The Sheriff's Surrender (26 page)

“Get in the safe room,” he said abruptly, pushing her away and getting to his feet. “Brady, I've got flashlights out in the woods—at least three of 'em. Neely, get in the safe room and lock the door!”

He yanked her to her feet and shoved her in that direction, sending her stumbling across the threshold. Before she could catch her balance, he'd slammed the door and was harshly commanding her to lock it. Rising from the bed where she'd landed, she felt her way in the pitch black until she ran into the wall, then fumbled around to the door. After securing both locks, she took another blind plunge and located a flashlight on the shelf.

The twin bed was the only furniture in the room. She pulled it away from the wall and onto its side, folded the mattress in half, then wedged it and herself into the corner behind the frame. She huddled there, flashlight unsteady in one hand, pistol shaky in the other, and trembled while mouthing silent prayers.

Though the temperature in the room was comfortably cool, sweat dotted her forehead, and though the oxygen supply was way beyond adequate, she couldn't squeeze enough air into her lungs. Oh, God, she was afraid! She just wanted to live—wanted to live the rest of her life with Reese, wanted Brady to be around, too. She would give up the law completely and concentrate on being the best wife and mother of his children Reese could ever ask for, or she would go back to the law, if that was what it took, and devote every working hour to pro bono cases or putting away criminals or any other kind of legal work God wanted her to do. She would pay whatever price He set, if only she survived, if only they all survived.

Please, God, let us live.

 

Reese stood to the side of the bedroom window, lifting the blinds slightly with the barrel of the semiautomatic rifle. There were five lights in the woods now, huddled together, making no effort to hide themselves. Were they unaware of how easily the lights showed up in the dark night? Or did they figure there was no reason to hide when there would be no survivors to identify them?

As he watched, he felt as if his heart had lodged in his throat, tightening his chest and making his breathing ragged. He should have taken Neely someplace else—to the Raffertys' place or the Harrises'. Nearly ten miles out of town, both ranches would have been as safe as if they were in another state. Even Ethan and Grace James's house, just a few miles away, would have been better than keeping her here.

But it was too late for regrets. All he could do now was to try his best to stop the bad guys before they stopped him, and pray that if he and Brady failed, the safe room would do its job until reinforcements arrived to rescue her.

After a few moments in the huddle, the lights separated. Two went to the left, two to the right, and the fifth came straight toward the house. Reese's stomach knotted as he called in a low voice, “They're moving, Brady. We've got one from the front and at least two from each side.”

“Not a problem.” Brady sounded so cool and relaxed, as if he'd gone through this plenty of times and had no doubt he would win.

Reese was neither so calm nor so confident. Of course, he didn't have much more experience at dangerous situations than the deputies he'd judged too green to be of any help to them, and he had a lot more to lose tonight than Brady did.

The figure approaching the front of the house stopped some twenty feet back. He was a cocky bastard, standing there as if he had no concern for his own safety. Reese's finger tightened fractionally on the rifle trigger as the man reached into his pocket and pulled out an item too compact for a gun. The question of what it was was answered seconds later when the telephone on the nightstand rang.

Reese left his post only long enough to grab the phone. When he answered bluntly, the man came a few feet closer. “Sheriff Barnett, this is Eddie Forbes. I regret we have to meet this way—actually, I'd probably regret meeting you under any circumstances—but we have to make the best of the situation. You know why I'm here?”

“Because you've got some guy working for you who's the luckiest bastard in the world.”

“You mean Kenny. Spotting Neely in the theater parking lot was an amazing stroke of luck, wasn't it?”

“Amazing.”

“Why don't you save me the hassle of coming in after Neely and hand her over? That way your house doesn't get shot up, you don't risk getting hurt, and your neighbors' sleep won't be disturbed.”

“Gee, I don't think so. I kinda like hassling people like you.” To say nothing of the fact that if he were coward enough to turn her over, he would still die right alongside her. No witnesses, no evidence, no impending arrest.

