Dangerous to Know (34 page)

Jake was silent a moment, then came back on the net. “The extraction team's in the air. Twenty minutes away. Cowboy's leading them in.”

“Cowboy?”

Maggie felt a rush of wild relief. She and the lanky Wyoming rancher had worked together before. The last time, they'd repelled an attack similar to this one, led by a scar-faced Soviet major. After Adam, Nate Sloan was Maggie's number one pick for a partner in a firefight. The knowledge that he was leading the counterstrike team gave her a surge of hope.

“Tell Cowboy to hover behind the ridge line due east of us,” she instructed Jaguar. “I don't want him to scare away our game. We'll call him in when we've sprung the trap.”

“Roger. You two sure took your time getting back to me. I've been having to hold off the entire Secret Service single-handedly.”

“What do you mean?”

“Special Agent Kowalski's demanded half the federal government and most of the state of California to search the Sierras for you two. I convinced the president to hold her off until I heard from you, but she's mad. Hopping mad. Someone's attacked her charge, and she's taking it real personal. She doesn't understand why we've kept word of the attack quiet, and she doesn't like it.” He paused. “Either that, or she's putting on one hell of an act.”

“What do you mean?” Adam asked sharply.

“The lab confirmed that the listening device Chameleon found in the VP's bedroom is manufactured by Digicon—for the Secret Service. The Presidential Protective Unit personnel are the only ones using it.”

Adam muttered a vicious curse. “Digicon and the Secret Service. Peter Donovan and James Elliot. Even if Kowalski planted the bug, we still don't know who the hell's behind this.”

“We will soon,” Maggie promised, her mouth grim.

Adam nodded. “Look, Jaguar, we've got to get into position. Tell Cowboy to wait for my signal. I'll bring him in.”

“Roger. Good hunting, Chief.”

“Thanks.

“And, Chameleon?”

“Yes?”

“When you catch that polecat you're baiting the trap for, I'll
skin him and tan the hide for you. I remember how much you disliked gutting your catch during survival training.”

“I don't think I'll have a problem with this one,” Maggie replied, grinning crookedly.

Adam dropped his sleeve down over the gold watch. For a few moments, the only sounds in the small shack were their rapid breathing and the faint thump of the sheepdog's paw on the snow as he scratched himself.

“You ready, Chameleon?”

“I'm ready.”

His gaze, blue and piercing, raked her face a final time. Maggie ached to touch him once more, to carry the feel of his bristly cheek with her into the night, but she didn't lift her hand. The time for touching was past.

He nodded, as if acknowledging her unspoken resolve. “Let's get moving before our company arrives.”

“Too late. It's already here.”

Maggie and Adam spun around as a bulky figure in a sheepskin coat kicked the door back on its hinges.

“Don't!” McGowan shouted. “Don't reach for it! I'll shoot her, Ridgeway, I swear!”

Adam froze in a low crouch, his hand halfway to the weapon holstered at the small of his back.

For long seconds, no one moved. No one breathed. McGowan kept his rifle leveled squarely on the center of Maggie's chest. She didn't dare go for her gun, and she knew Adam wouldn't go for his. Not with the caretaker's weapon pointed at her.

“There's an oil lamp on the table, Ridgeway. Matches beside it. Light it. And keep your hands where I can see them, or she's dead.”

Adam straightened slowly. As though she were inside his head, Maggie could hear the thoughts that raced through his mind. With light, they could see McGowan's eyes. A person's eyes always signaled his intent before his body did. With light, they could anticipate. Coordinate. Take him down.

Moving with infinite care, Adam crossed to the small table. Metal rattled, a match scraped against the side of the box, a
flame flared, low and flickering at first, and then steady as the wick caught.

In the lantern's glow, Maggie saw McGowan clearly for the first time. Above the rifle, his battered face was frightening in its implacable intensity. Not a single spark of life showed in his gray eyes. They were flat. Cold. A convicted murderer's eyes.

The click of claws on wood jerked Maggie's attention from the caretaker's face to the shape behind him. To her fury, Radizwell ambled into the hut and hunkered down, as if settling in to enjoy the show.

“Some guard dog you are, you stupid—”

With great effort, she bit back one of the more descriptive terms she'd learned from her father's roughneck crews. It was a mistake to let McGowan see how furious she was, and she knew damn well it was unfair to blame Radizwell. The sheepdog wouldn't view Hank McGowan as an enemy. Hell, the thumping they'd heard a few seconds ago was probably his stump of a tail whapping against the snow in an ecstatic welcome. Still, there were two hides she wouldn't have minded tanning at this moment.

