Читать книгу Colorado Wildfire - Cassie Miles, Cassie Miles - Страница 11

Chapter Five

Sam’s first-aid kit was suitable for scraped knees and poison-ivy rashes. Not life-threatening injuries. She knelt beside the unconscious man with the shoulder wound, which she had managed to bandage while still keeping his hands cuffed behind his back.

Wade had slipped out of his cuffs easily, which was as she’d expected. Arresting him was more of a symbolic gesture, a way of showing him that she refused to be ignored and would never be kept out of the loop again.

She still couldn’t believe it. Her husband was back. He was alive. She wiped the smile from her face and tamped down her sense memory of how his arms felt when he embraced her and how his lips tasted when they kissed. Not now! She had to wait, couldn’t allow her emotions to run rampant. And the anticipation was making her as edgy as a prairie dog surrounded by lawn mowers.

Her focus needed to stay on the practical aspects of how to handle his return from the dead. He’d promised to talk to her later tonight. The waiting was hard, but she believed him when he said it was necessary. And he’d spoken of possible danger to Jenny.

A worse brand of anxiety sped through Sam’s veins when she thought of her daughter. Jenny was her precious girl with jagged bangs across her forehead that she’d cut all by herself and a strong singing voice that the church choir director said was remarkable. If anything happened to her precious five-year-old daughter...

Sam’s attention returned to the injured man. He wasn’t bleeding badly, but his chest heaved as though he was struggling for breath. A punctured lung? Internal bleeding? Where the hell were the ambulances?

If he died, it was her fault. Never mind that she hadn’t fired the bullet that caused his wound. It didn’t matter that the injured man was trying to shoot her and Ty before he was brought down by the expert marksmanship of her husband. Sam was the sheriff; therefore, she was responsible.

A fat lot of good all her training did. Yes, she was certified in CPR. Yes, she’d taken dozens of first-aid classes from the Red Cross. She’d heard of sucking chest wounds and septic shock and all sorts of emergency treatments for all sorts of injuries. However, until this moment, she’d never had to test those procedures.

She needed help. Why were the ambulances taking so long? She had to get out of here, had to get back to Jenny.

She stood and called to Ty. “I’ve got an idea. We could forget about the ambulances, load these guys into my SUV and drive them to the hospital. It’d be faster.”

He was in the road, standing over the first man he’d shot, the dead man. In his gloved hand, he held a wallet. Though she was at least thirty feet away from him, she heard him muttering under his breath. Angrily, he wheeled around and shook the wallet at her. “Do you know who this guy is?”

How could she possibly know? “I’m sorry. Why should I recognize him?”

“Do you ever look at the BOLOs we send you?”

A bunch of law-enforcement offices, ranging from the FBI to the local Fish and Game warden, sent out computer notices or faxes of APBs and BOLOs to “be on the lookout” for certain license plates or vehicles or individuals. She always took a look at them and often hung them on the bulletin board. Ultimately, they became scrap paper that she handed to Jenny, who drew pictures with crayon or marker on the back. Passing a BOLO to her kid wasn’t something she’d mention to Ty. She’d once caught Jenny drawing lipstick and purple eye shadow on a felon’s mug shot.

Her ears pricked up as she heard the sound of a motorcycle engine cranking to life. Ty had heard it, too. He glared up the hill toward the place where Wade had disappeared into the trees.

“Oh, that’s just great,” Ty growled.

“A motorcycle,” she said. “Why is that a problem?”

“I’m guessing that your husband swiped a very nice little Honda from the safe house. A good bike, it’s got heavy tread for off-road and goes a decent speed on the highway.”

“He wouldn’t have taken it if he didn’t need it.”

“But it belongs to the FBI.”

“Don’t even think about whining. I had to dig deep into my sheriff’s department budget to buy disposable smoke masks, and the FBI can afford to leave an entire house standing empty.”

“Point taken.” His tone became more conciliatory. “I just hope he doesn’t wreck it, that’s all.”

She walked down the hill toward him. “Let’s get back to what you were talking about. Tell me who our dead man is.”

“Tony Reyes,” he said. “He works for the Esteban cartel, and he’s on the short list of Most Wanted for both the US and Mexico.”

She’d heard horror stories about the drug cartels: beheadings, torture, brutal murders of women and children, and human trafficking that amounted to a slave trade. Never in her wildest imagination had Sam thought she’d be in contact with this type of criminal. Swain County was a lazy little territory with one semicharming town and a couple of local ranches. Nothing ever happened here, and that was the way she liked it.

“Why does this Reyes person rate so high on the Most Wanted list? What has he done?”

