Читать книгу Bodyguard Under the Mistletoe - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 10

Jesse clearly remembered the interior of the Carlisle ranch house from when he’d been here before. Generous-size rooms. Rustic but not old-fashioned. He sank into a chair on the far side of the dining-room table, mindful of the need to protect his injured shoulder from being accidentally bumped. Under the dressings that covered his wound, his skin felt damp, and he hoped it was only sweat, not blood oozing from the stitches. The pain had subsided to a dull throb. Though tempted to take another painkiller, he kept the amber vial in his pocket. He needed to be alert.

His job as a bodyguard was mainly reactive. He saw a threat and took action to stop it. His preparation consisted of briefings on possible enemies and memorizing dozens of photographs so he could scan a crowd and pick out those individuals who might pose a risk. His powers of observation were pretty good; he could tell the difference between a man reaching for a gun and a casual gesture.

When it came to his work, he was confident. In any situation—from a black-tie diplomatic reception to a ski slope in Aspen—he could assess the possible points of attack and take steps to avoid them. He and the men who worked for him at his Denver headquarters were expert marksmen, capable with a handgun or a sniper rifle. They were skilled drivers, knew hand-to-hand combat maneuvers and crowd control techniques.

But Jesse wasn’t a detective. He left the crime solving to others…until now. This situation would tax a different section of his brain.

Burke had brought him to the Carlisle ranch house to look at mug shots. Hopefully, Jesse could identify the men who had shot him and grabbed Nicole. As for the dead man on Fiona’s property, he couldn’t tell if he’d seen that person before. Half of his face had been gnawed off by indigenous scavengers, like coyotes and mountain lions.

Fiona fidgeted behind the chair at the head of the table, too agitated to sit. She’d asked to come along, preferring not to be at her house while it was being processed by the Delta County Sheriff’s Department. Her voice was low and worried. “What if Abby had found the body? What if she’d run down the hill, playing a game with her imaginary pony, and stumbled over a dead man?”

“It didn’t happen that way,” he said.

“You’re right. No need to borrow trouble when I’ve got plenty of my own problems.” She rested her palms on the tabletop leaned toward him, staring intently. “How are you doing?”

What the hell was she up to? “Is there a reason you’re right up in my face?”

“I’m checking your eyeballs for dilation.”

“Don’t.” He wasn’t her patient. “I’m fine.”

Looking down, he glided his fingers on the surface of the table. Someone had recently dusted and cleaned. Underlying the lemony scent of furniture polish was another fragrance. Coffee! Though he hadn’t eaten solid food in three days, he wasn’t really hungry. But he deeply craved a rich dose of caffeine.

A tall, slim woman with black hair charged into the room. She held out her hand to him. “I’m Carolyn Carlisle.”

“I know.” He shook her hand, remembering that she was the first person who had gotten to him after he was shot. “You tried to stop my bleeding. Thank you.”

“You’re the one who deserves thanks,” she said. “You risked your life to help my family. You’re a hero, Jesse. If there’s anything I can do for you, just ask.”

“A cup of coffee,” he said. “Black.”

“I’ll get it,” Fiona said. She darted toward the kitchen.

Burke strode into the dining room and placed a laptop computer on the table. Though he only briefly glanced toward Carolyn, Jesse recognized the look of love in his eyes.

“Just a few hours ago,” Burke said, “this dining room was command central for the kidnapping. There were banks of computers and dozens of agents.”

“Why was the search called off?” Jesse asked.

“We had accomplished our secondary objective,” Agent Burke explained. “The survivalist group, known as the Sons of Freedom or SOF, rented the Circle M. Computer forensics showed they were linked to a smuggling operation. Guns and drugs. Additionally, their leader is suspected of murder. We’ve arrested the perpetrators, and relocated the witnesses into protective custody.”

“What about the primary objective? The kidnapping.”

“My brother wanted the FBI gone,” Carolyn said. “After Dylan talked to Nicole, he was convinced that she’s all right and doesn’t want to come home.”

No victim meant no crime. Jesse understood that part of the equation, but a million dollars had gone missing. “What about the ransom? That money is as much Carolyn’s as Dylan’s.”

“True,” she said through gritted teeth. “And I want the ransom back. But Dylan called off the investigation. He’s saying that the million dollars is a divorce settlement.”

“Assuming that it went to Nicole,” Jesse said. “That she ran off with one of her abductors.”

“Finding the body at Fiona’s house sheds a new light on the situation,” Burke said. “We’ll have to wait for DNA to be certain of his identity. Based on his height, hair color and the custom-made belt buckle, I’m pretty sure the dead man is Butch Thurgood.”

