Bj James - Whispers In The Dark

His grip on the flap was hard and desperate. “God help us both, we’ll see.”

“The shack is here.” In the weak, first light of dawn, augmented by the yellow glow of lanterns, Richard Trent, Commander of Search and Rescue Operations, tapped his pointer against a map mounted on a stand. “The only possible trail is here, and it’s virtually as inaccessible as the rest of the ground. We could make short work of this by helicopter. That is, if we dared. Which we don’t. These people, who call themselves Apostles for a New Day, are certifiable nuts. The unstable fringe of an unstable fringe, each a little crazier than the last. The one thing we can count on is that they do what they promise.”

Taking the pointer from the map, he held it before him, his grip threatening to snap it. “If they say the little girl will be killed at the first hint of intrusion, she will be.”

“You’re certain there’s only one person guarding her?” Until now Valentina had been content to stand a little apart, listening, asking no questions. “I’ll be lucky to get one shot. Two would be asking for a miracle.”

“Dead certain. One man. That much we’ve proven from surveillance. His name is Edmund Brown.” Laying aside the pointer, the commander tipped back the brim of his hat. “But don’t derive too much relief from the fact that he’s alone. Next to Father Tomorrow, Brother Brown is the most sadistic in their cult. Before he found religion he collected a string of convictions and arrests on a number of charges, ranging from attempted murder to petty theft.

“He was always skating on the edge of insanity. We have reason to believe the association with the Apostles finally tipped the scales.”

Valentina left her place. Threading through the gathered group, she made her way to the front. Arms folded, eyes narrowed, she studied the exquisitely detailed and graphic map. She was knowledgeable about the land in general, but not specifically. “This peak,” with a short cut nail she tapped the spot as she addressed the commander, “it has the best vantage point?”

“For the distance you would require, yes.”

“What sort of cover does it offer?”

“Some scrub, but mostly rock.”

“If he should see me?” She turned an unwavering gaze on the commander.

Richard Trent did not hesitate. “He’ll kill the girl and then himself.”

Valentina’s sigh signaled her understanding of the gravity of the challenge she faced. “Then I’ll just have to make sure he doesn’t see me.”

Rafe, who had been as content to listen, listened acutely to Valentina’s responses. A map and a woman had done what a thousand words couldn’t do. For until now, despite his quick study of the circumstance and Patrick’s own maps, he hadn’t fully comprehended the monstrous complications that tent the word impossible to the desperate gamble.

If they were to succeed, the key was this woman. Courtney’s life was literally in Valentina O’Hara’s hands.

The hands of an unlikely assassin.

And Rafe Courtenay would be by her side every step of the way.

Under the watchful eyes of the camp, Valentina led Black Jack from the corral. With her gear stored in bulging saddlebags, a bedroll snapped at the back of the saddle, a Winchester and its case strapped to the front, her preparations were complete.

She was ready to ride.

“Val.” Richard Trent approached her cautiously. He, as much as the rest of the camp, was astonished at her control over the stallion. But he didn’t trust it would last through any startling moves. When she halted and stood looking up at him, her impatience evident, he embarked on his last-minute warning. “Remember, this man is worse than dangerous.”

“I think you’ve suitably impressed that on me, Richard.”

“Don’t try to outthink him. And don’t even begin to think you can outguess him. In a pressure situation, he won’t know from one minute to the next what he’ll do himself.”

Valentina stirred restively, anxious to have done with this. Now that there was enough light to see the trail, it was time for talk to end and action to begin. “You sound like Simon.”

“There are worse people to emulate.”

“Certainly,” she agreed. “There are.” Swinging into the saddle, she looked down at Trent. “Don’t worry, he taught me well. I wouldn’t be here if there was anyone better.”

In the watching crowd, someone coughed. Black Jack jumped and backed away, fighting the reins and Valentina. Leaning over his neck, riding light in the saddle, she stroked him, soothing him with whispered words only he could hear. In a matter of seconds the stallion was quiet again.

“Damn horse,” Richard Trent groused. “He’ll kill you before you ever get to the shack.”

“No, he won’t,” Valentina replied as she overheard the comment she was not meant to hear. “We’ll be fine when it’s just the two of us.”

“About that,” Richard braved a step closer. “A couple of us could ride along for the first two days. Make it easier going on you for that time, then back off at the last.”

“We’ve been through that time and again.” She kept her voice low, but the impatient emphasis was there. “I ride alone, I work alone. Even if I didn’t normally, this time I would. I must. You just see to it the men who are there now, surrounding the base of the peak, are ready to move in on a minute’s notice. That’s all they may have, a minute.”

“Val...”

“No, Richard,” she said firmly. “We can’t risk any chance that there might be spotters in the vicinity who would connect me with Search and Rescue. If I’m seen, they have to think I’m just a rancher, or a dude, out for a ride. Someone they needn’t be concerned about.”

“When you’re on foot? What then?”

