“Okay. Land this thing, and we’ll get the SWAT boys to go take a look.”

  * * *

  He was in the cab, lying across the body of Joe Poesy. His friend was dead, with a massive hole through his chest and a broken neck from the crash. He shook his head to clear away the gray fog that enveloped his brain and stared out through the shattered windshield.

  Where’s Grace, have they got her?

  He struggled to extract himself from the wreckage of the truck and looked around for her. There was nothing, and he tried calling out.

  “Grace, where are you?”

  “Schh, keep it down.” She stepped out from behind a tree trunk, brushing the leaves from her skirt. Her face was bloodstained and filthy.

  “You’ve been shot!”

  “It’s just a few scratches. I think the helicopter has gone, but the men on the ground could be close, so we need to be quiet. What about you?”

  “What? I’m good, but Joe, he’s…” He brushed a tear from the corner of his eye. Ryder hadn’t realized how close he’d come to the retired circus knife thrower. Like his brother Daniel, in a few short days he’d become a surrogate father to him. And like his brother, he too was dead. “They killed him.”

  She saw his distress and gave him a moment, but the priority now was to stay alive. “John-Wesley, we can’t stay here. They’ll come looking for us. The cops, the FBI, Dubois, like a pack of dogs. If we don’t get out of here now, they’ll kill us.”

  He nodded his understanding. They needed to get away, to disappear. Survive, and let the hunt gradually fade until they could finish what they had to do. Dubois. “Let’s go.”

  They headed for an area of forest where the trees grew thicker. She was behind him, and he heard her murmur, “Do you have a gun? Something to defend ourselves with if they try to kill us again?”

  He thought about Joe’s handgun, still in the truck. They were defenseless against Dubois and the SWAT team he’d brought with him. “No, I don’t have a gun, no weapon. I could go back…”

  “There’s no time. We’ll have to manage.”

  A thought came into his head.

  Why am I so stupid?

  “Grace, I do have a weapon. Three weapons. The knives Joe gave me.” He patted his chest, the webbing harness still in place, with the three fighting knives attached, “I have these.”

  “Good. I hope you use them to kill him.”

  Ryder was about to answer when he heard it. He touched her on the shoulder, and they crouched low. The sound had come from about ten yards away. Someone moving through the bushes, the rustle of leaves, like a large animal making passage, or a man. They backed up, slowly, but they made only five yards when a voice shouted, “Freeze! Put up your hands. You’re under arrest.”

  Chapter Four

  He regarded the man who’d appeared no more than four yards away. The detective who’d arrived at Joe’s farm with Dubois. The pistol pointed right at his belly. Ryder looked at Grace and nodded their agreement. She started to raise her hands, and the cop relaxed, but his gaze was still wary.

  “You carrying a gun?”

  “No, Sir.”

  “You better not be. I see a weapon, and I’ll shoot you dead.”

  “I don’t have a gun.”

  “Well, okay. What about you, Miss? You carrying?”

  “No.”

  He looked like he was about to say something when a voice called from close behind him, “Detective Fry, where are you?”

  “I’m here, Lt. I got ‘em. They’re under arrest. I was about to cuff the both of them.”

  The voice sounded angry, “They’re alive? I thought you meant they were dead.”

  Fry sighed. “No, Lieutenant, I did it by the book. Placed them under arrest, and we can take them back to New Orleans.”

  “Keep hold of them. I’m nearly with you.”

  A second later, the bushes parted, and Dubois appeared. Red-faced and out of breath, with the big Glock clutched in his right hand. He tripped on a tree root and fell to the ground, cursed, and Fry turned to help. It was the opening Ryder needed. His hand swept under his coat, and his fingers touched the hilt of the first blade he came to. The Applegate–Fairbairn fighting knife. Eleven inches long, with a six-inch double-edged blade, and he’d adjusted the weights for optimum throwing power. The muzzle of Fry’s gun was pointed at Grace, and he focused his entire being on protecting her. Gripped the knife, and in a single, flowing motion, his arm went back and started forward.

