The Bodyguard. Sheryl Lynn
pace. She wanted to shout, scream and throw things. “This isn’t some abstract war game. If you call the law, you’ll kill Penny.”
McKennon grasped her arm above the elbow. He faced her impassively. His powerful fingers twitched on her elbow. She tightened her jaw and listened. “These mountains look well populated, but they aren’t. Finding people who don’t want to be found is nearly impossible. Especially since we don’t know who they are or what they look like.”
“Turn me loose,” she gritted through her teeth. As soon as he relaxed his hold, she jerked her arm away and rubbed her tingling elbow. In reply to her furious look, he arched his eyebrows. The expression in his eyes said he’d do it again if she lost control.
The Colonel didn’t seem to notice the way McKennon had manhandled her. He stood ramrod straight, but in his icy blue eyes she read fear. “The sheriff is a personal friend of mine and a man of discretion.”
Frankie wished Julius were alive so she could kill him again.
CHUCK PICKED UP THE COFFEEPOT. Heat seared his palm. Yelping, he dropped the pot. It clattered on the rickety camp stove.
Without looking up from his magazine, Bo Moran said, “Use a pot holder, dummy. It’s hot.”
Chuck suckled a stinging finger and glared at the speckled blue coffeepot. His only experiences with coffee came from restaurants and automatic coffeemakers. The strange percolator gave him the creeps, along with this ramshackle old cabin. A gust of wind made the walls creak and groan. Despite a wood fire blazing in a stone hearth and the camp stove, the place felt like a refrigerator. He shivered.
“I never been camping before,” he said.
Bo chuckled and turned a page. He sat on a bench seat torn from a ’76 Dodge, the only furnishing in the tiny room other than a card table with a ripped vinyl top and a pair of folding stools that sat too low to be used at the table. He had his feet toward the fire and a striped blanket slung around his scrawny shoulders. A Glock 9mm pistol lay on the seat beside him. “This ain’t camping, man. Camping is tents and fishing poles and eating beans out of cans.”
“Sounds like it sucks.” He used a pot holder to lift the coffeepot. He poured a cupful, then wrinkled his nose at the tarry brew. It smelled like coffee, but it didn’t look like any coffee he’d ever drunk. He wished for some milk to cut it.
Cradling the cup to warm his hands, he circled the confines of the room. Outside, the sun glared—a fool’s-gold sun, all brightness, no warmth. Wind battered the tiny cabin, and occasional gusts sliced through the unpainted, plank walls. He couldn’t wait until this was over. He envisioned himself in Vegas—hot, dry, lively, lit-up Vegas, where the sunshine was warm and the air was thick enough to actually breathe.
“So what’s next, Bo?”
“You’ll know when I tell you. Relax.”
Relax... Chuck bit back laughter. He’d robbed liquor stores, run drugs, mugged doofs in parking lots and stolen more cars than he could count. He’d never kidnapped anyone before. It surprised him how scared he felt. The caper hadn’t seemed real until they’d actually entered that fancy cabin. He’d been shaking ever since.
The grab had gone down easy. Too easy. A knock on the door, the doof answered and the girl had been asleep on the bed. Shoot up the doof with dope, then pack the girl to the car. Nothing to it.
Chuck kept playing the grab over in his mind, looking for bungles and wrecks. The whole thing had gone down as sweet as candy. No witnesses, no noise, and they hadn’t left behind fingerprints. It looked like Bo was right, and he was about to make the easiest ten grand of his life.
Except, he’d never done anything easy in his life. Something always went wrong.
He sipped the coffee. It burned his tongue, soured his mouth and slid down his throat like bubbling acid. It hit his gut with a thud and a jolt. He shuddered. Bo had resumed reading his magazine. A travel magazine, the only kind Bo ever read. Bo Moran’s big dream was to buy a monster RV complete with toilet, shower, microwave oven and satellite TV. He wanted to travel the highways and byways.
Chuck paused at a window. Thin curtains printed with yellow flowers and teapots were held back by bits of twine from the grimy glass. He’d covered an ancient Buick, swiped from an old lady too blind to drive, with tree branches. Once they ditched the car nobody could ever trace it to him. Bo’s Bronco glinted in the sun and looked misshapen with its oversized tires and steel bumpers. Trees grew right up to the house, reminding Chuck of the grisly old fairy tales he read to Paul. He half expected to see wolves slipping through the shadows.
Or FBI agents.
In and out, sweet as candy, he thought, trying hard to make himself believe it. Nobody gets hurt, nobody gets caught. In the movies the FBI always caught the kidnappers—usually by gunning them down. The Feds had helicopters, dogs and fancy electronic equipment. Bo said no way would the FBI get involved. Not a chance.
“They always call the cops,” he said.
Bo turned a page.
“How long till the doof wakes up? What if he calls the FBI? They’ll tap the phone. They can trace the call.” He stepped away from the window, with his back to the wall.
“Sit down. You sound like a herd of elephants.”
“He’s gonna call the cops.”
Bo rested back against the cushion and sighed. “I ever tell you a lie, man?”
Always, Chuck thought. He sipped the bitter brew.
“You ever hear the saying, If it looks good, then it is good?”
“No.”
“Well, that’s one of them down-home truths. As long as we look good, we do good. Get it?”
Chuck didn’t get it, but he was stuck. “I’m gonna check on the girl.” He turned for the doorway covered by a sheet of striped cotton. He pulled the curtain aside.
Paul sat next to the bed, hunched over, industriously filling in the designs in a coloring book with a crayon. Chuck grinned. Give Paul a coloring book and he could amuse himself for hours. The kid was a true artist. Maybe instead of a trip to Vegas when this was over, Chuck would get a bigger refrigerator for the apartment. That way he’d have more room to display Paul’s pictures.
The girl appeared to be sleeping. Paul had covered her to the chin with quilts, concealing the duct tape binding her arms and feet. A black-satin sleep mask covered her eyes.
Chuck’s gut tightened. He’d done a lot of crappy things in his life, but he’d never hurt a girl. Easy in and out, sweet as candy. They’d collect the money, give the doof directions, then split. No problem. But Bo hurt people—men, women, girls, even kids if it suited his purpose. Chuck let the curtain fall and wished he’d never met Bo Moran.
A brush of air tickled Paul’s cheek. He stopped coloring the round table of Camelot and noticed the curtain swinging over the door. Wind hammered the thin walls, and he could feel the floor thrumming under his feet. Goosebumps itched his arms. He turned his gaze on the girl. Penny was her name—Penelope. He liked the feel of her name rolling through his brain. Penelope. It made her sound like a princess in a fairy tale, like she belonged in his King Arthur coloring book.
He eased strands of silky pale hair off her cheeks. Pretty girl, Princess Penelope.
She made a small noise. Startled and guilty, he jerked his hand off her face. She moaned and struggled weakly under the covers. She said something he couldn’t understand.
“What?” he whispered. He set the book and crayons on the floor beside him. The dark corners and buckled floorboards housed mice, he felt certain. He hoped they didn’t like the taste of crayons.
Penny groaned, loudly.
Little retching noises bubbled in her throat. Paul understood that sound. Chuck liked his booze