pick up speed.
“Romeo?”
Whitney’s fingers dug into his thigh.
“Romeo!”
“What?”
He pried her grip from his leg, then looked up to see why she’d cried his name.
Carl was slumped forward. A tiny hole leaked bright red blood from the back of his head.
He was dead.
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