“Who are you?”

McGowan's low snarl brought her eyes snapping back to his face.

“What?”

“Who the hell are you?”

The dog picked up the savagery of his tone and tilted his head, as if confused by this confrontation between humans he knew and trusted.

“Never mind,” McGowan continued. “I don't care who you are. Just tell me what you've done with Taylor.”

Maggie's mind raced with the possibility that this man wasn't the one they'd tried to bait the trap for. Slowly, carefully, she shook her head.

“I haven't done anything with the vice president.”

His mouth curled. “I'd just as soon shoot you as look at you, lady. If Taylor's hurt, you're dead anyway. Where is she?”

“I can't tell you. You have to trust—”

“The first shot goes into her knee, Ridgeway.” His eyes never left Maggie's face. “The second into her right lung. How many will it take? How many do I have to pump into her until you tell me?”

As it turned out, the first shot didn't go through Maggie's knee. It came through the open door and went right through McGowan's shoulder. Blood sprayed, splattering Adam as he leaped for the man.

It was the second shot that hit her. The rifle in McGowan's scarred hands bucked. A deafening crack split the air, and Maggie slammed into the back wall of the hut.

I
n the curious way time has, it always seems to move in the most infinitesimal increments at moments of greatest pain.

When Adam lunged forward to knock the rifle aside, he felt as though he were diving through a thick pool of sludge. Slowly. So slowly. Too slowly.

His mind recorded every minute sensation. He felt warm blood splatter his face. Saw McGowan's finger pull back on the trigger in an involuntary reaction to the bullet that ripped through him. Heard the roar as the rifle barrel jerked. Tasted the acrid tang of gunpowder and fear as Maggie crashed back against the wall.

Like a remote-controlled robot, Adam followed through with his actions. He shoved the barrel aside. Digging a shoulder into McGowan's middle, he took him down. He rolled sideways, away from the caretaker, and was on his feet again in a single motion. Through it all, every nerve, every fibrous filament, every neuron, screamed a single message in a thousand different variations.

Maggie was hit. Maggie was down. Maggie was shot.

Only after he'd yanked the rifle out of McGowan's slackened hold and spun around did another stream of messages begin to penetrate his mind.

She was down, but not dead. She was hit, but not bloodied. She was shot, but not wounded.

She'd been thrown against the wall and crumpled to the floor, but her eyes were wide and startled, not glazed with pain. A look of utter stupefaction crossed her face, then gave way to one of sputtering panic.

As Adam raced toward her, he heard a hiccuping wheeze and identified the sound instantly. He'd seen enough demonstrations of protective body armor to recognize that choking, sucking gasp. The force of the hit had knocked the air out of her lungs. She was so stunned that her paralyzed muscles couldn't draw more in.

He couldn't help her breathe. She had to force her lungs to work on her own. But he could sure as hell protect her from the two white-suited figures who came bursting through the open door at that precise moment.

Shoving Maggie flat on the floor, Adam covered her body with his. He twisted around, his finger curling on the rifle's trigger as he lined up on the lead attacker.

The figure in white arctic gear and goggles ignored him, however. Legs spread, arms extended in a classic law-enforcement stance, he covered the sprawled McGowan.

Or rather
she
did.

Adam recognized Denise Kowalski's voice the instant she belted out a fierce order to the downed man.

“Don't move! Don't even breathe!”

Keeping her eyes and her weapon trained on McGowan, she shouted over her shoulder, “Ridgeway! Is she hit? Is the vice president hit?”

Before Adam could answer, a savage snarl ripped through the hut. From the corner of his eye, he saw Radizwell rear back, his massive hindquarters bunching as he prepared to launch himself at this latest threat.

The second agent swung his weapon toward the dog.

“No! Don't shoot! Down, Radizwell! Down!”

At the lash of command in Adam's voice, the sheepdog halted in midthrust. Confused, uncertain, he quivered with the need to act. Under his mask of ropy fur, black gums curled back. Blood-curdling growls rolled out of his throat like waves, rising and falling in steady crescendos.

In the midst of all the clamor, Maggie's feeble cry almost went unheard.

“Adam! Get…off…me!”

At the sound of her voice, the two agents froze. Then Denise transferred her weapon to her right hand and shoved her goggles up with her left. Keeping the gun trained on McGowan, she risked a quick look at the far end of the hut.