  For a millisecond Fry stared death in the face. He instinctively knew he was looking at a man who could bury the blade into any part of his body he wanted. Every part of the knife thrower’s body was tensed for the throw, the eyes like lasers. Raking Fry’s body, deciding on the target. Then he threw.

  The heavy blade hit the detective in the right shoulder, and he dropped the gun. Ryder raced toward him, kicked the gun away, and ripped out his knife. He grabbed Grace’s arm, but she resisted, shocked, staring at the bleeding cop in astonishment. “My God, he’s…”

  There was no time. “Run! Before Dubois opens fire. Move it!”

  The older detective was getting to his feet, fumbling with his weapon. His eyes were narrow slits of hate, and in another moment he’d open fire. He could hardly miss at such short range, and they started to run into the trees. A chorus of shots cracked out, burying themselves in tree trunks, some chewing up branches and foliage, but none came near. Firing when your insides were churning with anger made accuracy a bitch. When the target has disappeared into dense foliage, it became nigh on impossible.

  They kept on running and heard the sound of a walkie-talkie behind them, as the cop called in his FBI pals to join him. She almost tripped, and he gripped her arm tightly.

  “Keep going. We’ll lose them inside the forest.”

  “Where are we heading?”

  “A long way from the cops.”

  “I meant when we get out of this forest. What’s our destination? We can’t run forever.”

  “We’ll worry about that later.”

  The roar of the helicopter echoed through the wood as it took off and resumed the search. Seconds later, it was quartering the area overhead, making sweeps from side to side. Once they saw the observer in the distance, scouring the greenery with his powerful binoculars. He didn’t see them, wouldn’t see them. They were below a thick, green forest canopy, safe for the time being, as long as they kept running. Putting distance between them and the cops.

  Thirty minutes later, the noise of the helo receded, and he allowed them a short break. “Five minutes, no more. They’ll have half the State after us. Cops, Feds, who knows?”

  She sat down gratefully. “Did you kill that cop back there?”

  “Nope, I just struck him in the shoulder. He’ll be fine.”

  She shook her head in dismay. “This has to stop, John-Wesley. We’ve become like gangsters.”

  “We’re doing what we need to stay alive, is all. Remember, Dubois won’t give up. As long as he’s alive, he’ll be looking for us. Waiting to kill us, which means we’ll spend the rest of our lives running and looking over our shoulders.”

  “We? Does that mean you plan on sticking around?”

  “If you’ll have me,” he murmured. He looked away, embarrassed.

  She put an arm around his waist and moved her lips close to his. “Don’t ever leave me, John-Wesley.”

  “Uh, yeah, I mean, no. Sure.”

  She kissed him, and he felt a world of love for this girl as their lips locked. He was never going to be parted from her. Not ever.

  A moment later, she smiled. “Okay, then. Now, where are we heading? We can’t stumble around this forest for the rest of our lives.”

  He already knew the answer. “We’re going back to New Orleans.”

  “Dubois?”

  “For starters, yeah. And then…”

  “What then?”

  He didn’t answer. He was listening to the sounds of the forest. Natural sounds. Except a few weren’t natural.

  “They’re coming again.”

  Stealthy footsteps, coming nearer, men expert at tracking and cornering their quarry, SWAT. “Let’s go. Don’t make a sound.”

  He guided her through the thickest part of the forest and showed her how to avoid treading on anything that would give away their position. At times, they heard the sound of breaking branches, and a muted call to another of their pursuers. They never saw them, and gradually the noises faded, until they were on their own. He estimated they’d walked around ten miles, and Grace was tiring. When he looked around, she’d fallen back, and he waited until she caught up.

  “I have to stop, I’m sorry. Please, I can’t go on much longer.”

  Her face was gray, her eyes dulled, and she was both cold and exhausted. He wanted to put more distance between them and the cops, but she was all in.

  “Five minutes, we can’t spare more than that.”

  “Thank you.”

  She sunk down, her arms clasped around her, withdrawing into the bubble of her misery. He put his arms around her, held her tight, and tried to warm her. Her eyes were rolling, and she was close to falling asleep. He shook her awake gently.

