Читать книгу Secret Agent Heiress - Julie Miller - Страница 9

“Jewel?” Whitney MacNair’s bay Appaloosa danced beneath her on the rocky path. A sure sign of trouble. “Your grandpa did say the rattlesnakes would be in hibernation now, didn’t he?”

She glanced up the steep rock wall to the autumn golds and greens of aspen and lodgepole pine trees growing on the plateau above her. Sometimes a coyote would come out of the woods and follow along, just to check the new scents of horses and riders in his domain. The deceptive mix of light and shadow in the trees played tricks on her vision. Maybe something moved up there. And maybe she’d better keep her focus on the narrowing path.

The twelve-year-old girl on the sorrel gelding ahead of her turned in her saddle and shoved her hat back on her honey-blond hair. “It’s too cold in October, Whit. Gramps said that if there are any snakes left, they won’t come out to heat themselves on the rocks until this afternoon.”

Whitney tugged at the neckline of her frost-blue cashmere sweater. It was warm enough by her standards. She’d already shed the matching wool jacket and tied it to the back of her bulky western saddle. She’d endured three months in this godforsaken wilderness, and she still couldn’t get used to the rapid fluctuations in temperature.

She didn’t really mind it so much today, though, she thought, letting a satisfied smile curve her lips. Sure, the nearest thing that passed for a town was a good fifty miles away in Livingston. And it was another hundred more beyond that to reach anything she’d classify as civilization. But her boss, Daniel Austin, had given her the sweetest compliment earlier today.

Nice job, Whit, he’d said.

It wasn’t so much the words, but the fact that he’d recognized her contribution—however small—to the smooth running of Montana Confidential, a covert branch of the federal Department of Public Safety. Under Daniel’s direction, they’d set up a command center, beneath the guise of a working ranch, to handle the threat of terrorists sneaking into the United States across the unpopulated Montana–Canadian border.

The Black Order, as the terrorists called themselves, had attempted to destroy a research facility, sabotage a public water system, even kill the governor of Montana, trying to get a foothold of control in the U.S. But Montana Confidential and its diverse team of agents had turned them back each time.

Whitney was no agent. She had the thoroughly unglamorous title of executive assistant. Glorified secretary was more like it. Cum laude graduate from the best schools in the East, sentenced to a job well beneath her talents and experience.

But today, after nearly three months in the boondocks of Montana, far away from her family—states away from a proper department store—the isolation hadn’t mattered quite so much.

Nice job.

Her smile broadened. She’d been working day and night fielding calls from law enforcement agencies all over the state, reports of sightings of Dimitri Chilton, the leader of the Black Order terrorist group, who was still at large.

It wasn’t the kind of work she’d trained for at Smith College. But Daniel had needed her to fill that role, and she hadn’t let him down. She’d been more than window dressing. More than a kid sister anyone needed to baby-sit. She’d rolled up her sleeves, sat her butt in the chair and kept the top-secret war room running while the field agents completed an undercover sting designed to expose and capture the Black Order.

Though some of the operatives had nearly lost their lives, they’d saved the Montana governor, and rounded up or eliminated every terrorist except one.

Dimitri Chilton had escaped.

Whitney shivered, feeling a sudden chill despite the trickle of sweat that gathered at the small of her back.

“What are we supposed to do if we meet this bear of yours?” she asked, diverting her thoughts back to her friend. She wondered if Jewel really had spotted a black bear this late in the year, or if this trail ride was just an excuse to discuss the pitfalls of puppy love with Charlie Korbett.

“I want to take a picture of it to show at school.” The girl’s small shoulders rose and fell in an adult-size sigh. “Besides, I had to get away from the ranch. C.J. wanted to take me shopping in Livingston. If she invites me to go on one more dorky outing with her…”

Ah. Cecilia Jane trouble. Jewel had a serious crush on C.J.’s new husband, Frank Connolly. Almost three months had passed since their August wedding in Las Vegas, but Jewel just couldn’t forgive C.J. for “stealing” the man of her dreams, despite several efforts from Frank and C.J. to reach some sort of truce with her.

“She’s just trying to be friendly, you know,” Whitney commented.

“Well, she should stop trying. I’m not interested. I’d rather hang out with you any day. You are way cooler—”

The snap of a twig from above cut short the teen-angst tirade. Jewel glanced up as her horse danced beneath her. “Did you hear that?”

Whitney’s heartbeat quickened. “Yeah.” She racked her brain for the proper way to defend herself against a bear attack. Trouble was, they didn’t get many bears back in Martha’s Vineyard or Washington, D.C. But avoiding narrow alleys was a good technique to escape muggers. She applied the big-city logic and nudged the heels of her leather boots into the Appaloosa’s sides. “Let’s pick up the pace and get to the top of the plateau. There’s not much space to turn the horses around here.”

Jewel urged her mount into a trot and Whitney followed close behind. Something was out there. Snake or bear, perhaps. Something big enough and bad enough to spook the horses.

The Appaloosa’s ears flattened against its skull. She leaned forward and stroked its neck, trying to ease the wary tension radiating from the horse into her legs and straight up to the warning bell dinging inside her head. “Easy, boy.”

