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For a moment, the stinging confused Wolf. Had he snagged his arm on a briar? He glanced toward the ridge. Saw the shadowed figure in the moonlight.
“Take cover! Another shooter!”
Riley looked over her shoulder, perhaps hoping she’d misunderstood. Whatever she saw convinced her to run faster on the downslope.
Determined to protect her, Wolf raced ahead, closing in to shield her body. The bullet had barely grazed him. His arm burned, but there was nothing wrong with his feet.
The trees ahead would make the sniper’s roost almost worthless. “Faster, Riley!”
A shot pinged. She didn’t falter. He felt nothing. A miss. The protective canopy of pine boughs closed overhead.
Riley yelled, “There’s no cover at the stairs. Follow me.”
Stairs? What stairs?
She scrambled down a steep embankment, grabbing saplings and brush to prevent a precipitous freefall. Wolf hesitated, worried he’d crush her if he stumbled.
She skidded to a stop at the bottom of the hill. He launched himself, clutched at a bush and missed. He tried to jam the sides of his shoes into the dirt. His feet slithered over the slick pine straw. He picked up speed.
Careening down the slope, he snagged a sapling. It held a moment before snapping with a sharp crack under his weight. But it slowed his momentum, let him negotiate the final third of his descent without breaking any bones. The pummeling re-ignited pain in his banged-up shoulder.
A rolling three-point landing—foot, hip, right arm—spared his sore shoulder further trauma, but knocked the wind out of him. Panting, he lay still.
When he opened his eyes, he didn’t see sky. Just swaying pine branches. Good. Protection. He turned toward Riley as she machine-gunned a full-clip of four-letter words. He followed her gaze. The sports car gleamed like a black diamond.
“That car is John Hunter’s pride and joy.” She spat out his name as she nodded at the Mercedes. “He’s the shooter. Dammit, how did he find us?”
“Worry about that later. Run to your car. Stay low. Get it started.”
“Why? What are you going to do?” Suspicion seeped into her voice. “I won’t leave you.”
“I certainly hope not. I just want to derail any plans John might have to follow. Now go!”
As she sprinted toward her Honda, Wolf removed one of Ray’s dynamite sticks from his backpack. Rummaging in the pack’s zippered compartments, his fingers closed around a pillbox holding a half-dozen waterproof chemical matches. Had Riley reached the Honda? Yes.
He ran to the Mercedes, placed a dynamite stick below the gas tank, and lit the fuse. He dashed for the Honda’s open passenger door.
“Go! Go!” he yelled as he dove inside. “I don’t know when it’ll blow.”
He turned to watch for the explosion. How long?
As the Honda reached the edge of the parking lot, Wolf saw the rifleman. He stood atop the stairs, took aim at them.
“Keep your head down,” Wolf screamed as a bullet thudded into the car’s metal trunk.
Riley stomped on the gas. Gravel spit out from the tires. The car whipsawed forward.
Come on dynamite. Explode already.
* * * *
L.J.’s anger fueled his scramble from the ridgeline.
What the hell? No one ran along the trail. Were they goddamn ghosts? He heard rocks tumbling. Trembling tree limbs marked their descent. The bitch realized the stairs were a trap. Okay. Nail him in the parking lot.
They scurried like jackrabbits. Before he gained a clear field of fire, they’d climbed in the Honda, motor running. Take out their tires. Trap them.
He pulled the trigger. A second later, he was deaf and blind.
The explosion rocked him on his heels. Pulsing white light, a fireball, destroyed his vision. His night scope intensified the explosion’s leaping flames. His ears rang from the concussive blast.
When he regained his senses, the Honda was gone, and his beloved sports car was a heap of smoldering junk.
“Dammit!” His outraged scream rivaled the explosion.
He sank to a seat on the stairs, buried his head in his hands. He was screwed. Riley had seen the Mercedes. Hell, the cops would have no trouble proving the wrecked vehicle was his. He’d be tried for attempted murder—unless he killed the lovers before they talked.
He walked toward the area where Valdes had pronounced Nick dead. Might as well make certain of the verdict. L.J. found the corpse, kicked it once to make sure, then headed for the parking lot. He stared at the lowly red VW Beetle, the only vehicle left. Faster than walking. He’d put his undergraduate degree to use. Surely a one-time electrical engineer could hotwire a vintage VW bug.
Having found purpose, his mood improved. He tried the car door. Locked. He grabbed a sizeable rock and pounded it against the driver’s side window. The excuse to beat something lifted his spirits. He pretended Riley’s body absorbed the blows.
Thoughts of the woman consumed him. When they first dated, he thought her an attractive companion for social events. Pretty face. Excellent bloodline. Someone to escort to the symphony and corporate shindigs. He toyed with the notion of marrying her. He could do worse than have a senator for an uncle and unfettered access to the Yates family fortune. After a suitable period, he’d assume the role of grieving widower again.
It hadn’t been long before Riley began to grate on him. Despite her mother’s impeccable pedigree, the daughter was a damn know-it-all Yankee. She disagreed with him and said so—even when he entertained clients. She worked in a man’s job and most of the time dressed like one.
Worst of all, she seemed immune to his charm. The more he gritted his teeth and labored to impress her, the more she backed away. Another whore like his mother who thought he wasn’t good enough. He’d given up on wedding or even bedding Riley the bitch when her uncle stuck his nose in his business, forcing him to pretend he adored her just to stay close.
He slammed the rock against the window a fourth time. The spider web of cracks in the safety glass grew. With the fifth blow the glass caved.
He tricked the VW into life and took a deep breath. Time for a new plan. One that didn’t involve jail. He could spin this. No one had seen his face. The gun he’d fired wasn’t registered. He’d wipe it clean. Toss it in a creek. Nick—his only link to Onward—was dead.
He smiled. Hell, he’d make himself out to be a damned hero. Maybe even sue Valdes’s estate for destroying his car. He patted his pocket. Good, he still had his cell phone. As soon as the damn satellites aligned, he’d call the sheriff. Better rehearse his story.
“Miz Pearl begged me to find her daughter. Once I figured out where Riley might be, I drove to Beaver Falls and started searching. I heard gunfire and an explosion. I stumbled across a body—Deputy Nick Monson. It was horrible!
“When I ran for help, I found my Mercedes blown to pieces. Desperate, I hotwired a car. Sheriff, I know it was wrong, but saving Riley was all that mattered to me.”
L.J. laughed aloud, thinking of a closer to make the sheriff ready to lynch Valdes.
“Sheriff, I think that crazed professor shot your deputy and kidnapped Riley.”
Flawless. Riley had zero proof to contradict him. Reviewing his plan, he discovered one tiny blemish. He couldn’t use his throwaway cell. He’d exchanged calls with Nick on it. Forget the phone.
He drove toward the sheriff’s office. He’d make his panicked report in person. Then he’d revisit the senator’s funeral arrangements.