Adam pushed himself onto one knee. With infinite care, he rolled the wheezing Maggie onto her side. She immediately drew up into a fetal position, her knees to her chin and her arms wrapped around her middle.

Relief crashed through Adam when he saw where she cradled herself. The bullet had struck low, below her breastbone. A higher hit might have broken her sternum or smashed a couple ribs.

“Herrera!” Denise snapped. “Get out your medical kit. The vice president's been hit.”

“She's wearing a body shield,” Adam said. “I think she's okay.”

Maggie's awful wheezing eased. “Okay. I'm…okay.”

Slowly, her face scrunched with pain, she straightened her legs. Adam slid an arm under her back and helped her to her feet. Her knees wobbled, involuntary tears streaked her cheeks, and she kept her arms crossed over her waist, but she was standing.

With everything in him, Adam fought the desperate urge to crush her against his chest. Added pressure was the last thing she wanted or needed now. She'd have a bruise the size of Rhode Island on her stomach as it was.

Incredibly, she gave a shaky grin and tapped a finger against her middle. “What do you know! It…worked.”

After their hours together in the snow cave, Adam had been sure he couldn't love this woman more. He'd been wrong. Then, her passion and her laughter had fed his soul. Now, her courage stole it completely. As long as he lived, he would remember that small grin and the way she gathered herself together to shake off the effects of a bullet to the stomach.

A grunt of pain behind them brought both Maggie and Adam swinging around. The caretaker pushed against the floor with one boot, bright red blood staining his worn sheepskin jacket as he dragged himself upright.

“I told you not to move, McGowan,” Denise warned.

He sagged against the wall, and he sent her a contemptuous look. “What are you going to do? Shoot me?”

“I'm considering it. And this time I won't shoot to wound.”

“Too bad you took down the wrong man, Kowalski.”

“I got the right one. The one holding a gun on the vice president.”

His lips curled in a sneer. “Are you blind or just stupid, woman?”

“Neither. Nor am I lying in a pool of blood.”

Pain added a rasp to McGowan's gravelly voice. “She's not the vice president.”

“Sure. And I'm not—”

“That woman is not Taylor Grant.”

His utter conviction got through to Denise. Adam saw the first flicker of doubt in her eyes as she threw a quick look at Maggie.

“Come on,” McGowan jeered, wincing a little with the effort. “I know you're new to Taylor's detail. But even you must have picked up on the dog's reaction to her last night. She's good, whoever she is, damn good. But she's not Taylor Grant.”

The agent's mouth thinned. “Herrera! Search this man for weapons.”

She kept her gun leveled on the caretaker's head while the second agent opened the sheepskin and patted him down.

“He's clean.”

“Keep him covered.”

The agent swiveled on his heels to look up at her. “Shouldn't I patch that hole first?”

“In a minute.”

“But—”

“He'll live!”

Her sharp retort wrung a half smile, half grimace from the wounded man. “You're one hard female, Kowalski.”

“Remember that, the next time you pull a weapon on one of my—” She stopped abruptly. “On one of my charges,” she finished slowly.

Maggie heard the hitch of uncertainty in Denise's voice. Well, the agent might have her doubts, but Maggie had a few of her own, as well. Hanging on to Adam's arm with one hand, she casually slipped the other into her pants pocket. Her palm curled around the derringer.

“Did you—?”

She had to stop and drag in a slow breath. Pain rippled through her at even that slight movement of her diaphragm, but Maggie gritted her teeth and finished. “Did you plant a listening device in my bedroom, Denise?”

The agent stiffened.

“Did you?”

Denise didn't respond for long moments. When she did, her brown eyes were flat and hard. “Yes.”

Maggie felt Adam's muscles tense under her tight grip. “Why?” she asked sharply.

“Because it was ordered by the vice president,” Denise replied with careful deliberation. “Who isn't you, apparently.”

A sudden silence descended, broken a moment later by McGowan's snort of derision.

“Taylor wouldn't allow any bugs upstairs. She doesn't even like the cameras downstairs. That cabin is the only place in her whole crazy world she has any privacy. She'd never authorize you to peep into her bedroom.”

“Well, she did.” Denise bit the words out, her eyes on Maggie.

“Did she, Kowalski?” Quiet menace laced Adam's voice. “Did she personally order it?”

Denise dragged her gaze from Maggie to the man beside her. She frowned, obviously debating whether to reply. “The order came down through channels,” she said at last.

“What channels?” Adam rapped out.

“Secret Service channels. What the hell's going—?”