  “Stay with it, Grace. A few minutes for a rest, and we’ll move on. Don’t sleep now. There’ll be time later.”

  Her eyes flared open. “What was that?”

  “I said…”

  “No, in the distance. It sounded like thunder. And rain.”

  It was the cue for the skies to open up. The rain came down in torrents, and he pulled her into the shelter of a thick bush that sheltered her from the worst of the wet. The rain beat harder, and they were soon saturated. He took off his coat and draped it over her. He sat shivering while she fell into a fitful sleep. After a few hours, he slept, too. When he awoke, it was dawn. The rain hadn’t stopped, was still falling hard, and the wet cold bit into their bodies. Her eyes flicked open as she sensed him moving, and her blue lips moved as she started to speak.

  “What’re we going to do?”

  “They won’t find us in this rainstorm,” he explained, “So we don’t need to do anything. We just wait it out.”

  “Right.”

  She lapsed into an uneasy silence. Through the long, bitterly cold morning, Grace fell in and out of sleep, and she shivered constantly. Ryder had long given up hope of ever being warm again. The chill intensified, and he even considered leaving the cover of the forest and giving up to law enforcement. Prison would be better than this cold, wet, living hell. Sooner or later they’d succumb to a fever and die from exposure.

  And then he recalled that’s exactly what Dubois intended for them. Death. He hardened his resolve and spent hours trying to massage some warmth into Grace’s limbs. He even pulled her to her feet and forced her to walk around, but it was no good. The rain never stopped, and by evening, they were getting weaker. They hadn’t eaten in a long time, and the wet and cold had taken possession of their bodies. She fell in and out of consciousness, and he was convinced she was failing fast. It could be enough to kill her, and he didn’t want her to die.

  The sun went down and darkness began to spread over the wood. He made up his mind. They’d had enough. Grace needed food and to thaw out. He shook her awake.

  “We’re leaving. We don’t have a choice. We have to get warm.”

  “Will it be safe?”

  “Safer than staying here and waiting to die of hypothermia. We’ll head west. I believe there’s a town over that way. We’ll find some hot food and a place to dry our clothes.”

  Her eyes closed for a second. “What wouldn’t I give to be warm.”

  “Let’s move while we still can.”

  He put his arm under her shoulder to support her, and they stumbled through the forest for hour after hour. Lightning flashed, and the rain hammered down even harder. At times, he thought they were finished. He’d have given anything to just lay down somewhere dry for a few hours and rest, and give Grace time to recover, but there was nowhere. To stop was to die. He used every ounce of his strength and determination, and it paid off. Shortly after midnight, they reached the outskirts of a small town and stopped at the first building they came to, a bar, with country and western music blaring out through the door every time someone came or went.

  Outside, the customers had parked their trucks in a long, straggling, untidy row. Fat wheels, gun racks inside the rear windshields. Enough chrome to reflect light to the moon and back. They had no choice. They needed warmth and shelter, so he guided her toward the entrance. Before they reached it, a big-wheeled truck skidded into the parking lot. The driver jammed his brakes on, scattering a stinging shower of gravel over their frozen bodies. Grace shuddered with shock and almost collapsed, but he helped her to keep going. They were halfway to the door when the truck started to move again, and then it skidded to a halt in front of them, blocking their path. There were three men inside. Two climbed out, one large, the other huge, while the driver stayed inside the cab. Despite the rain, they wore short-sleeve muscle shirts and pants tucked into cowboy boots. The bigger man blocked them, and his lips cracked in a leer.

  “It’s a bad night to take a girl out on a date, feller.”

  Ryder looked him over. A tank brain, all muscle, beer belly, and attitude, and under his muscle shirt he wore a stained singlet with a John Deere logo. He judged the other man was more dangerous. He hung back, biding his time. A thinker. But the muscle was getting ready to make his move. It was obvious what they wanted. Grace. She was all-in, worn out, vulnerable, shaking, and frightened. But it didn’t completely hide her pretty face or her slim body. If they got rid of Ryder, they’d make a meal of her.