“He’s an enforcer. He kills people, especially cops.”

Like Morrissey. The murdered state trooper lay at the side of the road covered with a tarp. If the smoke hadn’t already been blocking the sun, she would have sworn that the day turned darker.

She hated the way these pieces were falling into place. Had Reyes been the one who took Wade’s gun from her house? Did he know where she lived? “Are these the people Wade is testifying against? How did he get mixed up with a drug cartel?”

“It’s worse than that, Sam.”

“Worse?” Her frustration erupted in a burst of absurdities. “What could be worse? Vampires? Zombies? Oh, wait, maybe Wade actually is dead and he’s the zombie.”

“What?” Ty looked concerned.

His frown made her laugh. Her grandma always said that nothing was so terrible that you couldn’t laugh about it. Oh, Granny, you’re so wrong. For the past several months, Sam had few reasons to giggle. Even now, after learning Wade was alive, her chuckle sounded a little hysterical.

As she paced up and down on the road, she indulged in wild speculation. “Let me see, what could be worse? Did Wade do something to upset the Nazis or the terrorists or, maybe just maybe, he’s being pursued by undead Nazi zombies.”

“Are you done?”

She paused by her SUV, leaned forward from the waist and rubbed at the two bullet holes in the driver’s-side door. “This has been a lot for me to absorb. First, I’ve got a dead husband who isn’t dead. Then I find out that my daughter might be in danger. And now you’re talking about drug cartels.”

“It’s more than drugs. There’s also evidence of human trafficking. A cache of high-tech weaponry was discovered, thanks to information from Wade.”

The scope of these crimes sobered her. They were dealing with very evil, very scary people. “Is this as bad as it gets? Is there more?”

“Rogue cops,” he said. “Wade witnessed criminal acts and transactions between the cartel and law enforcement. We’re not sure how far the corruption spreads.”

“Is that why you and Wade hated Morrissey?”

He nodded. “My boss is running the task force. They were keeping an eye on Morrissey, hoping he’d lead us to others. And there are a lot of others. Cops, patrolmen, inspectors, DEA agents, maybe even FBI agents, who are taking kickbacks from the cartel.”

Literally, there was nobody she could trust, nowhere she could turn for help and no way to escape. The idyllic time in her life was over. When she and Wade were first married, they’d been so happy while building their house, having a healthy baby and making their dreams come true. Now the future looked a hundred times more complicated.

Ty had his cell phone in hand. “I need to tell my boss about this.”

“Wait.” She stopped his hand before he could lift the phone to his ear. “You aren’t going to tell your boss about Wade, are you?”

“Come on, Sam, you can trust him. Everett Hurtado is a decent guy. Kind of a bureaucrat, he probably won’t even come out here into the field.”

“You promised Wade.” She’d overheard that much. “You gave him twenty-four hours.”

“Like I told you, Hurtado is running the task force. He already knows Wade is alive and escaped from custody. He’s the one who suggested I come up here and poke around at the safe house.”

Also to make contact with her. If his boss had been looking for Wade, it stood to reason that Wade would be drawn to his family and would show up in Swain County. Ty’s SSA might not be as upstanding as he thought. “Your supervisor doesn’t know where Wade is. You can’t tell him. Not until tomorrow.”

“Okay, fine.”

This was important. She stuck out her hand and pinned him with a gaze. “Deal?”

When he shook her hand, he gave an extra little squeeze. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think that you and Wade were out to ruin my career.”

“Maybe I am,” she teased. “Then you and Loretta would have to move back here and go to work on your daddy’s ranch.”

“The twins would love that.”

He turned away to place his phone call, and she saw the red and blue flashing lights from a Colorado State Patrol vehicle—a Crown Vic, silver with a blue-and-black dash and a logo. Most of the staties were nice guys who were willing to do the paperwork on traffic citations, but she was seeing law enforcement through a different lens. Both Ty and Wade had agreed that Morrissey was corrupt. Why not his boss?

She’d never particularly liked Lieutenant Trevor Natchez. When it came to appearances, he was one of the most by-the-book officers she’d ever met. His white-blond hair had a short military cut. His shirts were always crisp. The dark stripe down his beige trousers was never rumpled. According to rumor, he washed his vehicle at least once a day. His vocabulary, however, was gross. It always surprised her that someone with such a high regard for cleanliness could talk so much filth.

Natchez swore constantly. Whenever she was around him, Sam used a mental (bleep) so she wouldn’t be distracted and wouldn’t show him that his bad language bothered her. He enjoyed irritating her and never failed to come up with borderline sexist comments when they met. Given those ugly characteristics, she halfway expected Trevor Natchez to be up to his elbows in dirty dealings.

