Dakota Marshal Read online

  “I’d like to think one of your bullets crippled him, but I’m not holding my breath.”

  “I might have hit a tire.”

  “Or he could have killed his headlights.” He gestured at her shoulder bag. “Try Larry’s number. After I called Rapid City, I couldn’t make a connection by landline or cell.”

  “Cell tower’s probably damaged, and the landlines went down right after lunch. But why call Larry and not one of the deputies here in— Never mind. Larry, it is.”

  “I need to talk to Ruthie.”

  “Motel Ruthie? Why… Ah, got it. Yellow school bus. The driver who rented night space in her lot. I wouldn’t count on her remembering his face.”

  He sent her a level look and saw her lips curve.

  “Okay, maybe she will. Larry did say the guy took off without paying.” She regarded the screen. “No connection yet.”

  “Try again in a few minutes.”

  “I still think we need help, as in highway patrol officers or state troopers.”

  McBride grinned. “After all we’ve been through, you still have no faith in me.”

  “I have all kinds of faith in you. I just want to back it up with some extra firepower, seeing as we have no idea who this guy is or what his overall agenda might be. I wish I could…”

  He cast her a quick look when she trailed off. “What?”

  “Not sure. I have a feeling there was something familiar about the man. It’s way out there on the edge of my brain. I see the outline like a ghost, but it disappears before I can turn it into anything solid.”

  “Is it something you saw or something about his voice?”

  She thought for a moment, but shook her head. “It’s too elusive. I couldn’t see much, though, so it can’t be visual. It must have been his voice. All I know is that he wants you, me and at least one other person dead. ‘One death for another and another and another,’ he said. Apparently we’re two of the others he’s focusing on.”

  “So who’s the one?” McBride glanced in the mirror. No headlights so far, and they were approaching the junction that would take them east.

  “Leopard,” Alessandra gave the word a curious inflection. “I know that’s not the word he used, but it sounded like it with the thunder. And he’s driving a school bus, McBride. Why?”

  “Setting the leopard part aside for the moment, what’s the only thing you and I have in common that involves death?”

  “The bus accident. I figure it must be relevant. But I still don’t understand why. Neither of us killed anyone that night, or caused anybody to die.”

  “That we know of.”

  “Well, that makes me feel better.” She stared into the darkness, let her mind slide back. “When the bus rolled, the guy beside me went one way, and I went the other. The overhead compartment broke loose and pinned him in a corner. I’m pretty sure it severed his legs, but I couldn’t see under all the debris. And I couldn’t move it. He didn’t last long, I remember that.”

  “Do you know anything about him?”

  “Plenty. His name was Ivan Gregov, but he called himself John Gregory. He was born in Saint Petersburg, Russia, back when it was Leningrad. He was thirty-eight years old, and his favorite movie was Rocky. He was gay. He had a life partner who’d been working in Chicago for six months. I met his partner after the accident. He’s American, likes to run marathons and sells insurance. His name’s—”

  McBride looked at her. “You remember all that, but you forget his partner’s name?”

  “I know his partner’s name, McBride.” She brought her eyes around to his. “It just didn’t strike me until now that it almost fits. The guy who grabbed me said something that sounded like ‘leopard.’ The partner of the man next to me who died was Leonard. Allan Leonard.”

  IT DIDN’T PROVE anything, Alessandra reminded herself for the next thirty miles. She wasn’t even sure that leopard or Leonard was what she’d heard. The thunder had been directly overhead at that point, and she’d been thinking more about how to escape than what her captor was saying.

  Of course, none of those things stopped McBride from grilling her like a prosecuting attorney. But no matter how many times she went through it, she couldn’t come up with a single reason why anyone would want to kill her, McBride and possibly the partner of a dead man from Russia.

  “Maybe John Gregory née Ivan Gregov was a spy,” she suggested, and picked up her BlackBerry again. The right tires bounced through a pothole and almost sent the device flying from her fingers. “Someday you’ll have to explain to me what it is you have against maintained roads.”

