Beholden (39 page)

Damned if he wasn’t asleep, the big tilt-back chair facing away. He could see a black cap sticking up and slippered feet on
the footrest. The guy had gone soft. He smiled to himself. It would only make his job easier. He’d take him out while the
bastard slept on like a baby.

It was then that he heard a sound at the back door. His arm still around Terry, he swiveled them about.

“Let her go, Nick,” John Ryan said. Looking pale and exhausted, he was leaning against the doorframe, blood on
his jacket, a police revolver in his hand aimed right at Nick’s head. “I told you I didn’t want her hurt.”

“Dad,” Terry managed, the word barely a croak. What was he doing here? How had he traced her? And how was it he seemed to
know Nick Russo?

Cursing silently, Nick realized he should have made sure the old man was dead when he’d shot him by the gate. Now he had no
choice but to finish the job before Luke came lunging at his back. He shifted the Magnum from Terry’s neck and aimed it at
Ryan. “You should have stayed home, old man.”

John Ryan was past listening. He couldn’t take the time to inspect his beautiful daughter and make sure she was all right.
He’d have to be content with trying to save her life after he’d somehow slipped up and allowed this son of a bitch to track
him here. He’d come to warn her, to take her somewhere really safe. But he hadn’t been able to outsmart Nick.

John took two steps forward, then another, the gun in his hand steady even if his legs weren’t. The pain in his left shoulder
from Nick’s shot was burning like fire, but he forced himself to ignore it. “Go ahead and shoot me, Nick. But I’ll get you
at the same time. I’m not afraid of dying, but you might be.”

Nick felt the sweat on his forehead and more trailing down his back inside his shirt. This wasn’t how things were supposed
to have gone. Thinking fast, he shifted the girl in front of him. “If I go, she dies with me.”

But he hadn’t counted on the fact that in maneuvering Terry, he’d loosened his hold on her. Seizing the moment, she slammed
a hard elbow into his rib cage and, as he bent in pain, she dived for the floor out of the line of fire, giving her father
clearance to get off a good shot.

Only John Ryan had lost a lot of blood and his reactions had slowed. As he tried to take aim, he heard a noise behind him.

Just as Nick raised his gun, Luke came barreling through the back doorway, knocking John aside and tackling Nick. They hit
the floor in a tumbling heap as Nick’s gun went off, a shot going wild into the ceiling before the Magnum dropped to the floor.
Crazily, it spun around and skidded under the stove out of reach.

Watching the gun whiz by her and disappear, Terry wanted to scream out in frustration at not being able to grab it from where
she huddled in the opposite corner of the kitchen. She kept her eyes on Luke as he slammed a fist into the hoodlum’s handsome
face. She’d been thinking it very odd that he would sleep through all that was happening. She should have guessed that he’d
left the living room, setting up a ruse with his hat and slippers, then slipped around the cabin and come in the back way.
He’d promised he wouldn’t let anything happen to her.

As the two younger men fought, John Ryan tried to find the gun he’d dropped when he’d been pushed to the floor by the federal
agent he knew had been protecting his daughter. His vision blurring from his gunshot wound, he couldn’t seem to focus. Blinking,
sweating profusely, he finally spotted the revolver on the floor near the sink and, on hands and knees, he crawled toward
it. His fingers closed around the handle just as Nick kicked Luke a good one in the groin, then swiveled and dived for John’s
gun.

He had so little strength left, but John Ryan had to do something to rescue his daughter, to redeem himself just a little
in her eyes. He could hear Luke Tanner trying to stand up through a pain he was certain would sideline most men. He hung on
with all his waning strength, trying to get the barrel aimed toward Nick, who was gripping his wrist with iron force. They
struggled another few seconds and then the gun went off.

John felt the searing heat in his chest as he fell backward onto the kitchen floor, the agony all but blinding him. He’d failed
yet again.

