Rocky Mountain Revenge

“I guess a lawyer is a handy thing to have in the family when you spend so much time breaking the law.”

She stood. “I think it’s time for you to go now.”

“I’ll be over later tonight,” he said.

“No!”

“I’ll park my car a couple blocks away—near that mechanic, with all the cars in the yard. And I’ll leave early, before anyone is up.”

“I won’t let you in.”

She turned away, but he grabbed her wrist and leaned closer, his voice low but insistent. “I can’t leave you alone, not with some man neither of us knows asking about you. At least let me protect you until your handler from the Marshals office shows up.”

Her eyes told him she hated being in this position—hated having to depend on anyone, but especially him. But she’d always been more intelligent than most people he knew; she could be reckless, but she was never foolish. “All right,” she said, and pulled out of his grasp. “But only until the marshal gets here. And you’ll sleep on the sofa.”

By the time Anne reached her house, she was jittery with nerves and fear and anger. Jake—she couldn’t think of him by any name but Jake—had no right to come here like this. After all he’d done, he owed her peace and an illusion of safety.

But of course her safety was an illusion. It always had been. No matter how many promises the Marshals made to her, she’d never really believed they could protect her from her father.

The phone was ringing when she unlocked the door. She fastened the locks behind her and went to answer it. “How was coffee?” Maggie spoke with a musical lilt, her joy at having the scoop on Anne’s love life—or so she thought—barely contained.

“Coffee was...tense.” The Marshals had drilled into her that sticking as close to the truth as possible was the best way to keep from getting caught in a lie.

“I take it the two of you didn’t part as friends.”

“You could say that.” She and Jake had grown so close in the weeks they’d spent together, but their final night had been all chaos and confusion. One moment they’d been dancing, her head cradled on his chest, wondering how soon they could make their excuses and head upstairs to bed. Nights in Jake’s arms were heaven to her then. The next moment her world exploded in a hail of bullets and blood. Jake lay shattered on the dance floor, the front of her dress red with his blood. Her screams echoed over the music as two men she didn’t recognize dragged her backward out of the room.

Later, still wearing the bloodied dress, huddled over a cup of bitter, cooling coffee in some gray-walled interrogation room, the agents had told her their version of the truth—that Jake West was really Jacob Westmoreland, accountant turned undercover FBI agent, assigned to infiltrate her family and bring down her father.

She hadn’t hated him immediately. Hatred had come later, when the weight of his lies had settled on her. He’d told her he loved her. He’d said he wanted to protect her. He wanted them to get married, to live happily ever after. And all that time she hadn’t even known his real name. How could anything else he’d said be true if his very identity had been a falsehood? He’d used her to betray her family. As much as she’d come to despise her father, she’d despised Jake almost as much.

“Are you going to tell me what happened?” Maggie asked. “’Cause if I want to talk to myself, I can do that without holding a phone to my ear.”

Maggie must have been talking while Anne took her trip down memory lane. “Nothing happened,” she said. “He said he was sorry. I said I was sorry, too. End of story.”

“Uh-huh.” Maggie sounded skeptical. “How long is he staying in town?”

“I don’t know. Another day or two. We don’t have plans.” As soon as she got off the phone with Maggie, she’d need to call the number her WitSec handlers had given her. Denver was only five hours away—they could have someone here tomorrow, surely.

“He was really good-looking,” Maggie said. “And I think he still has a thing for you. You have to admit, coming so far to say he was sorry took guts. Maybe you’ll get together again while he’s here.”

“Maggie.” Anne said her name as a warning.

Maggie laughed. “I know. I’m an incurable romantic. All right, I’ll shut up about it. What are you doing tonight?”

“The usual. Schoolwork. Maybe some TV.”

“Have a good night. See you tomorrow.”

“Goodbye.” Anne replaced the phone in the cradle and started to the kitchen to make tea. She was only halfway across the room when a knock on the door made her jump. She glanced out the window; the sky was a gray smudge against the black-and-white shadows of mountains, the day rendered in charcoal by the disappearing sun. Jake had said he would come by after dark—maybe a city boy used to all those lights thought this was dark enough.

She strode to the door and took a deep breath, bracing herself, then checked the peephole. She registered a man, about Jake’s height, huddled in the shadows. Apparently, the bulb in her porch light had burned out. As long as Jake was here, she’d ask him to replace it. She threw back the chain, turned the dead bolt and jerked open the door.

A burly, dark-haired man shoved her back into the room and slammed the door behind him. He looked her up and down, his face expressionless. “Long time, no see, Elizabeth.”