Jesse had never heard the name before. “Was he one of the kidnappers?”

“You tell me.” Burke placed the computer in front of him. “Scroll down and tell me if you recognize the men who shot you.”

Concentrating, Jesse stared at the computer screen. Though he didn’t have a clear view of Nicole’s abductors, he’d been close enough, and he was good at remembering faces. The line of a jaw. The curve of a nose.

The first three images were unfamiliar. Then came the fourth. “This man,” he said. “He’s the one who shot me.”

“Are you sure?”

Jesse studied the weak chin and narrow lines of the face. In the computer image, his eyes were visible. His cruelty, apparent. “He didn’t have as much facial hair as in this photo, but this is him.”

“Pete Richter,” Carolyn said.

Tapping the computer key, Jesse looked at other faces. Most of them were average—the kind of men who didn’t stand out in a crowd. One of them looked like a cowboy from the Old West with a thick mustache and lantern jaw. “This might be the victim we found at Fiona’s place.”

“Is he the other kidnapper?”

Jesse shook his head. “The guy who grabbed Nicole was fair-haired. No mustache.”

He stopped on another image. “This is the second kidnapper. He’s the one who said that Dylan would pay a lot of money to get his wife back.”

Carolyn gasped. “It’s Sam Logan. Damn him. I should have known.”

“Logan was the leader of the SOF,” Burke explained. “We suspected he was behind the kidnapping but didn’t think he was also the primary kidnapper.”

“He’s been taken into custody?”

“Correct.”

Jesse had a lot more questions about the delivery of the ransom and the evidence that had been gathered in the prior investigation. “I’d like to review your files on the case.”

“It’s all on this laptop,” Burke said.

“If you print it out, I can take a copy with me. I’ll be staying at Fiona’s until we’re sure there’s no danger to her or her daughter.”

“Good plan,” Carolyn said with obvious relief. “I was going to suggest that she and Abby move over here, but I’m sure the little girl would feel better in her own house.”

Fiona marched back into the dining room with a tray that she placed in front of Jesse. “Milk and oatmeal,” she said.

“No coffee?”

“Not until you have something else in your stomach. You probably haven’t eaten solid food for days.”

He glared into the bowl of mushy oatmeal. “I want coffee.”

“After you’re finished with this,” she said.

Being treated like an invalid wasn’t his thing. Even though he’d been injured. Even though he’d technically died for a couple of minutes.

But Fiona stood firm. She was so determined to nurture him that she just might pick up the spoon and start feeding him herself.

Reluctantly, he shoveled in a mouthful of oatmeal. Sweetened with brown sugar, it didn’t taste half bad. But it was heavy, thick. When he forced himself to swallow, it felt as if he could trace the lump through his digestive system.

He looked up at Burke. “How about it? Can I look at your files?”

“This is official FBI business. Technically, I shouldn’t share.” He looked toward Carolyn. “But I’ve already broken too many rules to count, and I’d like your input.”

“I appreciate your trust.” Jesse washed down another bite of oatmeal with a swig of milk.

Fiona turned to Burke and asked, “When do you think the sheriff will be done with my house? I need to pick up my daughter from the babysitter.”

“A couple more hours,” Burke said. “They’re looking for prints and other forensic evidence. And they have to process the body.”

“Have dinner with us,” Carolyn said. “I know Abby loves to be around the horses.”

“Wonderful.” Fiona beamed. “Maybe we can get started with those Christmas decorations.”

While the two women chatted about Christmas trees and family ornaments, Jesse worked on his food. His gut roiled, but he knew Fiona was right. He needed solid food. He needed to recover his full strength.

When he looked up from the nearly empty bowl, he saw Dylan Carlisle standing in the dining-room entryway. A few days ago, when he’d first met Dylan, Jesse had the impression that he was dealing with a strong, reliable man who was capable of running a cattle ranching empire. The tall, lean cowboy who stood so silently was a pale reflection of his former self.

Dylan’s shoulders were stooped. His clothes, rumpled. The circles around his green eyes made him look as though he’d been punched in the face. His cheeks were hollow. Losing his wife had nearly destroyed him.

“I’m glad to see you’ve recovered, Jesse.” Dylan’s voice was as cold as a January blizzard. “As of now, your services are no longer required.”

Apparently, Dylan didn’t share Carolyn’s opinion about Jesse being a hero. As he rose from the table to face the devastated man, Jesse felt the bitter ache of failure. There was truth in Dylan’s accusation. He’d been hired to protect the Carlisle family, and he had failed.