Frantic now, knowing he was running out of time and chances, Nick tugged the revolver from John’s hand and whirled around.
But as he turned, a shot slammed into his gun hand, sending the revolver flying, then another bullet barreled into the right
side of his chest. With a high-pitched cry, he fell to the floor, bleeding profusely. He lay slumped on his side, motionless.

Luke stood across the room, relieved that he’d finally been able to recover enough from Nick’s vicious kick to wrest his gun
from his waistband and end the melee. When he’d run around back and entered the storeroom, he’d put away the .38, worried
he might hit Terry, thinking a surprise flying tackle would work until he could get in position. Thank God, the impromptu
plan had worked.

Still reeling from the pain in his groin, he saw Terry scoot over to where her father lay, blood seeping from two wounds.
Questions whirled around in Luke’s head—how John Ryan was involved, how he’d gotten here—but answers would have to wait. As
Terry bent over her dad, he went to the phone to call for two ambulances and the police, knowing it might take them awhile
to get up the snowy mountain road.

Terry stroked her father’s stubbled cheeks, fighting tears.

“How did you know where to find me?”

“Your phone call. I… I figured it out. Nick must have been… been following me.” The pain made each breath feel like a stab
in the heart.

Terry clutched his hand. “Hang on, Dad. Luke’s calling for an ambulance.” Guilt settled heavily on her shoulders. If only
she hadn’t called him, her father wouldn’t have come looking for her, wouldn’t have gotten shot.

“Too late, honey.” His eyelids were so heavy, each breath he took a fresh burst of pain. It was over for him, and John knew
it. “I never meant to hurt you… or the rest of the family.” He felt a dribble of something leak out of the corner of
his mouth and he knew it must be blood. “I got caught up in it, you know.”

Shocked at what he was saying, Terry squeezed her father’s limp hand.
What did he mean? Oh, God, surely not what she was thinking. He was out of his mind with worry and pain, that was all
. “Don’t try to talk anymore, Dad. Save your strength.”

He didn’t have much time left and he had so much he wanted to tell her. She had a right to know. In his hazy peripheral vision,
he saw Tanner handcuff Nick even though the man wasn’t moving, then stoop alongside Terry, sliding an arm around her waist.
But John’s eyes were only for his daughter. “I was a good cop, Theresa Anne, for a lot of years. But after Kathleen died…
so many bills… I couldn’t keep up. Mac said he knew of a way I could make some easy money. It was wrong, I know, but I looked
the other way.”

She couldn’t say a word, couldn’t get past the huge lump in her throat. Not her beloved father, the one who’d taught her right
from wrong. She willed her strength to seep into him.

“I hate what I’ve done to you… to the others.” John heard a rattle in his chest and knew what was happening. Hadn’t he heard
it from dozens of victims he’d bent over as a cop? “Tell your mother I’m so sorry.” With a coughing gasp, he went limp.

Silently, Terry bent her head and wept.

In downtown Phoenix, Terry sat in the front row of Courtroom B in criminal justice court, presided over by Judge Carmichael.
In front of her was Prosecutor Amos Wood’s table and seated alongside her was Chief Deputy Bob Jones of the U.S. Marshals
Office. Absently, she toyed with the St. George’s medal hanging on a silver chain around her neck. Her eyes were riveted to
Senior Agent Lucas Tanner on the witness stand in the trial of the State -vs-Police Sergeant Fred “Mac” McCarthy, Sam Russo
and Nick Russo, who’d survived two gunshot wounds. The defense had lost a motion to try the defendants separately. An arrest
warrant was out for Ozzie Swain, but as yet, he hadn’t been apprehended.

The three men seated with their counsel at the front table on the other side of the room were on trial for the murders of
Don Simon and Lynn Hartley. Although the deaths of Officers Jerry Foster and Neil Manning were thought to be connected and
attributable to the defendants, no proof had been found. “It’s enough that we got them on two counts,” Bob had told Terry.
Now she had only to pray that the jury would convict them.

