Renegade: Rodeo Knights, A Western Romance Novel (SEAL Team: Disavowed Book 5) Page 9

  Briggs refused to budge.

  “Fine. If you insist on doing this the hard way . . .” She grabbed Mark by his hand and pulled him into her father’s office, closing and locking the doors behind them.

  “You’re being very childish, ma’am.” Briggs pounded on the curtained double French doors.

  “Oh my . . .” Mark helped himself to a seat on Walter’s tufted leather sofa. “It seems I’ve walked in on quite a scene. What’s wrong?”

  She waved off his concern. “Everything. I thought Sawyer and I were back on track, but the things he just said . . .” Hands pressed to her chest, she drew her lower lip into her mouth, biting until tasting coppery blood.

  “You know you can tell me anything . . .”

  Bang, bang, bang on the door.

  “Mark, it was awful. He said the police suspect Daddy of being the killer. The very idea is insane. I accused him of blaming my father because of how much they still hate each other. But before that, I was looking for old pictures of Momma and stumbled across a box with all kinds of strange items. And boots that Daddy would never wear. And now I’m terrified Daddy really might be involved in something . . .” Her words trailed off when she couldn’t catch her breath. All of this was too much.

  “This is quite an unexpected development. But relax, darlin’. You know if your daddy finds himself in a spot of trouble, I’ll be happy to take his case.”

  Bang, bang. “Ma’am. I will not hesitate to break down this door.”

  “My car is right outside,” Mark said. “Let’s skip out the side door and ditch your new friend. We’ll head straight for my office and get to work on your daddy’s delicate affairs.” He was already off the sofa, holding out his hand.

  She took it and a few seconds later, they’d exited out a rear door that led to the private patio where Walter smoked his prized Cuban cigars. A few minutes after that, she was laughing while climbing into the passenger side of Mark’s shiny new gold Mercedes sedan. “Gun it!”

  “Oh, sugar, you know I will!” Carrying on like they were Thelma and Louise, Mark pressed an ignition button, then slammed his foot to the pedal.

  Delilah waved at Briggs when he ran out the ranch’s front door, shouting.

  “Ahh . . .” After fastening her seatbelt, she stretched out on the supple leather seat. “This is better. I was getting cabin fever.”

  “I don’t blame you.”

  “Have any music?”

  “There might be a few CDs in the glovebox. My satellite radio subscription expired and I haven’t had a chance to renew it.”

  Delilah leaned forward, popping open the compartment. She found fast food napkins and ketchup and . . . a plastic bag filled with hair and toenail clippings. Wait—what? Sawyer’s voice rang in her head. They found DNA on each victim from your father. Hairs, fingernail clippings, etc. I’m not saying he’s guilty. With that kind of evidence, Adam believes he could have just as easily been framed. Grabbing the first CD her fingers touched, she quickly withdrew it and slammed shut the door.

  “Find something good?”

  “Celine Dion. Sound okay?”

  “Love her.”

  Delilah’s hands shook so badly that it was a struggle to fit the disc into the player.

  “Are you all right?” Mark asked.

  “Hungry. I get shaky when I haven’t eaten. If you don’t mind, could we grab a bite to eat?” If she got him to a public place, at least she’d be able to call for help. She’d stupidly left so fast she hadn’t even grabbed her phone. How could she have been so dumb? Still, Mark had always been a friend. Maybe there was an explanation for the clippings? Maybe he did his personal grooming in the car before big cases?

  Her heart pounded so loud she was afraid he might hear it.

  What was wrong with her? Why hadn’t she believed Sawyer? She claimed to love him, but if that were true, why would she believe him capable of such a lie? Unless it wasn’t a lie, but a terrifying truth? But then if her father had killed those women, what was Mark’s potentially equally sick end game?

  “Close your eyes and take a nice rest.” He reached into the center console and withdrew a rag. “When you wake, I’ll make us a positively decadent country spread.”

  Wait—when she woke? What was on that rag?

  She lunged for the wheel, but when she couldn’t reach, Delilah tried the door handle to find it locked. She swung wildly at Mark, slapping him, clawing his face.

  “Bitch!” The car careened onto the shoulder.

