Foster Justice (24 page)

Kinnard's gaze sharpened on her face. “How do you know that?”

Mary stumbled a bit. “Ah, Jasmine told me.”

“You just said you haven't talked to her.” Kinnard grabbed her arm. “You're hiding something.”

Mary brushed him away. “You disgust me. I disgust me, for ever being taken in by you. Where's Trey?” Her voice was so loud it echoed off the cliffs.

Kinnard did a careful look-see again all around him, but when he spotted nothing, he focused back on Mary. His gaze dropped to her blouse, a heavy, black button-up affair rather warm for the weather. He reached for the top button.

Up above, Chad saw Kinnard's move and cursed. He mounted Chester, kneeing the stallion forward.

“Not yet, Foster.” But Sinclair had drawn his own pistol. He, too, moved as close as he could to the path down the bluff without revealing himself.

 

Mary tried to pull away from Kinnard, but that only ripped her blouse, revealing her tattoo, and, slightly above it, the tiny transmitter. Kinnard slapped her. “You bitch!”

Mary doubled up her fist and struck him back, right square in the nose. “You're alone, no one cares about you, and you're going to prison for the rest of your life for having Trey killed!”

But Kinnard wasn't listening anymore. She was furious, but he was still stronger and taller. He grabbed her and shoved her toward his Jeep, where he pulled a roll of duct tape from the glove box. But he'd barely begun wrapping it around her wrists when a sound caught his attention. Horse hooves rattling on loose rock.

Kinnard looked up to see Chad Foster poised against the cloudless blue sky. He was an Old West symbol of retribution in his hat, jeans, and boots. He wore a gun belt and his spirited quarter horse made short work of the slope. Chester was snorting with eagerness. His coat was shiny in the late afternoon sunshine, copper-red like blood. Once they reached the bottom of the bluff they accelerated into a gallop.

And above Chad, a black SUV sped along the bluff, down the road toward the homestead.

Biting off a curse, Kinnard shoved Mary into the passenger side, her hands wrapped with only one circle of duct tape. He ran around the Jeep, got behind the wheel, and hotfooted it back the way he'd come, down the arroyo. He still had a lead, but it was closing fast.

C
had knew every inch of this landscape. Kinnard would come out on a back road that, with the many twists and turns carved between bluffs in the hilly terrain, would eventually exit onto a blacktop that led toward Amarillo. Chad knew Sinclair had already radioed for backup and relayed the license plate number and description of the vehicle, but Kinnard had outwitted a police dragnet once before. It wouldn't surprise Chad if the man had another helicopter waiting, and the border with Mexico wasn't out of range for a big chopper.

Bending low over Chester's neck as the gap between him and the Jeep widened after Kinnard topped the arroyo and made the adjacent road, Chad kicked Chester slightly. That's all it took. The stallion leaped forward like a rocket, though Chad knew he couldn't keep up this speed very long. Chad eyed the hills above, seeing all the canyons and cliffs in his mind's eye. Since he knew where this dirt road came out, he could cut through the hills, if Chester was up to it. It was a ways.

Chad reached down to feel Chester's withers. No foam as of yet, barely any sweat. After two days in the trailer, Chester was well rested. So Chad veered off the road up into the hills.

 

Inside the Jeep, Mary struggled with the duct tape binding her wrists in front of her. At least Kinnard hadn't had time to securely fasten them behind her back. He'd jerked the receiver off her chest and made her take the device out of her ear, too, smashing them both. But right now she didn't care whether the Rangers were still listening. This had always been very personal to her. Now it was more than that, because she knew her life was in danger.

She looked at him in utter and complete loathing, with plenty left over for herself. “You are a real piece of work. Have you always been a human bulldozer, destroying people's lives, or did you have to work at it?”

He didn't even glance at her as he backhanded her hard enough to jerk her head back and make her mouth bleed. “Shut up, bitch. I trusted you, gave you huge authority on this job, and you've betrayed me and lost the millions you would have made, because of a hormonal rush for a kid who couldn't pour piss out of a boot with the directions on the heel.”

This was the closest he'd come to admitting his role in Trey's death. She should have felt some visceral satisfaction that she'd at least forced that much from him, but everywhere she looked, especially here, she was reminded of Trey. Tears smarted behind her eyes again, and the fury drained out of her, leaving her the way she'd been most of her life: desolate and alone. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked dully. He'd left her purse behind, so she couldn't even reach for her gun. She'd failed at this, just as she'd failed Trey.

He had to concentrate on a challenging series of curves as the track followed the arroyo, but finally he answered, “I have a chopper waiting to fly me to Mexico. I'll decide then, though natural redheads are real popular there. Not to mention valuable. They like tattoos down there, too.”

The smile he lobbed sideways at her like a grenade normally would have made her cringe and run for cover. This time, she just sank back against the seat, giving up on trying to work free of her bonds, giving up, period.