“Who issued the order?”

Despite the ache in her middle, Maggie almost smiled at the stubborn, angry look that settled on Denise's face. She'd had the same reaction herself, on occasion, to being grilled by OMEGA's director.

“Dammit, what's—?”

“Who, Kowalski? I want an answer! Now!”

Denise responded through clenched teeth. “The order came from the secretary.”

“The secretary of the treasury?”

“The secretary of the treasury. Personally. Direct to me. He told me…” Her jaw tightened. “He told me the vice president had authorized it.”

“Bingo,” Maggie whispered.

Adam's eyes met hers. A muscle twitched in one side of his jaw. The president's friend, he thought. The highest financial officer in the nation. The bastard.

“We may know who,” he said, his jaw tight, “but we still don't know why.”

“We will,” Maggie swore. “We'll get the last piece of the puzzle if we have to…”

A coldly furious female intruded on their private exchange. “If one of you doesn't explain in the next ten seconds what this is all about, I'm going to take action. Very drastic action.”

“Better tell her, Ridgeway,” McGowan drawled. “If you don't, she'll shoot to wound, and get her rocks off watching you bleed to death.”

“Oh, for—” Shoving her hood back, Denise raked a hand through her short sandy hair. “Stuff a bandage in his wound or in his mouth, Herrera. I don't care which. Now tell me—” she
glared at Maggie “—just who you are and what the hell's going on here.”

Maggie opened her mouth, then closed it with a snap. Slicing a hand through the air for quiet, she cocked her head and listened intently.

In the stillness that descended, she heard the echo of a faint, wavering roar. Her fingers dug into Adam's arm as she whipped around to face Denise.

“Is more—” She gasped as the violent movement wrenched at her middle, then shook her head, as if denying all pain. “Is more of your team on the way?”

Frowning, Denise responded to the urgency in Maggie's voice. “No. There's only Herrera and me. The president wouldn't authorize a full-scale search,” she added stiffly.

“So you came on your own?”

Her chin jutted out. “So we came on our own. You are—you
were
my responsibility. We tracked McGowan from the moment he left the cabin.”

“Hell,” the caretaker muttered in profound disgust. “I'm getting sloppy. Tracked down and gunned down by a female.”

Denise ignored him, her sharp gaze focused on Maggie's face. “What do you hear?”

“Snowmobiles,” she murmured, moving closer to the door to listen.

“Do you think it's the team that hit you this morning and took down my man?”

“Probably.”

“I owe them.”

A ghost of a grin sketched across Maggie's mouth. “Me too.”

“Listen to me, Kowalski,” Adam cut in. “The vice president is safe. She's at Camp David, working on some highly sensitive treaty negotiations. But before she left, she received a death threat, a particularly nasty one, which is why my agent is doubling for her.”

“Agent?”

“That's also why the president wouldn't authorize you to in
stitute a search,” Adam continued ruthlessly. “We told him not to.”

Denise blinked once or twice at the news that the president apparently took orders from the tall, commanding man in front of her.

“Why no search?” she asked, doubt in her eyes, but still tenacious.

“Because we didn't want the wrong people walking into the trap we've set. We want the team that hit us and your man this morning. Badly. And the individual behind them. Are you with us?” Adam asked in a steely voice. “You have to decide. Now.”

Maggie saw at once that she wasn't the only one who'd learned to trust her instincts. Denise flicked another look from her to Adam, then back again. Squaring her shoulders, she nodded.

“Tell me about this trap.”

“I'll tell you as soon as I call in our reinforcements,” Adam said, shoving back his sleeve. “From the sound of it, we're going to need them.”

 

At Cowboy's laconic assurance that he was barely a good spit away and closing fast, the tension in the hut ratcheted up several more notches.

Working silently and swiftly, the small team readied for action. At Denise's terse order, Herrera divided up their extra weapons and ammunition. While Maggie showed the two agents the placement of their rudimentary defenses, Adam propped a shoulder under McGowan and took him into the shelter of the trees. Radizwell trotted at their heels, rumbling deep in his throat until Adam's low command stilled him.

“Christ,” McGowan muttered. “He never obeys me like that. Or anyone else, Taylor included. Last time she was home, she threatened to skin him and use him for a throw rug.”

“It's all in the tone.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

His lips white with pain, McGowan was still for a moment.
The distant rise and fall of engines grew louder with each labored breath. “You'd better give me my rifle.”

Without speaking, Adam eased his support from under the caretaker's shoulder.