  She nailed him again while he struggled to regain control, but then they approached a straight stretch. He pinned her against her seat with his right arm, then used his left hand to smash the rag over her mouth and nose. A faint chemical sweetness took hold. Chloroform? Mark and the drug were too strong to fight.

  The sunny day faded to black . . .

  16

  “DAMNIT, BRIGGS. YOU had one thing to do and you botched it.” Sawyer drove like a madman down I-25 from Denver to the Bowing family ranch. “How far behind them are you?”

  “Can’t be more than a mile or two. This far out, there’s not even anywhere to go.”

  “Shit. Keep looking. I’ll have to get Harding to call in a favor.”

  Fifteen minutes later, there were two choppers in the air—one from Adam’s task force and the other from one of Harding’s mystery donors.

  Sawyer’s palms were sweating so bad he had trouble gripping his truck’s wheel. What the hell was wrong with the woman? Why did she refuse to stay where he asked? He wanted to believe they’d share a life, but how could they when she clearly didn’t trust him on a fundamental level? That didn’t mean he didn’t love her. That he wouldn’t give his life to save her. It simply meant that once he finally did save her, his plan to live happily ever after might not pan out after all.

  His cell rang. He punched a button on the wheel to be able to talk hands-free via Bluetooth. “Sawyer, here.”

  “Dude, you’re a genius.” It was Everett, a team member who’d had his own troubles down in Colombia. Thankfully, he and Mary Margaret were now married and reasonably stress-free—unless a rowdy newborn counted. “That list you had me search paid off.”

  It was about time something went right. “Lay it on me.”

  “Your hunch on Mark Peters was right on the mark. Turns out his mom died at the hands of a serial killer. As a kid, he witnessed it, then spent the rest of his childhood bouncing from foster home to foster home and in and out of juvie. By high school, he finally landed decent housing with a lawyer and his wife. They sent him to college and law school and he basically lives in a field of daisies these days, right?”

  “Wait—did his mother’s killer use a brand?”

  “Yep. He fingered a guy matching Walter Bowing’s description. He even pointed him out of a line-up. But the kid was five. Who was gonna trust his word against that of one of the richest dudes in the state?”

  Sawyer pushed his truck faster, not sure whether he needed to puke or have a heart attack. His pulse hammered. His tongue turned to sandpaper. Adam had been right from the start—there were two killers. And Delilah was currently joy riding with one of them.

  “Fast forward a helluva lot of years,” Everett continued, “and our guy gets pretty handy with a computer. He’s good at all kinds of neat tricks. Hacking, identity theft, overseas money transfers. A look into his private accounts shows massive amounts of cash being transferred from Bowing’s account to Peters’. The dirty little fucker has been bleeding Bowing dry for years. I’m guessing in some elaborate payback scheme for his mother’s murder.”

  Sawyer’s head was spinning. He’d had doubts about City Slicker from day one, but never had he foreseen something like this. Why hadn’t he done a search sooner? Probably because he’d let his feelings for Delilah blur what was important—nailing a killer. Or, in this case, two killers.

  If something happened to Delilah now?

  He’d never forgive himself.

  So he drove
faster and faster until a siren and strobing red and blue lights forced him to the side of the road.

  17

  “GOOD, YOU’RE AWAKE.” Mark set a plate in front of Delilah on a polished round oak table. It was filled with fried eggs, ham, toast, country-fried potatoes and even a small pile of berries. “I’m excited to get your thoughts on my new mountain hideaway. Your father was generous enough to buy it for me. The funny thing is, he never knew how generous he was being. You, too, for that matter. I so much appreciated Powder Puff’s sale. What she fetched at auction paid for my Bentley. She’s far too nice to bring into the mountains, though, so she’s safe at home. My car—not your horse.”

  Delilah shrieked through a duct tape gag. Mark had also taped her hands behind her on a cane-seated, ladder-backed chair. Her back screamed in pain, as did her arms. Her ankles were bound to each of the chair’s front legs.

  “How rude of me. I just now realized I only made a plate for one.” He giggled. “Sorry, sugar.”

  “Mark, hon? Did you remember to pick up shampoo?”