He eyed her with genuine curiosity. “You know, I've had people killed, though I didn't give the order for Trey's death. He kept fighting me to get away, even though I was trying to keep him alive to give you time to get the rig up and running smoothly. I figured you could calm him down when you came back to California.” He twisted the wheel sharply, knocking her against the passenger door. “Now, I may have to do the dirty work myself. Could get interesting—” He broke off as they both heard the noise at the same time. Hoofbeats. A horse not far away, galloping fast.

Mary smiled through the blood on her mouth. “We agree about one thing. It's about to get real interesting.”

 

Chad was fifty feet behind them and thirty feet above. They were coming up to a long series of S curves and Kinnard would have to slow to navigate them. Urging Chester down a slope, Chad came up only twenty feet behind them now. He was riding too fast to pull his pistol and aim for the rear tires, plus he was worried he might hurt Mary if the Jeep tipped. He kicked Chester harder than he ever had. With a surprised grunt, the stallion bolted forward, finally breathing fast. Chad rode him up, almost to the rear bumper. The Jeep had a hitch and a rear tire cover. If he jumped, he might make it.

He was reaching out when the passenger door opened. To his horror, as they gunned along a raised track above a bluff, Kinnard pushed Mary out of the Jeep without even slowing down. She screamed, and for one flashing instant, Chad saw the duct tape around her wrists so she couldn't brace herself. She tumbled over and over sharp rocks on the edge of the road, cartwheeling over the bluff and out of sight.

Chad cursed a blue streak, wheeled Chester to a stop, pulled his pistol, and fired at the Jeep's rear tires. But Chester had been a rescue mount and he saw Mary fall. Without being commanded, he moved toward the bluff to start down it. Jolted in the saddle at this unexpected movement, Chad missed with his first three bullets, but he pulled Chester to a stop and the fourth one was spot-on.

The left rear tire gave a loud
whoosh
as it deflated, but Kinnard kept going. Chad paused for one quick look down the road, but his backup wasn't in view yet. He knew Sinclair would hear the shots and come as quickly as he could, so he reined Chester down the slope, cursing himself for not taking time to rig himself properly with a first aid kit.

Chad knew he was playing right into Kinnard's hands by stopping to help Mary, but he had to check on her before continuing his pursuit. As soon as he topped the bluff and saw her curled like a rag doll at the bottom of the steep slope, blood pooling around her head, he feared he was too late. Leaping off Chester before he'd stopped, Chad hurried over to her. She was deathly pale and still. He tested her pulse and was relieved to find one, though it was weak.

Despite the warmth of the day, shock was her biggest short-term danger, so he used the only covering he had: Chester's blanket. One side was sweaty but the other side of the thick fabric was dry. Chad wrapped her as much as he could. Then, gently, trying not to move her head, he felt for a wound. The depth of the cut into her skull concerned him greatly. He stood and whistled as loudly as he could. Then he pulled his pistol and gave two rapid-fire shots into the air.

He loaded his revolver again with the full six shots while he waited for what seemed like hours, but finally he heard vehicles blasting up the road toward the bluff. He climbed up the slope, waving his arms on the side of the dirt road. Sinclair, with Corey next to him, pulled to a stop. The heavier truck behind him was laden with equipment, including heavier weaponry, surveillance equipment and . . . Chad's heart leaped.

He smiled at his boss. “Thank you.” He led them to the bluff, glad to see they'd brought a medic. Several troopers clambered down to Mary, one carrying a defibrillator.

Confident Mary was in good hands, Chad unchained the ATV from the back of the pickup bed. The backup cars were too far behind to catch Kinnard now, especially since he'd be close to the blacktop by now, where he'd probably commandeer a vehicle. His only hope was going cross-country, following the arroyo, and there was no better mode of transportation than this now that Chester was winded. “Take good care of her, will you? For Trey.”

Chad's voice trembled a bit, and he cleared his throat before he said more clearly, “If you make it back before I do, would you please check on Jasmine? No matter what, even if you have to jail her as a suspect, don't let her leave.”

Sinclair's knowing smile irritated the hell out of Chad, even under the stressful circumstances, but he got on the ATV, checked that the tank was full, levered it into top gear, and zoomed off so fast Sinclair had to back away from the cloud of dust.

Chad heard Sinclair shout, “Don't kill him!” but pretended not to.

He was exhausted, running on adrenaline now, but the image of Trey's still face would have goaded him out of a coma. Justice, Foster-style, was about to be meted out to this son of a bitch, for the last time . . .

Kinnard's left rear tire had long since shredded away when he finally reached the blacktop leading back to Amarillo. The rim was crumpling now, and it struck sparks when he limped along the road. Finally, in the distance, he saw a car coming. Hiding his pistol beneath his dusty suit jacket, he angled his vehicle across the road, got out and waved his arms. He saw the startled face of someone who looked like a local rancher, for he had a beat-up truck filled with hay and wore a fraying straw hat, as the vehicle approached and slowed.

