Page 33 of Heston
Heston wanted to lick those lips. Along with her other just-as-luscious body parts.
“Then take it back. Why’d you let him in?” he asked, again keeping his tone neutral. Supportive. Not judgmental. Not to the woman who deserved every bit of his respect.
London pointed her knife at Bates’ crotch as she reclaimed her weapon from his jacket and stowed it in her rear waistband. Next, she pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip and tossed it aside. “My mistake, Hes. He lied, said he was proud of me. That I deserved a medal for locating Alex and Kelsey. Guess he’s not so proud now.” She giggled like the minx she could be.
“I’m bleeding, you bitch! Can’t you show a little mercy?” Bates whined, his fingers red with blood.
“So? You’re bleeding. Big deal,” London replied. “Where were you taking me, Devon? What were you going to do with me, huh? Give me a party?”
“I was keeping you safe!” he shot back at her. “You don’t know who you’re messing with. These guys are dangerous.”
“Says the man who slaps a woman half his size,” Heston murmured as he unchambered the round from Bates’ pistol, ejected its magazine, and secured the weapon inside his own inner jacket pocket.
Another piercing scream shivered over the trees. For the first time, Bates glanced in the direction of the sniper hide. Looked like he was having a hard time swallowing.
Heston ran his fingers over his chin, then dropped his hands between his knees again. “Where were you taking London?”
“Umm—”
“Show us,” London commanded.
“I can’t walk,” Bates hissed. “You cut me, you lousy c—”
“You won’t finish that word if you want to live,” Heston snarled. “Enough with the name-calling. Grow a pair. Be a man for once in your worthless life.”
“Tracks, Hes.” London nodded toward the size-eleven boot prints in the fresh snow, leading to her camper from the river trail. “Let’s see where he was before he paid me a visit.”
“Then let’s go,” Heston agreed easily. He pushed to his feet, strode over to where Bates lay panting, took hold of the back of the guy’s jacket collar, looked over his shoulder, and told London, “Get your butt in gear, babe. Times a-wasting.”
Then, as if they were just taking a walk with a large, unruly child, Heston dragged Bates backward on his butt, flailing his hands and complaining all the way through the trees. Past Shaw Creek drainage and Tamanos Creek Camp, which Heston already knew was closed for the season, all the way to the wide-open meadows surrounding Owyhigh Lakes. The distance they walked was a good three to four miles, but hey. With London skipping along beside him like the happy woman she used to be, Heston was content. It was a singularly beautiful day for a hike.
He paused at the end of the trail. Bates had stopped thrashing by then. Heston let go of his collar. Bates leaned back on his hands, breathing hard, but was still whining plenty. Like anyone cared?
“Will you look at that,” Heston breathed. The view was outstanding. Snow-covered Governors Ridge provided an impressive backdrop to the two shallow, glacier-fed lakes. If it’d been earlier in the year, the meadow would’ve been rich with bluebells, asters, and columbine. Maybe a few deer, mountain jays, chipmunks, and pesky marmots. But the two shallow lakes were both frozen solid. Snow covered everything except the trailof boot prints carved through the five, six inches of white stuff. They led to a hole in the ice somefishermanhad drilled in the center of the nearest lake. Judging by the size eleven prints that matched Bates’ boots and the single three-legged, collapsible camp stool parked beside the hole, he hadn’t been worried about London’s safety. Hadn’t intended to teach her to ice fish, either.
Heston pursed his lips. It was one thing to see bodily damage inflicted on your woman when she could fight back. And London had, quite efficiently. But it was another to see the preparations taken to murder her in cold blood.
“That your handiwork, Bates?” he growled, ready to strangle the jerk with his bare hands. The mere thought of what this guy had intended for London, sent every last one of Heston’s good intentions to respect her decision spiraling dangerously close to the red zone.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the bastard whined, panting now, probably exhausted from being dragged. “I can’t see nothing from here. Never been here before.”
Heston bit his tongue. Until now, he’d been okay with London tormenting Bates. It was her show. Her kill. Not. Any. More.
“What were you going to do to me, Devon?” London asked as she sank to one knee beside Bates, that pointy blade still in her hand. “Huh? Teach me to fish? Give me a nature lesson? Or put me in that hole? Drown me? Sit there and watch me die?”
Bates said nothing, just lay there huffing, puffing, and bleeding.
Heston crouched at Bates’ other side, then trailed the back of his index finger down the man’s bristly jaw, to his neck and on down to his collarbone, digging his fingertip into the loose flesh there like a hook. Hmmm. That was an idea. “Ever been tortured?”
Bates shook his already bobbing head. “Never been military, you asshat. Told you that. Can’t you soldiers remember a gawddamned thing?” He was scared now. Finally. Damned well should be after what he’d intended for London.
“No? Then you’re in for a treat.” Heston’s face cracked with a sinister smile he didn’t let reach his eyes. His index fingertip dug deep into the hollow of the guy’s sweaty neck. With one vicious stab, he could end Bates. Punch his fingertip through the man’s trachea. Watch him choke. Let him suffocate until his gasps produced bloody drool, and no matter how hard he flailed and groaned and cried, nothing would save him.
But that wasn’t what this little exercise in physical prowess was about. The threat of torture was enough to get most men and women answering questions. Didn’t matter if the questions concerned national security, classified intelligence, or personal info, most people broke long before blood, tears, or violence entered the picture. Fear was the key, not propane torches, pliers, or the scalpels Hollywood portrayed. Those psycho props were about making a buck off audience ear and horror, not Humint. Human Intelligence. This come-to-Jesus meeting was about giving Bates what he deserved, true, but more, it was the purest form of information gathering. Let Bates figure that out by himself. It was time to up the game. If he cried like a baby after a little rough play, too damned bad.
Heston shoved to his feet and dragged Bates to the fishing hole.
Chapter Sixteen