  Delilah’s eyes widened as Jersey crossed the room wearing nothing but a black satin robe and leopard-print slippers.

  “Oh hey, Del. Nice of you to stop by.”

  She screamed and fought against her restraints, but fighting them was useless and only hurt more.

  “Thanks for breakfast, sweetie.” Jersey took the plate and ran off squealing with laughter.

  Mark gave chase.

  Am I in an alternate universe? Nothing made sense. Or maybe it did. All along, Sawyer’s suspicions about Mark had been right. But her dad, too? All she could pray was that Sawyer would somehow find her in time to stop whatever these two had planned.

  “What are we going to do to her?” Jersey asked, taking a seat at the table.

  “Patience, love.” Mark joined him, feeding him a blackberry.

  From outside came the sound of an engine. Tires crunching on gravel.

  “It’s about time he got back.”

  The back door opened and in walked . . . Cal? Lola’s boyfriend?

  He shot her a narrow-eyed glare. To Mark he said, “Dad, I still don’t see why you had to kill Lola. She was a good girl. Gave great head.”

  “Watch your foul mouth around a lady.” Mark nibbled a piece of toast while Jersey devoured the eggs. “I already told you I needed practice. Delilah has to close this circle and I expect her to be the piece de resistance. The way you two mangled Stacy and Luke was shameful.

  Tears flowed down Delilah’s cheeks. Why hadn’t she stayed with Briggs?

  “Whatever.” Petulant, Cal stole the last piece of toast. “We did the best we could.”

  “Hey—that was mine,” Jersey lunged for the toast.

  “Both of you, knock it off. I’ve been waiting for this day for a very long time. Walter Bowing will either rot the rest of his life behind bars or be executed. We’ve got our hands on every dime he’s ever made. As an added bonus, we get to kill his daughter the same way he killed my mom.” His eyes glazed over, looking as if he’d settled into a trance. “My mother was quite a woman. When she wasn’t rodeoing, she was dancing—and she was good. Late at night, she’d hold me on her lap, telling me all about her plans for us to go to Manhattan where she was going to be one of The Rockettes.”

  “Classy,” Cal said.

  “Those fillies are sexy.” He gave Jersey a wink. “If I was into fillies.”

  Cal asked, “So how is this going to play out, Dad?”

  “Now that you’re back with the champagne, I guess there’s no need to delay our celebration of Walter Bowing Independence Day. Cal, you fill flutes for all of us, then Delilah will fulfill her duty of reprising your grandmother’s role. Jersey, since you’re strongest, I’ll give you the honor of strangling her, just like Walter did my mom.”

  “Any special technique?” Jersey asked. “Or should I just go for it?”

  “Hmm . . .” Mark tapped his lips with his forefinger. “Best as I can remember, Mom was on the floor in front of the sofa. Let’s go ahead and cut Del’s restraints, then we can pose her just right.”

  Noooooo! Delilah screamed if only in her mind, struggling harder.

  Jersey pulled out the pocket knife she’d seen him use a hundred times around the ranch and on the circuit. He slit the tape around one ankle, then the other before freeing her wrists.

  The instant her arms were free, she leapt from the chair, wildly flinging her arms and kicking, but she couldn’t drag enough air through her flared nostrils and soon tired. Adrenaline kicked in, giving her a second wind, but Jersey effortlessly thwarted her efforts.

  He tossed her over his shoulder like she was a potato sack, then dumped her in front of a navy velvet sofa. All she could focus on was the sofa’s gold piping. How much it must have cost. Was her life really being traded for gaudy décor?

  “Her hair’s all wrong,” Mark said. “Although since she’s feeling feisty, let’s kill her first. I’ll style it for photos later. Oh—also, we can’t forget the brand. It’s been so hot the past few days that I didn’t want a fire in the hearth, so I started the gas grill. By now, the brand should be nice and red hot. Sound good, boys?”

  They nodded.

  She tried fighting again, but Jersey sat on her hips, clamping her wrists in an iron hold.

  Eyes closed, she prayed Sawyer knew how much she loved him. Her life’s biggest regret was their fight over the phone. I love you, she said to him through the ether. I’m sorry, I’m—

  “Want me to do her now?” Jersey asked. He released her wrists to brace his hands around her neck.