  “It’s not a date,” he mumbled, trying to stop his teeth chattering. Didn’t want them to think he was scared, which he wasn’t. Worried for Grace, but in the past few weeks he’d learned a lot. Memories of the beatings from his father had faded into the background. He’d learned to fight back, killed a cop, and wounded another. He wasn’t scared, not anymore.

  “Not a date, uh.” John Deere turned to his smaller friend. “What do you think, Walt? Dragging this poor girl outside on a night like this, it’s no way to treat a lady, is it?”

  “It sure ain’t.”

  “Right. We’ll take her off his hands. Look after her better. We can…” He stopped as a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky and lit up the scene. Despite the rain, they saw for the first time the webbing harness strapped to his chest. “What the fuck is that? You think you’re Jim Bowie or something?”

  “We’re just going inside to get warm,” Ryder tried to reason with him, “We ain’t doing any harm. Let us pass.”

  He chuckled. “Tell you what. We’ll take the lady, and we’ll relieve you of those pretty knives before you hurt yourself. Hand ‘em over, friend. I won’t ask twice.”

  Before he could respond, the third man exited the truck. Another tank brain, all muscle, tats, short sleeves, work boots with grease-stained jeans tucked into the tops. He took in the scene, looked up, and frowned.

  “I reckon you should do as my friends tell you, boy. We’ve been standing in this rain for long enough.” His voice was cold and harsh, a heavy smoker’s voice. As if to emphasize the point, he drew a small pistol from his waistband, “The knives, too. We won’t hurt you. Just give us the knives, and we’ll take the girl and go on our way. It’s good advice. You’ll get to live. Hand ‘em over and git.”

  The smaller man regarded Ryder with contempt. “You’d best do it now, bud. Ole’ Vern here, he’s a crack shot with that little pistol of his. Never misses.” His lips cracked into an evil grin, “Besides, he might get ornery, use the girlfriend for target practice.”

  The driver moved the muzzle of the pistol so it pointed at Grace. “Last chance, friend, I’m getting tired of this. Step aside, shuck off the knives, and get on your way.”

  His unconscious mind reacted first. They were threatening Grace, and the lessons from Joe Poesy took over. It took him a whisker over a second to draw three knives, aim, and hurl each one in succession. Everything he’d learned from Joe went into those three

  pin-point, accurate throws. He took the man with the pistol first, the big man blocking Grace second, and the smaller man was starting to react when the third and last knife, the Fairbairn-Sykes, thudded into his back. The long blade pierced his heart, and he fell, blood pouring from the mortal wound.

  Grace moaned, a low wail of terror, and rushed to his arms. “I thought they were going to…”

  “I know.” He hugged her, “It’s okay. We’re getting out of here right now.”

  He let her go and went to retrieve the knives, then took her arm. “Let’s go.”

  “But, how? We can’t go on, not like this. I’m all in. I can hardly walk.”

  He pointed at the truck. “You don’t have to. We have transport. They won’t need it, not anymore.”

  They climbed into the cab. He started the engine and set the heater to maximum. Then he drove away, heading south. “We’ll use the back roads. I doubt they’ll have roadblocks up, not in this weather.”

  “John-Wesley, we need to change into dry clothes and find something to eat.”

  “I know. I’m taking you home.”

  “Oh.”

  She was silent for a while, thinking. Then, “You killed those three men who attacked us.” She said it in a flat tone, like she was in shock.

  “That first guy was going to shoot you, and you know what they wanted. I couldn’t stand by and let that happen.”

  “Thank you, John-Wesley.” Her lips were still blue with cold, but she parted them in a tiny smile.

  He put his lips to hers. “No sweat.”

  “What about the cops? They’ll come looking for us.” She paused as she had a thought, and then she broke into a smile, “Oh, yeah. They already are. It was self-defense. I know that. You were protecting me, and they were going to kill you. Those other cops, the one you killed at my father’s place, and the detective you hit in the shoulder, that was self-defense, too.”