Page 80 of High Velocity

“Yes. He knows what he’s doing. I wouldn’t let him go if I didn’t trust one-hundred-percent he’s got this.”

She doesn’t say anything, but drops her head down as Jonas continues to talk to her in a low voice.

“This is what I need from you. I need you to retrace your steps back to the other trailer and wait for the deputy to show up. Then I want you to get him to radio his boss and pass it to you, so you can fill Junior in on the situation here. And for God’s sake, do not let that deputy come blundering into this scene because that won’t end well for anyone. Fucking tackle him if you must.”

If the situation wasn’t so dire, I might’ve laughed at his last words, because if anything could get Ma on board, it was that comment.

But if I don’t get moving there may not be much left to laugh about at all.

“I’ll be back,” I promise with a nod at my mother, before rounding the back of the motorhome and ducking into the cover of the trees.

Since I can’t move silently anymore, it’s safest to get some distance, circle around, and approach from the front. With some luck I’ll be able to find a tree with adequate handholds I can climb. One that offers me enough of a view inside the trailer so I can get a bead on this clusterfuck.

It’s weird, finding myself slipping back into a zone I used to be so familiar with. One where your senses are attuned only to those things you need to see, feel, or hear, and the world around you becomes like a funnel, aimed directly at the objective of your assignment. In the zone, time doesn’t exist, and the only reminder it passes is the sound of your own heartbeat.

It’s an old, tall pine tree. A Ponderosa pine, in fact: Montana’s state tree. What draws my attention at first is the thick cover of the branches and the way the top appears to lean slightly toward the large window and the partially open door I spotted at the front of the trailer home. But it’s the shoulder-high stump of a second tree right beside it that has me look a little closer. The top of that tree must’ve broken off at some point, leaving jagged splinters sticking up. It looks like maybe it was struck by lightning, a scorch mark where the trunk is split down to the soil.

It’s perfect. I’d never be able to get up to the shelter of the tall pine’s branches without that stump to serve as a ladder of sorts, and from there, I should be able to pull myself up.

I sling the rifle over my shoulder and make my way over. With my back leaning against the stump, I quickly remove my prosthesis, and lay it down at the base, before tucking my loose pant leg in my waistband. It’s ungainly and will only get in my way. I’ll do better with one leg and two arms; it’ll give me more flexibility.

I probably have some serious splinters in my hands, but I make it up into the tree with relative ease. I settle in on a branch that is thick enough to hold my weight, close enough to allow me a clear view inside the window, yet still provides sufficient cover so it’ll be hard to spot me.

Lining up my sight, I get my first glance inside the trailer. It’s not perfect, there is some reflection on the window that slightly distorts my view, but I’m able to make out one figure standing over what looks like the naked body of a woman.

Bile lurches up from my stomach, but I force it down and will myself to focus.

Movement draws my eye to the far side of the room, where I spot another body—this one looks to be a man—and the slighter figure of a woman with her back to me, leaning over him. As I watch, her head snaps around at the standing man.

Stephanie.

It plays out like a slow-motion movie, the way she turns her body, revealing a weapon in her left hand. Then I catch a glimpse of the man’s face. Fucking Ben Vallard, and he’s raising a gun of his own.

Years of training and experience have forged a direct connection between my eyes and my trigger finger.

No thought is necessary, only instinct.

Stephanie

“What are you doing?”

“He’s still alive.”

I’m surprised how weak my voice sounds. Maybe it’s because my mind is working overtime to sort through all the pieces of information he’s giving me and trying to sort them in some kind of order that makes sense.

“With a hole in his head?” He snorts. “If he is now, he won’t be for long. Leave him.”

“You were never in Eureka, were you?” I toss out at him.

“Ding-ding-ding, give the girl a prize. You’re finally clueing in to that? No, I wasn’t. And if you’re banking on help to arrive, that’s not coming any time soon either, I made sure of it. They’ll have their hands full with the explosion I set off at my hotel.”

Jesus, this man is diabolical.

“By the time they get here, no one will be left alive. The story that will go down is that I got here a fraction of a second too late, Laine already finished you off and I had no choice but to defend myself when he turned the gun on me.”

The gun he’s talking about is now firmly clenched in my left hand in front of me, but I need to stop my hand from shaking, because I’ll only get one chance.

“The evidence won’t support you. How do you explain your bullet in Tracy’s head?”

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