“Don't think I was stupid enough to come alone.”

“I didn't think that for a minute, Ed—though I do think you're stupid.”

“The odds are in my favor, you know. I'm repaying my
debt to Neely tonight, and there's no way you're going to stop me, Sheriff.”

“I don't know. I figure it would take…oh, probably about five of you to equal one of me. Seems fair enough.”

From Brady in the kitchen came a low warning whistle, then, farther away, Reese heard the muted sound of breaking glass. The guest room or the front bedroom, he guessed. About the same time, another tinkle of glass came from the laundry room. He tossed the phone onto the bed, traded the rifle for the shotgun, stuck the .45 in his waistband, along with two extra clips of ammo, then eased into the hallway. Sounds of a scuffle came from the other side of the house, followed by a substantial thud and another of Brady's whistles. One down, soon to be two, and three to go.

Provided they were right in assuming five lights meant only five men.

The laundry room door creaked as it was slowly opened, then a light appeared—a flashlight taped to the barrel of a gun. The beam moved across the kitchen, then down the hall. An instant before it reached him, Reese fired. The flashlight, along with the gun, fell to the kitchen floor, illuminating the blood splatter from the other room.

His ears ringing from the shotgun blast, and his stomach roiling from the knowledge that he'd just killed his first person, Reese heard sounds from Brady's side of the house—shots, a shouted curse, more shots—along with a commotion out front. He was turning toward the living room when a spray of bullets disintegrated the window, shredding the drapes, shattering lamps and tearing through furniture before hitting the log wall opposite. He dropped to the floor, rolled into the doorway and fired once, then rolled back onto his feet and headed for the kitchen.

His shoulder was burning like fire, and his arm was damn near useless, but he ignored it. As long as he could pull the trigger, he was okay, and as long as there was breath in his body, he would find some way to pull that trigger. He wasn't letting Neely down this time. Not on his life.

Strange voices—three, or was it four?—came from the living room and the beams of powerful flashlights swept across the room and through the doorways. He pressed himself flat against the wall, breathing deeply, quietly, straining to hear anything that might tell him where the next gunman would appear, where Brady was or what the hell was going on. The lights strengthened from two directions at the same time—the hallway leading to his bedroom and through the broad doorway into the living room. He eased into the corner behind the dining-room table and held himself utterly still, not even breathing. The men came through the two doorways, hesitated when they saw each other, then continued their slow, cautious path.

“Damn, here's Kenny,” one said as he glanced in the laundry room door, then he shrugged, checked behind the door, then came into the kitchen. Their lights hit the back door at the same time, which was standing wide open.
Good thinking, Brady.
“You think…?”

The other man made a gesture, and the first stealthily left the house about three seconds before the second saw Reese. Blinded by the flashlight's beam, Reese fired instinctively, used the shotgun's weight to chamber another round, pointed in what he hoped was the direction of the French doors and shot again before lunging into the darker shadows of the hallway. Tightly hugging the wall again, he blinked to clear the stars from his eyes. Every breath he took smelled of sweat and fear—his own—and blood and death, and every beat of his heart thudded painfully in his chest.

This nightmare would end tonight, he'd promised Neely. It was time to make good on that promise. He inched down the hall toward the living room door, flexed his right hand to make certain it was still working, then stepped into the doorway—and the barrel of a large-caliber handgun.

“Sheriff Barnett, I presume,” Eddie Forbes said silkily.

Reese had only a moment to notice that the bastard was cool and steady, the gun not wavering from the underside of his jaw one bit, before someone else came up behind him and
disarmed him. The man shoved him to the living room floor, sending another hot flash of pain through his shoulder.

“On your knees,” Forbes ordered.

Ignoring the bits of glass that covered the floor, Reese obeyed. He'd barely made it onto his knees when his arms were forced behind his back and secured with handcuffs. He bit back a groan at the pressure the position put on his wound.

“What're you gonna do, Ed?” he asked as if he weren't scared for his life and Neely's. “You gonna kill me?”