  “Believe it or not, the route we’re taking is more direct than a highway.” He managed to avoid the next hole—which was fortunate in Alessandra’s opinion since they’d probably have lost the truck in it. “We’re also driving with the storm. Anyone following us will have a tougher time of it.”

  “So this is like a war of attrition.”

  “Or a demo derby.”

  “Last vehicle standing wins. Still no signal.” Sitting back, she propped her feet on the dash, as much to keep herself from going through the windshield as to find a semicomfortable position in Moe’s old truck. “It occurs to me, McBride, that you’ve never told me much about the night of the crash from your perspective. Details,” she added before he could object. “You were in that place at that time because…”

  “An undercover murder investigation I was on went south.”

  “No more to it than that, huh?”

  “Plenty more, but that’s all you need to hear.”

  “It’s all I need to hear about the investigation.”

  She saw a muscle jump in his jaw. “I don’t want to talk about my father.”

  “And I didn’t want to come on this road trip with you. But I did. He was in Chicago, wasn’t he? With—what would she have been, wife number three?”

  “I never bothered to count.”

  “Your father showed up, you took off. Okay, a case went bad, and the whole cop thing was getting to you, I understand that. But you didn’t leave the city because of those things.” When he still didn’t speak, she softened her tone. “I could have learned the truth, McBride. Your partner and his wife liked me. Your partner might not have said anything, but his wife would have if I’d pressed her. I didn’t because I wanted you to talk to me, confide in me. But you never did, and while I probably should have, I didn’t press you, either.”

  “Until now. In the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a storm with a murderer on our collective ass.”

  “In other words, ‘My business, not yours, darlin’.’” She averted her eyes and tried the phone again.

  They’d reached a smoother section of road. Setting an elbow on the window, McBride ran a finger over his lips and slid her a half-lidded look. “It doesn’t help me to talk about him.”

  “How would you know?” she asked, barely glancing his way. “You never do.”

  “I prefer to disconnect totally. He is what he is, I am what I am. We’re fine with that.”

  “Talking about him isn’t the same as connecting with him.”

  “I’m pretty sure I said total disconnect, as in I see myself as not having a father.”

  “Being a vet and knowing that red stuff in your veins is blood and not ice water, I’ll argue that point. But later, because—” She held the phone she’d been playing with perfectly still and put it on speaker. “It’s ringing.”

  “Hello to you at last, Alessandra.” Larry sounded enormously relieved. “I thought some catastrophe must have occurred way over there in Wyoming. Are you two all right?

  “We’re good.” She glanced behind them. “For the moment. Uh, we need a favor.” She explained about the bus.

  He listened, but even through the hiss and crackle of poor reception, she felt his mounting tension.

  “I knew it,” he exclaimed. “I said to Morley when we found it there’d be a link.”

  “Get the short version,” McBride sa
id in an undertone. “Fast.”

  Alessandra raised her voice. “We’re in the middle of a storm, Larry. You’re on speaker so McBride can hear you, too. We need the details before the connection cuts out.”

  “We found a man’s body,” Larry replied. “Actually, Ruthie found it. She was sweeping and noticed a bad smell coming from the woods. She followed the wind to an old shed that used to be a smokehouse. Opened the door, and there he was.”

  “What man?” Alessandra really had to shout now to be heard. “Did she recognize him?”

  “Recognized and felt downright bad for what she’d been thinking,” he shouted back. “It was the man driving the old school bus. Fiftyish fellow, wore his hair in a long gray braid.”

  “How did he die?”

  “The way you’d probably figure. Rifle shot to the chest.”

  Out of her element, Alessandra turned toward McBride. “Shouldn’t you be doing this?” she whispered to him.

  “You know what to ask.” He swerved around a large, fallen branch.

  “Did anyone see or hear anything, Larry?” she asked.