  Arms freed, she pummeled him. But his only reaction was to laugh. “This is going to be too easy,” Jersey said. “Why can’t I rape her first? You know I like switching up my fun.”

  She screamed again through her tape.

  “Don’t be crude. This day is in honor of my mother. I think it only fitting that Delilah die the same.”

  Shaking his head, Jersey was back to squeezing her throat.

  She gagged and coughed, punching him and kicking, but her efforts went unnoticed. The tighter his grip, the less oxygen reached her lungs until her vision faded save for a pencil-thin white light . . .

  Was this it? Am I dying? I love you, Sawyer. I always will . . .

  18

  “I’VE GOT A visual on the Mercedes,” the chopper pilot relayed through Harding, who in turn told Sawyer and Briggs, who’d been patched into the call. “ETA till boots on the ground, one minute.”

  “Roger that.” Sawyer pushed his truck hard enough up the steep mountain road that if it survived the trip, he’d need a new transmission to make it home.

  He peeled around the next corner just in time to watch one chopper land, then the other. The cop who’d pulled him over had followed along to lend his assistance.

  Sawyer slammed the brakes in a fishtail of rising gravel, then jammed the shifter into park and killed the engine. Running for the chalet’s door, he didn’t give a shit about protocol.

  His sole priority was Delilah. Keeping her safe.

  Gun at the ready, he kicked in the door. “Dee! Dee, where are you?”

  There was no answer. The place was deserted.

  The Mercedes and Hummer parked outside told a different story.

  Harding followed, then Briggs, then an entire freakin’ SWAT team.

  Gunfire erupted. Shots were being fired from an upstairs loft.

  Sawyer ducked behind a marble-topped bar.

  Jersey showed his face long enough to pop off a few rounds.

  Sawyer nailed him. He screamed like a child before toppling into a wooden rail. It cracked and splintered under his weight. An eerie creak filled the seconds of silence before it gave way. Jersey fell onto the back of a metal barstool. The force of his fall impaled him.

  Good riddance.

  More shots were fired, but SWAT team guys dodged up the stairs to take the other two shooters alive. Cuffed and in ankle chains, Cal was broug
ht down first and then Mark.

  Mark, Sawyer had expected, but Cal? And Jersey? What pieces of this puzzle was he missing? “Where’s Dee, you slimy prick?”

  Mark spit on him.

  Sawyer coldcocked him before charging up the stairs himself.

  He found Delilah unconscious, lying on the floor alongside a round bed. Running to her, he knelt, checking her pulse, then her airway. Nothing. Dying a thousand deaths, he found the center of her chest, then started rapid compressions. Over and over he pumped, counting to thirty before giving her two breaths of air. Nothing. Growing desperate, he started over, repeating the cycle.

  “She’s gone,” Harding said.

  “No! Fuck that!” Sawyer tried again . . . Twenty-eight, twenty-nine—she gasped and he clasped his fingers behind her back, holding her upright. “That’s it. Breathe, baby. Breathe.”

  She dragged in gallons of air. And then opened her eyes.

  Sawyer was unashamed to weep with joy.

  “Way to go,” Harding patted Sawyer’s back.

  Briggs slid down the pine-plank wall onto his ass. Cradling his forehead in his hands, he said, “Sawyer, remind me the next time you ask for a little light help to turn you down.”

  “No kidding,” Harding said.

  Sawyer ignored them in favor of hugging the woman he loved.

  19

  Colorado Springs, Colorado

  THREE DAYS HAD passed since Delilah glimpsed death.

  Since then, everything had changed. Playing in odd tandem with the grief over her father’s living end, she had never been more aware of the precious, fleeting state of her own life. Colors looked brighter. Smells were more intense. Sounds carried infinite layers. Most of all, her love for Sawyer had grown into an undeniable gift she’d forever cherish.

  He was with her now, holding her hand while they completed the last bit of paperwork required to visit her father who was being held without bail until his pre-trial hearing.

  “Are you going to be okay?” he whispered on the way into a holding cell where Walter’s attorney waited with him.