“Yes, I believe I am.”

“You know Jace Barnett? Detective Barnett, who's already working to put your ass back in prison? We're family. He won't settle for prison after this. He'll kill you.”

“He may try. Other people have. Obviously, no one's succeeded.”

The sounds of battle at the other end of the house came to an abrupt end. Reese hoped Brady had killed his man, but the hope faded when his undersheriff was brought into the room at gunpoint. They put him on his knees, too, and cuffed his wrists behind his back, then Forbes took a seat a safe distance in front of them while sending the two men to find Neely. When they returned empty-handed, Forbes asked, “Where is she?”

“If this is an example of the way you run your illegal enterprises, you can't blame her for your going to prison,” Reese said. “You planned and carried out this entire raid without making certain that the person you were looking for was even here? Jeez, Ed, how stupid can you be?”

The flashlights that provided their only illumination showed the anger that flashed across Forbes's face. “Where is Ms. Madison?”

“You've got the wrong Barnett. You need to talk to the detective, not the sheriff.”

“There's a locked closet in his bedroom,” one of the men said. “Maybe she's in there.”

Forbes turned his anger on the man. “You think?” he sneered sarcastically. “Where's the key, Sheriff?”

“Don't have one.”

He gestured, and the man behind Reese grasped his shoulder, right over the dressings, and squeezed brutally. For a moment Reese saw stars again and wasn't sure whether he was going to throw up or pass out, or maybe do both and die. When the pressure eased, he gasped heavily, praying for the waves of pain and nausea to pass, then he managed a shrug.

“You can do that all night,” he said, his voice ragged, little more than a groan, “but it's not going to change the fact that I don't have a key to that closet.”

Forbes motioned again, and the agony started again. Sweat popped out on Reese's skin, his vision went blurry, and every nerve in his shoulder cried out for mercy. “I don't…have…a—a key. S-sor…sorry.”

For a moment Forbes studied him, then he stood. “Let's go in the bedroom—all of us.” There he turned on a bedside lamp, then gave the safe room door the same study he'd subjected Reese to. “Open it.”

The command was directed to his men, who took up position a dozen feet back and opened fire. Wood, wallboard and concrete splintered under the fully-automatic assault, but the room, true to its promise, remained impenetrable.

After a hundred rounds or so, Forbes stopped them. “This is one of those safe rooms, isn't it? So the only way to get to Neely is to get her to open the door. And I'd bet the only way to get her to open the door is for you to tell her to. Am I right, Sheriff?”

Reese's shoulder started throbbing and sweat formed on his forehead in anticipation of the pain. He could bear it, he assured himself. He could keep his mouth shut long enough to pass out, and Neely would be safe for a while longer.

But when Forbes reached a decision about how to proceed, it didn't involve Reese, not directly. “On the floor,” he commanded Brady. “Take out your .45, Troy, and place it at the back of the gentleman's head. If Sheriff Barnett doesn't tell Neely to open the door…oh, by the time I count to five, blow his brains out. One.”

Reese went cold inside. Brady was facing him, his features hard and expressionless, his eyes harder and cold. If he was afraid, Reese could find no sign of it, and that was fine, because he was afraid enough for both of them.

“Two.”

Obviously Brady had no intention of pleading for his life with either Reese or Forbes. He was willing to die to keep Neely safe…but it was a waste when she would probably die anyway. If Reese remained silent and they killed Brady, Forbes would try again, except it would be Reese with the gun to his head and Neely with a decision to make.

There was no doubt what that decision would be.

“Three.”

But how could he sacrifice Neely to save Brady, just so they could all die together? It was a lose-lose situation. None of them was walking out of there unless…

Neely had the .38. If he could somehow warn her, let her know that she had to be ready to shoot…

“Four.”

Reese took a deep breath. “All right.”

“No,” Brady said sharply.

“I'll get her to open the door.”

Troy, holding the gun to Brady's head, looked disappointed as Forbes told him to lower the weapon. Brady looked disappointed, too.