href="#u53d5f174-5011-5eab-b59b-dacc7cc7ce14">Chapter Thirteen
Chapter One
Bam!
The storage room door slammed shut, drowning Deputy U.S. Marshal Beauregard—Beau—Logue in inky blackness.
“Ms. Sherwood?” he called out, adrenaline pumping and body on full alert as a pathetically weak overhead bulb blinked on. “You all right?”
Nothing.
Not giving a damn what happened to the wine-glasses he’d been hauling for the petite, nearly eight months pregnant, proverbial Georgia peach, Beau dumped them clinking to his feet, then scrambled for the exit.
“Ms. Sherwood, talk to me!” Hand on the doorknob, shoulder bearing down on the door, Beau shoved with all his might, but it didn’t budge. Someone had to have deliberately blocked it. “Ms. Sherwood? Gracie?”
Still nothing.
Not even a frick-frackin’ mouse squeak.
And wouldn’t you know it, he’d left his handheld radio in the restaurant’s main dining room. Hadn’t even felt the need for his headset, seeing how the operation thus far had been smooth.
Now what?
Had Chef Gracie’s escapee ex-husband gotten to her? A couple of his hired guns? Was she sick? Passed out? She’d seemed fine just a second ago, but he knew from bitter experience pregnant women had issues.
Beau again rammed the door with his shoulder, but all he got for his efforts was crazy, red-hot pain.
“Okay, think, man. Think.” Hands braced on his hips, he’d kept his head for all of two seconds when he tried punching the door. The only thing that netted was hurt knuckles, so he switched to Plan B—which pretty much consisted of a helluva lot of hollering.
“Yo, Mason! Mulgrave! Wolcheck! Anyone out there?”
No response. He moved on to Plan C.
The building was in the heart of Fort McKenzie’s historic Gas Light District, meaning the restaurant occupied three older structures that used to be row houses in the trendy mountain town just an hour’s commute to Portland, Oregon. The result was a hodgepodge of too narrow rooms and passages that’d no doubt barely passed city inspections.
All closed up like the place was, the air on this uncharacteristically hot mid-August Tuesday morning was sticky. Smelled like the moldy sneakers he used for mowing his fixer-upper house’s lawn.
Eyeing a putty knife on a shelf lined with grimy tools, he used it to wedge up and under the door’s hinge pins. The top one popped right off. The second was rusty, but with teeth gritted, he worked that one free, as well. Beau managed to keep the heavy door steady long enough to lift it out of his way and lean it against the nearest shelves.
From his shoulder holster, he pulled his gun, readying it for whatever awaited behind the newly liberated door that, sure enough, someone had padlocked a steel bar in front of.
He ducked under it.
In the now dark hall, he wasn’t sure what to expect—sure as hell not a convenient bread crumb trail—but what he got was exactly squat. He made a quick sweep of the area but found not so much as a long, blond hair for a clue.
For all practical purposes, Gracie Sherwood had vanished.
Not only did that tick Beau off because he took his job of protecting witnesses very seriously, but also he’d taken an instant liking to Ms. Sherwood. She was sweet, brave, defenseless. Reminded him of his good friend and fellow marshal Chance Mulgrave’s wife who’d had it rough when her first husband had been killed right about the time she’d discovered she was pregnant.
With slumped shoulders, Beau made the long walk out to join the rest of his crew, radioing for the two guys patrolling the building’s side and rear to come up front.
“Don’t suppose any of you have seen Ms. Sherwood?” he asked once all were assembled.
Villetti chuckled. “You’re kidding, right?”
Jaw clenched, Beau sighed. “It look like I’m kidding? Mason, Wolcheck, do me a favor and check the garage down the street for her car.”
Five minutes later, the two guys were back.
Gracie Sherwood’s car wasn’t there.
What did it mean? Someone took her in her own vehicle?
Beau’s stomach clenched.
Sure, it was possible, but more likely, for whatever oddball reason, he’d been duped. She’d used her Southern charm and curls to lure him into the storage closet. She’d locked him in, then taken off. But why? What did she know that he didn’t that had her running? Was she joining her husband? Or running scared from him and thinking she’d be safer on her own?
“So what happened?” his younger brother Adam asked. “Hear signs of a struggle?”
“Not a peep.”
“What’re you gonna do?” Bug, Adam’s best bud and the only woman on the team, asked. “This was a mighty high profile case for the boss. He finds out you’re the one who misplaced her, well—” She finished her sentence with a low whistle that pretty much said it all.
No matter the cost, no matter where the hunt took him, Beau had to get Gracie Sherwood back—now. Not just for her, but himself. He’d already lost one pregnant woman. No way would he lose another.
FIFTEEN MINUTES after making her big escape, Gracie Sherwood—she’d long ago ditched her married name of Delgado in favor of her maiden surname—pulled her whale of a vintage pink Caddie convertible up to a convenience store gas pump. While her car guzzled gas, she counted money—or rather, her lack thereof: $184.32.
Not good, especially considering the cost of this one fill-up. Still, the $150 in the restaurant safe had been all she could get her hands on. The $34.32 all that was left of Vicente’s now frozen assets. Not that she’d even want to spend a dime more of his money, but in this case, it would’ve at least been nice to have the option.
Inside, she made a quick trek to the ladies’ room, paid for the fuel, a pack of mini powdered-sugar doughnuts, a banana and jug of OJ, then climbed back behind the wheel.
She tried finding a decent radio station, but this far out of Portland, got nothing but static. A week earlier, some punk had broken her car’s antennae. The final nail in the coffin of a particularly rotten year.
Finding out the sophisticated, articulate, Harvard-educated Bolivian she’d fallen wildly in love with had in fact been up to his neck in the kinds of dirty dealing she couldn’t even begin to comprehend had been hard to take. What’d happened after that nearly destroyed her.
Muggy,