Her mother, pale and looking much older these days, sat
in the back of the courtroom with Father Tim O’Malley on one side and Aunt Julia on the other. Terry had asked them not to
come, but they’d insisted that they had to hear the details, had to be there when they led away the murderers.

Terry glanced back at Emily Ryan now and saw that she was listening intently to the prosecutor’s questions and Luke’s testimony.
Her husband’s death had diluted the joy of her daughter’s safe return. But that hadn’t been the worst of it. Discovering that
John had been on the take for years had crushed Emily’s spirit and put a disappointed sadness into her eyes that Terry knew
would never fade.

And poor Aunt Julia, having to listen to the vivid details of Lynn’s death. The testimony of the two officers first on the
scene of the accident and the mechanic’s report about the tampering of her VW were difficult for Terry to sit through. She
could only imagine what her aunt was feeling.

So much heartache caused by those vile men and their insatiable greed. And there were others, the drug dealers who’d used
the Russos to launder their dirty money, and who’d so far escaped being named. Even if the Russos worked a deal, which she
wouldn’t put past them, their sources from Mexico and Colombia were long gone, probably setting up shop in some other state.
The main players, the big boys, were as evasive as the morning fog. One crime syndicate broken up, but others would surface.

It seemed to be the nature of so many to want more than they’d rightfully earned, no matter who got hurt along the way. The
whole experience had taught her that it’s truly an unsafe world out there and that anyone can become a victim.

In a way, her father had been a victim, too. While no one had held a gun to his head and forced him to turn dishonest, to
look the other way and accept payoffs, life had slammed him once too often and made him vulnerable to the pros who knew just
whom they could entice into their illegal activities. Perhaps if he hadn’t been passed by for promotions so often no matter
how hard he worked, John might have had the
strength of character to refuse to participate. Maybe if Kathleen hadn’t died as she had, leaving John and Emily with staggering
debts, things might have ended differently. Perhaps if John hadn’t had that heart attack that forced him into an early retirement
with too small a pension, he wouldn’t have been susceptible.

No one would ever know, Terry thought. Ultimately, the decision had been his and the strong man she’d known had turned weak.
Her father’s funeral had been huge, despite the cloud that hung over his memory. He’d been loved by many. She blinked back
a rush of tears, already missing him so badly. She deeply resented that she’d been robbed of the last few months of his life
because of this whole thing. She was convinced that John Ryan, with his ailing, grieving heart, probably wouldn’t have lasted
very much longer even if he hadn’t made that trip to California.

Terry listened with half an ear as the prosecutor led Luke through some dry details. Since he’d been the federal agent who’d
wounded Nick Russo, finally stopping him, he’d naturally had to testify. So much had happened since that fateful day when
she’d walked out of the offices of the
Phoenix Gazette
and crossed the street with Don into that parking garage. Just over four short months ago, yet it seemed as if years had
passed. She’d been physically and emotionally battered, changed from a happy, secure young political cartoonist into someone
she scarcely recognized these days.

Who wouldn’t be affected by all she’d witnessed? After the kitchen shootout, the ambulances and police had finally arrived
at their California mountain hideaway. Her father’s body had been driven to the morgue, while Nick Russo had been dispatched
to a hospital. Later, they’d both been flown back to Arizona. The memory of that day would forever be a part of her. She wondered
if Luke was troubled by the same haunting dreams.

Terry studied him on the witness stand with his once again clean-shaven face, his regulation haircut, his navy
pin-striped suit. He looked so good, so in charge, so authoritative. She wanted to run up there and throw herself at him,
to force a reaction, to break down that iron control. Irrationally, she wondered if he’d even pause in his testimony.

She’d broken through his reserve a time or two, in the bedroom. But otherwise, Luke did things his way. They hadn’t had too
much to say to one another flying back to Phoenix. She’d been too numb mourning her father to think about much else.