The crank window lowered. “You okay, mister?”

Before Kinnard could reach the driver-side door, wearing his usual charming smile, they both heard it. It sounded like a motorcycle, but the timbre was a bit deeper. Then Chad Foster burst up the side of the arroyo and bore down on him astride a powerful ATV.

Cursing, Kinnard pulled his pistol and aimed it at the rancher. “Get out.”

The rancher reached for the sky and slowly got out. He was tall, lanky, and he was eighty if he was a day. But when the ATV stopped alongside the road, he saw Chad clearly. He smiled, lowered his arms, pulled a toothpick from his hatband and started picking his teeth while he watched the show. He leaned back against the passenger door.

Kinnard brandished the gun at the rancher. “Move. I'm taking your truck.”

The next moment, the gun was shot out of his hand. Kinnard cursed, cradling his sprained wrist. He took time for one look at Chad's liquid mercury eyes, shiny even surrounded by layers of dust and tiredness, vivid even beneath his hat, and then Kinnard used his unwounded hand to pull from his jacket pocket a switchblade he'd filched off a South Sider. He grabbed the old man, using him as a shield. He held the knife to a leathery throat. “Drop the gun or I'll slice his gizzard.”

Chad kept on a-comin'. He stopped ten feet away and said calmly, “I don't think so. You're already going to be tried for one murder, maybe two if Mary doesn't make it. On the other hand, I'm plumb exhausted. I've already missed several shots today, so maybe I'll miss again. You want to try me?” Chad glanced at the old man. “Howdy, Buster.”

The old man responded, “Howdy, Chad.” He didn't seem overly concerned at the knife still held to his throat.

Chad sighted down the shiny old pistol, pulling back the hammer with a loud click. “On the other hand, I'd purely love to send you to prison with a shattered kneecap.” The rancher was so skinny he didn't make a very good shield, and Kinnard's left leg was fully in Chad's line of sight.

Kinnard's grip loosened slightly. The rancher stomped on Kinnard's foot and dove sideways. Chad leaped for Kinnard's knife hand. Kinnard, his teeth bared in hatred, was fresher. But Chad was meaner . . .

Chad had holstered his pistol so his hands would be free. He used them to slam Kinnard's knife hand against the side of the heavy old truck. Crying out, Kinnard dropped the knife. Chad kicked it away.

Quick as the snake he was, Kinnard grabbed for Chad's gun. He had it out of the holster and was aiming for Chad's ribs when they both heard sirens in the distance. Chad's brutal grip around Kinnard's one good wrist slackened.

That was all Kinnard needed. He kneed Chad in the groin. Chad anticipated it and moved sideways, but his grip on Kinnard's wrist loosened further, allowing Kinnard to fire. The shot passed so close, it singed Chad's shirt. It also ricocheted off the side of the truck, grazing the rancher. He winced and caught his arm.

That was all the motivation Chad needed. Body-slamming Kinnard against the sturdy truck, Chad wrenched his gun away. In one smooth motion, he opened the cylinder and dumped his ammunition in the road, closed it with a click—and then used it butt first on Kinnard. Right cheekbone first, which resulted in a satisfying howl and crunch of bone, and then the left cheekbone. Nose, chin, the gun making a wonderful cudgel, all the more satisfying because it was a Foster legacy. Kinnard's face grew bloody, and he sagged, unconscious, held up only by Chad's weight propping him against the truck.

Chad's arm was caught in midstroke. “Easy, Chad,” came Corey's soft voice. Chad blinked, moisture stinging his eyes. He didn't know if it was sprayed blood or tears, but finally he staggered back. Kinnard fell to the ground.

Neither bothered to catch him. After Chad checked on Buster, who showed him that the bullet had barely grazed him, Chad accepted the canteen and red kerchief Corey handed him. Chad took a long swig, poured water on the kerchief, and wiped his face and eyes. “Where's Captain Sinclair?”

“He went back to the office. We airlifted Mary into town.”

Chad gave him a concerned look, but Corey shook his head. “It doesn't look good.” His serious expression was softened by that impish grin. “He picked up your gal as he passed your homestead. She was walking to town.”

Chad closed his eyes. “She's not my gal.”
Yet . . .

“Well, she was madder'n a wet hornet when he wouldn't let her leave. He had to hold her on charges. She was pissed you didn't take her with you.”

Chad nodded. Typical. “She hasn't done anything.”

“That's not the way the California HP tells it.” Corey chuckled.

Great, now he'd be the latest joke around the office, Chad thought glumly. Cops of every stripe were merciless in their ribbing. He visualized a leather harness poised above his desk.

After they revived Kinnard, read him his rights, and took him, dazed but able to walk, into the backseat of a cruiser, Chad tried to marshal his depleted energy. “I'd rather face an army of Kinnards than that pissed-off redhead.”