  “Not a soul and not a thing so far. Norm, Ruthie’s son, did come across a truck in a ditch near the motel. Beat-up old thing, but it has a decent engine. Doesn’t make sense why someone would abandon it.”

  “Email pictures,” McBride instructed Larry. “Truck, body, smokehouse.”

  Alessandra added, “Was there anything in the truck to identify its owner?”

  “Clumps of dirt and grass. Some leaves. Lotta dead bugs, bits of food—dried-up fries and Fritos and such. No papers, though, and nothing in the glove box. County sheriff’s running the plates. He reckons they could be stolen. No report that the truck itself was… Hello, Alessandra? You there?”

  “I’m here. Send the pictures, okay? Larry?” She moved the phone around to pick up a signal but found none. “Looks like that’s it for now. I still think we should have called for backup first.” At another booming noise she flicked her gaze to the roof. “Please tell me that was thunder I just heard.”

  “If it isn’t, he’s got a cannon on that bus.”

  A chill crawled down Alessandra’s spine and spread to her limbs. “You were right about leaving Loden. Raven and Rip really did get lucky. He’s not going to give up until we’re dead, is he?”

  “No.”

  The word was like a punch to her midsection. It made breathing difficult and thinking nearly impossible. Which might explain why McBride had never wanted to talk about his work.

  Pushing on a tight spot between her ribs, Alessandra stared into the turbulent darkness in front of them. “I have to tell you, McBride, compared to most of us, your job really sucks.”

  SERENDIPITY. THAT’S HOW he saw it. When he could see anything beyond the two of them dead.

  He’d waited so long for this, so damn long. He’d suffered and acted and suffered again. He’d plotted and planned and thought it through in great, bloody detail. Then, the very night he’d gone to do it, up had popped a wild card.

  Yet with that card had come a bonus, so he’d let it play out, bided his time, became a shadow.

  He’d followed the hit man who’d been following them—he didn’t care why. He’d stolen a bus. How perfect was that? Total serendipity.

  Lately, he’d been following them on his own. He’d almost had her. He had had her. He would again, too. And the cop after that. And then…

  No, stop, back up. One person at a time. The vet came first, because she’d started the nightmare. If it wasn’t for her…

  The thought cracked apart. A blinding red haze filled his head, clouded his vision. The only thing it didn’t cloud was the knowledge that drove him.

  YAMAN.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I’ll never understand why anyone would do this to an animal.” In the kerosene-lit interior of what had the potential to be a lovely mountain cabin, Alessandra stroked the muzzle of an elk mounted above the fireplace. “It’s inhuman.”

  “That’s what makes it legal, darlin’.” McBride dropped their packs in a corner, checked the front window, then his Glock. “Mourn the dead later. Chances are good we’ll have company before long.”

  Giving the elk a final stroke, she went in search of another lamp. “How could anyone have followed us in the dark through all that rain? We could hardly see the road—if that actually was a road we were on for the last fifty miles. We also have a four-wheel-drive truck. He’s driving a bus.”

  “Think bug, Alessandra, the nonaudio kind. I don’t know how close he is to us. I want a quick separation in case he’s right on our heels. It’ll give us a slight advantage if I can plant the truck and draw him to it.”

  “Shouldn’t I be coming with you?”

  “If he is right behind us, I don’t want him shooting at you.”

  “Right, better he shoots at you, because no way could he hit you twice, right?”

  A faint grin appeared. “Something like that.”

  He left her with that and a strong desire to throw something at his head. A cushion would do, but since the only available cushions appeared to be covered with horsehair, she refrained.

  McBride returned a few minutes later, extinguished the lamp she’d just lit and handed her a pair of extra bullet clips. “Keep the blinds down and the curtains drawn. They’re blackouts so there shouldn’t be a problem. Keep your gun out and don’t light a fire until I get back. Bug,” he said again, and although she wished she could argue, she understood that if she went with him, he’d only worry about her more. Still….

  “You realize you’ll be stranding us in this cabin.”