After he parked his vehicle behind hers, he climbed out from behind the steering wheel, straightened the flat brim on his uniform hat and strode toward her.

“If it ain’t Little Miss Sheriff,” he said with a sneer. “What happened to my man Morrissey?”

She glanced around him to look at his car. The inescapable dusting of ash from the fire must be driving him nuts. “You left your flashers on,” she said. “Were you hoping to keep the crowd at bay?”

“When I want advice from you, honey, I’ll ask for it.”

She directed him to the tarp, squatted beside it and held back the corner to reveal Morrissey’s face. The folds of his chin were slack. His skin had taken on a grayish hue. Sam couldn’t stand the dead man’s stare and had pulled his eyelids down.

For a brief moment, Natchez seemed shaken. He clenched his jaw, and his thick blond eyebrows lowered so much that she couldn’t see the blue of his eyes. He flipped the tarp to cover the dead man’s face and tilted his head upward. While he scanned the skies as if looking for heaven behind the clouds and smoke, a litany of profanity spewed from his mouth.

“Where did you find him?”

“In this car.” She pointed. “Shot in the chest, he was behind the wheel, but there wasn’t any spatter. He must have been killed somewhere else.”

“Did you come up with those conclusions all by your cute little self?” He glanced at Ty. “Or did this FBI stud help you?”

Ty ended his phone call and greeted Natchez with a pat on the back and a handshake. The two of them were as friendly as could be. They stood over the body of their fallen comrade and said a few things about what a truly great guy Morrissey had been, quick with a joke, sharp as a tack, a credit to the uniform, blah, blah, blah...

Earlier, Ty hadn’t been so complimentary. He’d as much as told her that Morrissey was under suspicion for working with the cartel. She supposed Ty’s conversation with Natchez fell into the “never speak ill of the dead” category.

Natchez scanned the area. His gaze paused on each of the dead or injured men. “What happened here? Did our sexy lady sheriff pitch a fit?”

Her hand rested on the butt of her gun. It would have given her great pleasure to shoot this man between the legs and ruin his perfectly neat uniform. “We were ambushed.”

“No way.”

“My dispatcher has already put in a call to the ambulances,” she said. “They should be here any minute.”

“Who told you to move the body?”

“Nobody had to tell me anything,” she snapped. “These murders were committed in my county, and I have jurisdiction over the investigation.”

“The heck you do. Morrissey was my man. I should be the one who looks into his murder.”

She got in his face. This was one of those times when Sam was glad for her giraffe-like height. Natchez was an inch or two shorter than she was, and she made it seem like even more by stretching her neck and straightening her shoulders. “Here’s the deal, Lieutenant Natchez. The investigation is mine. But I’m aware that I don’t have the facilities to do thorough forensics.”

“Damn right you don’t.”

“Neither do you. The state patrol doesn’t have a coroner. You can’t do an autopsy.”

He opened his mouth, no doubt to swear, but nothing came out. Maybe Swain County was too small and too limited in resources to handle this case, but Natchez wasn’t equipped for doing a murder investigation, either.

“I suggest,” she said, “that we request assistance from the FBI on these cases.”

“Good plan,” Ty said as he held up his cell phone. “I just talked to my supervisor, and he mentioned the same thing.”

Natchez gave a nod. “I’m okay with that. If you need my help, I’ll do whatever I can.”

Ty asked him, “Is losing a man going to cause you any problem in scheduling?”

“To tell the truth, Morrissey was cutting back on his hours. He used more sick time than a teenage girl getting out of gym class with the cramps.”

She turned away. Where, oh where, were the ambulances? There was no hope of providing sensitivity or enlightenment to Natchez. She tried to ignore him, but he was like a rash that wouldn’t stop itching.

Natchez swaggered around the scene with Ty. They paused beside the dead man on the road, whom Natchez recognized immediately from a BOLO. Well, of course he would. The guy probably had every notice on file going back ten years, probably practiced with them every night like flash cards.

“I heard a rumor, Ty. Maybe you can verify. I heard that Wade Calloway is still alive.”

Too much! Hearing her husband’s name on the tongue of this bigmouthed jerk sent Sam right over the edge. In a couple of quick strides, she was beside Natchez. With her right hand, she yanked his wrist behind his back, putting a nasty crease in his shirtsleeve. Her left hand held her stun gun at his throat.

“Never speak of my husband again, unless you intend to humbly and without profanity praise him for being an American hero. And show some respect for me, the grieving widow.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Finally, she’d got through to him. All it took was an outrageous act of violence on her part.