“When I go to ground, no one will see me. I guarantee it.” Curbing her irritation, she tried to speak moderately, when she wanted to shout and be done with this. “Richard, no one else can go.”

“I know that’s the way we said we’d do it.”

“And that’s the way we’ll keep it.” Black Jack danced away again. This time not in fright, but in eagerness to run. Drawing him to a stand, Valentina leaned down, offering her hand to the commander. “Wish me luck.”

Richard Trent took her hand in his. His face was grim with worry as he looked up at her. He’d known her less than twenty-four hours. In those hours he’d learned to like her as a friend, as someone he’d like to know better. He respected her and trusted her judgment.

She was right. The reasonable part of him knew it. But this was his country, these were his people, his charges. Protecting them was his job. It did not set well with him to let her go into jeopardy while he stayed. “Val...”

Taking her hand from his, she cut him short. “Time’s wasting. The temperature’s rising.”

“Dammit! I’d pull rank if I could.”

“But you can’t. You have no authority over special agents. Certainly none over me.” Softly, she said again, “Wish me luck, Richard. I need it, you know.”

Lips pursed, a hard held breath released, he nodded grimly. “Luck.”

“Thanks.” She laughed and tossed her braid from her shoulders. “I’ll see you in three days. No,” she corrected. “We’ll see you in three days. Courtney and I.”

Touching spurs to Black Jack’s glistening flank, she set him into an easy canter. At the entrance of the natural basin, she drew the stallion to a halt. Turning in the saddle she scanned the camp and the crew. But no eyes blazing green fire looked back at her.

“Strange,” she murmured. “I thought...” Shrugging aside the thought she couldn’t complete, she lifted a hand only an instant before she turned the stallion in a whirl. Then, giving him his head, she let him run.

“Three days,” Richard Trent said as she disappeared from view. “Both of you. Child and woman, God willing.”

As if sensing the need in her, the stallion ran as he hadn’t in a long while. Black mane streaking behind him, tail high, his hooves pounded the hard-packed ground, taking the rough with the smooth as if there were no difference. Crouching low in the saddle, offering no resistance, Valentina urged him on.

There would be tune for caution later. But, for now, it suited her purpose to be seen, as if she were someone just passing through in a hurry. Leaning even lower and dropping the reins, she caught Black Jack’s mane, letting him run as he would. Her body rocked smoothly, gracefully, in concert with the horse, as if they were one. “That’s us, boy, just passing through.”

Needing no urging, Black Jack skidded down a wash and back up the other side with hardly a break in stride. Gaining level ground, racing his own shadow, he sped across the desert. Once more, with no change in his pace, he responded to the tug at his mane. Veering from the flat land, he made the turn that would begin the climb toward the cabin.

Dust stirred by the stallion had scarcely begun to settle as a second horse and rider burst through a clump of stunted trees at the wash. El Mirlo slid to a halt, dancing in his impatience as he obeyed the saw of the reins. Soothing him with a touch of his hand, Rafe stared after the figures fading rapidly into the distance.

“Irish,” he muttered angrily as he held his mount in check, “before you get where you’re going, you’ll break your reckless neck and the stallion’s.” As he glared after them they climbed higher. Small dots on the face of a hillside that would only grow steeper. “Your neck, for sure. And maybe mine.”

El Mirlo snorted and reared, backing futilely away from the inescapable control of the reins. Rafe rode easy in the saddle, his anger giving way to intemperance.

“What the hell.”

The low rumble accompanied a lash of the reins as he spurred his frenzied mount on. Scrambling up the side of the wash and over the top, grim rider in tow, the gelding that gleamed as darkly in the sun as Black Jack, galloped furiously into a dusty wake.

Four

“Fool woman.”

As he began the climb himself, and even as the words erupted from his lips, Rafe knew he was wrong. What Valentina O’Hara was doing was simply natural, a part of her skill, a very significant part of her mission. If there were observers to report to the Apostles, even the most astute would see only a rider passing through. Never a dude, as she’d suggested, but an accomplished horsewoman riding for the sake of riding, feeling her oats.

No one would connect her with the camp, or Search and Rescue, for she’d left the basin by a difficult trail most would call impassable. Then, ranging widely on trailless terrain even more difficult, she’d come full circle miles from camp to begin the ride for Courtney McCallum’s life.

Rafe’s ride had been as circumventive. With Joe Collins’s help he’d made his rendezvous with Tyree, and with El Mirlo had begun the race to intersect Valentina O’Hara’s path. Tyree, who knew the country like an Indian scout, had reckoned correctly. The timing had been perfect. For now Rafe would hold back, keeping her barely in sight as she began the serious climb, weaving, dodging, picking a natural trail among red rocks.

If there were posted observers, they would see only a second rider, not as skilled, not as well mounted. A friend hoping to join her. Or better, lovers riding apart to a clandestine high desert tryst.

“Takes all kinds.” His lip curled in distaste. In another environment he might have been tempted, but not in this. This was Courtney’s life, and perhaps Jordana’s. Both held in the balance by the expertise of a cold and calculating woman.