She scanned down the tree-studded slope to where Crooked Creek wound through the bottom of the valley. This steady climb into the Absaroka-Beartooth Mountains at the eastern edge of the Lonesome Pony Ranch suddenly seemed hundreds of miles away from the house and outbuildings where she and the Confidential team lived and worked.

“Whitney!”

A black, stocky figure leaped from the rocks above, caught Jewel by the shoulder and knocked her from her horse.

Bears didn’t leap.

They didn’t wear leather gloves and black baseball caps, either.

“Jewel!”

Whitney dug in her heels and charged the Appaloosa straight at the girl’s attacker. The man bounced to his feet with Jewel clutched in his arms. But every ounce of tomboy and spitfire kicked and punched. He dropped Jewel on her rump in the dust. Whitney pulled her right foot from the stirrup, held tight to the saddle horn and kicked out just as he turned.

She caught him square in the jaw and sent him flying backward. Tugging hard on the reins, she jerked the Appaloosa to a halt.

Whitney spun around in the saddle to see Jewel going after her hat in the tall grass. “Jewel, get on your horse!”

The added height and a thousand-plus pounds of frightened animal would give her an advantage over the man. Jewel abandoned the hat and ran for her panicked sorrel.

The man in the short black coat scrambled to his feet. He paused long enough to flash Whitney a taunting smile. With the back of his gloved hand, he wiped the fresh blood from the corner of his mouth. He pulled the bill of his hat low over his forehead, masking his eyes.

Whitney knew a dare when she saw one.

He turned away. His brisk, long stride carried him quickly, methodically closer to Jewel.

The girl caught one rein on the sorrel’s bridle. The horse’s eyes rolled, and he reared up, pulling her off her feet. Jewel held on, but the man closed in on her.

“No!” Whitney screamed the warning. The man never broke his stride. Jewel tried to calm her horse, but her own desperation was too easy to read. Whitney tugged on the Appaloosa’s reins. But she’d boxed herself in at the narrowest point of the ascent, leaving her no room to maneuver the skittish horse without tumbling down the side of the mountain.

Pulling her feet free of the stirrups, she swung her right leg over the horse’s neck and jumped to the ground. The impact of the hard, dry earth jolted her legs. But she absorbed the shock through her shins and knees and took off running.

Jewel had gotten close enough to wrap her fingers in the sorrel’s mane. The man in black snatched the back of her denim jacket in his fist. Jewel pulled, he tugged, and Whitney charged.

Boot first, she kicked him in the side, aiming for a kidney. He lost his grip, flew three feet and dropped to his knees.

Whitney grabbed Jewel’s left leg and lifted. “Get up.”

Jewel swung her leg over and snatched at the reins. “Whit, look out!”

A thick black-clad arm closed around her neck from behind, choking her. The man lifted her away from Jewel. But boredom alone wasn’t the only reason she’d signed up for those kickboxing classes in Livingston.

As soon as her feet touched ground, she shifted her balance and brought her elbow back into his gut. Once. She fisted her hand, squeezed her muscles into steel and struck a second time. The elbow jab loosened his grip and she twisted around. She rammed the butt of her hand up under his nose, and his head jerked back.

Whitney planted her left foot, and with every inch of her long legs stretched up to kick the heel of her boot in the very same place.

A slew of foreign obscenities bespoke his pain as he sank to the ground. She didn’t wait to translate. She spun around and ran for her horse, shouting commands to Jewel behind her. “Get out of here! Get back to the ranch. Get help. Go!”

“Whitney!”

Glancing back at the frantic warning was her mistake. The man was on his feet in hot pursuit. She braced for his attack.

She shifted her weight to her left and kicked with her right. But he was ready for her this time. He caught her ankle and twisted her knee, pulling her off balance.

Pain shot up past her thigh and she hit the ground hard, flat on her back, knocking the wind from her chest. The clear blue sky swam above her. She squeezed her eyes shut against the dizzy sensation and tried to suck in precious oxygen, but the effort seared her throbbing lungs.

A heavy weight fell on top of her, crushing her back into the uneven jabs of small rocks beneath her. Her eyes shot open in a breathless cry of pain and she saw the man in black above her. His forearm pressed down on the base of her throat. She was vaguely aware of lifting her hands and trying to push him off her.

Her mouth opened and closed, struggling to bring air into her deprived lungs. The sky above her swirled into a blur. She blinked her eyes clear and tried to move her legs, but the weight of his body trapped her. Her fingers turned to mush and lost their grip on his coat. A hammering sound pounded in her ears. Jewel’s horse? Or the erratic pulse beat of a body fighting for air to breathe?

A drop of blood from her assailant’s battered face hit her cheek and singed her skin. But she couldn’t turn away from the grim touch with his arm anchored at her throat. He was choking her, she realized amid the gray haze that drifted into her mind and robbed her of rational thought.

She was going to die on the side of a mountain in the middle of nowhere, far away from family and friends and any chance of rescue.

With one final surge of energy she punched her hand up and knocked the cap off his head, exposing the shaggy length of his black hair. But it was the even blacker void of his familiar, spiritless eyes that snatched the last lingering breath of air from her throat.

She’d seen that face a hundred times, plastered on the walls and transmitted over the data screens in the Confidential war room.

Dimitri Chilton.

With nothing left inside her, no fight, no breath—no hope—Whitney surrendered to the blackness that consumed her.