“I want to see this through,” Jesse said.

“There’s nothing more to do.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Carolyn snapped at her brother. “We still need security. They just found a dead body at Fiona’s place.”

Dylan looked at Fiona as if seeing her for the first time. “Is Abby okay?”

“She wasn’t home, thank God.”

“It was one of the kidnappers,” Carolyn said. “Butch Thurgood.”

Dylan’s eyes narrowed. “Thurgood? The horse whisperer?”

“We need to keep investigating,” she said. “That’s why Burke is here, and I want to keep Longbridge Security.”

“Damn it, Carolyn. It’s over. Can’t you get it through your head? Nicole isn’t coming back. She doesn’t want to be with me anymore.”

“I want to offer my services,” Jesse said. “No charge.”

“Haven’t you done enough?” Dylan lurched forward and braced his hands on the table. “You were supposed to keep us safe.”

“That’s not fair,” Carolyn protested. “Nicole didn’t follow protocol. She went riding off by herself without telling Jesse.”

“She’s never coming back to me.” Dylan straightened. “She’s gone.”

“Listen to me.” Fiona’s gentle voice cut through the tension. “Dylan, you might be giving up on Nicole too soon.”

When he turned to look at her, pain twisted his features. “She turned her back. She walked away.”

“I’ve lost someone I loved,” Fiona said. “I understand your sorrow. But I’ll tell you this. If I could have one more minute with my husband, I’d go through hell to get it.”

“What if he didn’t want you?”

With her long brown braid and her quiet manner, Fiona seemed delicate—so fragile that a gust of wind could blow her away. But she had an unshakeable inner strength. “I’d still fight for him.”

Her words resonated. The relationship she’d had with her husband was deep and true. Special. Jesse hoped that, someday, he could find a connection like that—a love that went beyond the grave.

Dylan turned away. “I want no part of this.”

He left the room quickly.

From down the hallway, Jesse heard a door slam. He turned to Carolyn. “I’m leaving two men here at the house. Wentworth and Neville. I’ll be staying at Fiona’s.”

“You’re welcome to stay for dinner,” she said.

“It’s better for me to leave.”

He didn’t want to face Dylan again. Not until he had something to report.

PETE RICHTER LIKED being up high, above it all. In the nest he’d made in a pine tree, twenty feet off the ground, he was damn near invisible. Not many people looked up when they were searching. They were too stupid. They kept their eyes on the dirt.

He looked down at the Carlisle ranch house, peering through small binoculars for a better view. He was close enough to hear them talking but couldn’t make out the words.

All the feds, except that one guy who was having sex with the high and mighty Carolyn Carlisle, had left early this morning, taking their chopper and sniffer dogs along with them. They’d arrested Logan and everybody else in the SOF. Fine with him. As far as he was concerned, they could all go to hell.

He leaned back against the rough pine bark. Years ago, when he worked as a lumberjack in Oregon, he had stayed in the treetops all day. Except for the cold, he was comfortable. Earlier, he’d used a hand ax—a tool he carried on his belt—to chop away the small branches that poked into his back. This was a good perch for a watcher, even better for a sniper. If he’d wanted, he could have taken aim from here and picked off ten men before they noticed him.

But that wasn’t his plan.

As soon as he found his share of the ransom, his five-hundred-thousand-dollar share, he intended to leave the West to the cowboys and their stinking cattle. He’d move to Baja. Live on the beach. Climb the palm trees and get coconuts for food. He’d never work again.

If damn Butch Thurgood hadn’t double-crossed him, he could have been in Mexico right now. He should have known better than to trust Butch. That cowboy had been coasting on his rodeo reputation for years, but he was weak.

Richter hadn’t meant to kill him. When he started hitting Butch, he only wanted to punish him, to make him talk. But things got out of hand. Butch made him mad. Real mad.

He remembered using his gloved fist, punching again and again. Then he’d picked up a rock. Butch died with his eyes wide open, staring up in surprise.

Hearing voices from the ranch house, Richter peered down. He saw the security guard he’d shot leaving the house with the fed. They got into a truck and drove south, toward the widow Grant’s property where the sheriff and his deputies were digging around and searching.

The worst thing that could happen was for one of those lamebrain deputies to find the ransom. But they weren’t that smart. He’d already gone through the outbuildings on the widow’s land. And he hadn’t found a damn thing.

Still, he knew the money was there. Butch didn’t have time to move it. But where? The way Richter figured, the widow had to know. Maybe she’d been working with Butch. Or maybe she found the money and stashed it herself.

Either way, Pete needed to get his hands on Fiona Grant. He’d make her talk.