  “Only temporarily.”

  “What if he sabotages the truck?”

  “He’ll still have to find us.”

  “Sans bug.” She smiled. “We hope.”

  McBride shrugged. “I don’t think he’s been close enough to our personal effects to slip a tracking device inside, but just in case, while I’m gone…”

  “You’re a pillar of comfort and reassurance, McBride.”

  He walked over to her, his eyes dark, intent. “This wasn’t supposed to happen, Alessandra. Not any of it. But if things hadn’t gone down the way they did, it probably would have been a whole lot worse. For both of us.”

  “He’d never have gotten you, McBride.”

  “But he might have gotten you.” He brushed the hair from her temple, slid his knuckles over her cheek, then wrapped his fingers around the back of her neck and brought her mouth up to his.

  It wasn’t a long kiss, but it smoldered and stirred and seeped right into her bones.

  He was gone before her head cleared with a quiet, “Back in twenty,” that had her gaze shifting to the phone under the lamp—4:43 a.m. It was going to be a long twenty minutes.

  Like it or not, however, she might as well use it to think. Time to revisit the trip that had taken her from Indianapolis to a ravine outside Chicago.

  After a thorough search of their packs, she paced in an edgy circle around the room as the memories assailed her.

  The bus driver had set her teeth on edge from the start of the trip. She remembered him telling her he didn’t normally work that route, but the regular guy was “unavailable.” Ergo, substitute driver. Though interesting, she set that aside.

  The bus had filled quickly with a variety of people, from young to very old. A rude woman with a great deal to say had insisted on sitting in the front row. She’d wanted her daughter to sit next to her.

  For the sake of a peaceful journey, the other passengers had shuffled around to accommodate them. Not that Alessandra had minded since it had taken her out of range of the leering driver and provided her with an interesting road companion. One who’d died several hours later.

  His partner, Allan Leonard, had been shattered, but she didn’t think he’d sued the bus company or attempted to cause problems for anyone else on board.

  The driver had behaved like a jerk at the first rest stop. She remembe
red wondering if he had a bottle stashed under his seat; however, a postaccident blood test had come back negative.

  After she’d rebuffed him, he’d tried his luck with two of the other female passengers, the third being a fragile young woman from Arizona. Everything about her had been pale, blond and soft. Except for the very firm objection she’d made to his advances.

  Alessandra paused for a moment. It always came back to the same person, she realized, a replacement driver who hadn’t gotten anywhere with the women on board, until a welder named Georgia, whom he’d managed to overlook, had strolled up and started flirting with him while he drove. Yes, she’d also died, but her death had occurred a month or so after the crash.

  Alessandra glanced at her phone, sighed. Time was literally crawling by. McBride had only been gone for ten minutes.

  She stopped pacing to listen, but thankfully all she heard was rain drumming on the roof.

  She let her thoughts return to Georgia’s story. What else did she know? She’d read about the woman. Why couldn’t she remember the details?

  Well, duh, she thought, and gave her head a mental shake. In a word, that would be McBride.

  Life had taken her on a roller-coaster ride after she’d met him. The gorgeous, sexy, angst-ridden, bad-boy cop had surprised her with his first call. Did she want to go out with him? The man was everything she’d been looking to find—taste and experience, in one amazing package. How could she be expected to care what was going on in the rest of the city? The state? The world?

  Pivoting, she tuned back into her surroundings. Still quiet other than the rain. And fifteen minutes since he’d left.

  Meanwhile, back on the bus…

  The rude woman who’d caused the fuss at the outset had been crushed in her seat. Her daughter had survived, but died of a head trauma less than a day later.

  Like John Gregory, the pale woman from Arizona— Anna or Abby?—had passed away on-scene. As she’d crawled out of the bus, Alessandra had glimpsed the shocked expression on the dead woman’s face. Did that mean the woman had lived long enough to realize she’d been fatally impaled by a shard of glass?