Chapter Five

Jake parked the rental car amid the jumble of vehicles at the auto-repair shop and began walking the few blocks toward Anne’s house. The old joke about small towns rolling up the sidewalk when the sun set must be true; no one else was out and the only traffic was the occasional car on the central thoroughfare that connected with the state highway. Here on the side streets, it was as silent as a tomb. A quarter moon and the occasional glow from a porch light illuminated his path. The crunch of his footsteps on the unpaved shoulder of the road sounded too loud in the profound stillness.

For a man who’d spent all his life in the city, the silence felt vaguely threatening. He studied the shadows the trees and buildings cast, anticipating an ambush, but nothing moved.

He kept one hand wrapped around the gun in his coat pocket as he walked. Maybe he was being overly cautious and he and Anne had nothing to fear in this sleepy little town. But who was the man who’d been asking for her at the gym? Jake wouldn’t leave her alone until he found out. He’d failed at protecting her from her father and his thugs before; he wouldn’t let them near her again.

He approached the house from the back, though he doubted any of her neighbors were watching. He kept to the shadows along the side of the house, moving quickly toward the back steps. Maybe they should have agreed on some kind of signal, so she’d be sure it was him when he arrived. As he turned the corner toward the back of the house he froze, heart pounding.

The back door to Anne’s house was open—not wide open, but cracked a few inches, sending a shaft of bright light onto a patch of trampled snow at the bottom of the steps. Jake drew the gun and sidestepped toward the door, keeping to the deepest shadows against the wall of the house. When he was sure the coast was clear, he took the steps two at a time, moving silently, and paused on the small landing at the top, holding his breath, listening.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” The man’s voice was nasal, the words clipped and staccato.

Anne’s answer was unintelligible, but the terror in her voice made the hair on the back of Jake’s neck stand on end. He nudged the door open a little wider with the toe of one shoe and leaned in.

“I worked for your father, but you never noticed me. You were too high and mighty to pay attention to the help.”

Jake heard a scraping sound, as if someone had shoved a chair out of the way. He decided they were in the living room, just beyond the kitchen. Was it just Anne and this man, or had the intruder brought along help?

Jake slipped silently into the kitchen, keeping close to the wall, out of sight of the doorway between the kitchen and living room. “You deserve to die for what you did to your father,” the man said.

“No!” Anne cried out and Jake rushed forward. He burst into the room and saw Anne struggling with a burly, dark-haired man. He aimed his pistol, but there was no way he could get off a clean shot without risking hitting Anne instead.

Anne’s attacker wrapped one arm across her chest and pulled her against him, crushing her rib cage, lifting her off the ground. She writhed in his arms, kicking out. The man still didn’t know Jake was in the room. That gave him a slim advantage, but he didn’t yet see how to use it.

Anne kicked out, knocking over a table, on which sat a lamp. The glass base of the lamp shattered, and then the lightbulb exploded with a shower of sparks. Anne wailed—whether in pain or frustration, Jake didn’t know, but the sound enraged him. He aimed the gun again, determined to get off a good shot.

Anne beat her fists against her assailant, who held her with one hand now while he groped in his jacket pocket, probably for a weapon. If he drew a gun, Jake would have to fire, and pray Anne was not in the way.

But just then, Anne leaned over and bit her attacker on the hand, hard enough to draw blood.

The man howled and released her, and Anne whirled and landed a solid punch on his chin. Her attacker reeled back, but in the same moment he drew a gun from his coat. It was the last move he ever made, as Jake shot him, twice, the impact of the bullets sending him sprawling across the back of the sofa.

Anne screamed, then stood frozen, her hands to her mouth, her face the same bleached ivory color as the wall behind her. “Is there anyone else?” Jake asked.

She shook her head, still staring at the dead man draped across her sofa. Jake pocketed his gun and dragged the man onto the floor and laid him out on his back. He was a burly man in his forties, dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt and wearing a new-looking ski jacket, hiking boots and a knit cap. Anyone seeing him on the streets would have taken him for a local, or a visiting tourist.

Except most tourists didn’t carry a Glock. Jake checked the weapon; it hadn’t been fired. He slipped it into his other coat pocket and took out the man’s wallet. “Robert Smith,” he read the name on the driver’s license.

“That’s not his real name.” Anne’s voice was shaky, but surprisingly calm, considering she had a dead man laid out on her living room rug. “His name’s DiCello. Some of my father’s men called him Jell-O. He hated that.”

“What’s this on his jacket?” He tugged at a laminated tag hanging from the zipper pull of the jacket. “It’s a lift ticket, from Telluride Ski Resort. Dated for yesterday.” Had Mr. DiCello decided to take in a day on the slopes before driving over to Rogers to do a little business with his boss’s estranged daughter?