This Fallen Prey (Rockton #3)(2)

Anders pushes his short sleeves onto his shoulders, US Army tattoo more prominently displayed. Dalton snaps his shades in place. I put on my ball cap, ponytail tugged through. And we have our guns in hand.

We arrive just as the propellers creak to a stop. The pilot’s door opens. A woman gets out. When I see her, I slow, the guys doing the same. We’ve donned our best quickie military costuming; hers looks like the real thing. Beige cargo shorts. Olive tank top. Dark aviator shades. Boots. Dark ponytail. Thigh holster. Arms that make mine look scrawny.

She doesn’t even glance our way, just rolls her shoulders and acts like she has no idea three armed strangers are bearing down on her. She knows, though. She waits until we’re ten feet away. Then she turns and says, “Sheriff Dalton?”

Her gaze crosses all three of us. She rejects the woman. Rejects the black guy. Settles on the white one as she says “Sheriff?” again. I could bristle at that, but she’s right in this case, and the certainty on her face tells me she’s been given a physical description.

Without waiting for confirmation, she steps forward and extends her hand. “I have a delivery for you, sir.”

Dalton takes her hand. While he’s doing a good job of hiding his confusion, I see the tightness in his face. He might rule in Rockton, but he’s only thirty-one, two months younger than me, and new situations throw him off balance.

“We weren’t informed of any deliveries,” I say.

She hands me an envelope from her pocket. “The details are in here, ma’am. I’m just the courier.”

Dalton walks over to the plane. When a hand smacks against the glass, Storm and I both jump. Anders says, “Shit!” Dalton just peers inside. A man’s face appears. A man wearing a gag.

Dalton turns to the pilot. “What the hell is this?”

“Your delivery, sir.”

She opens the cargo door and disappears inside, with Dalton following. Anders and I wait. A moment later, Dalton comes out, pushing the man ahead of him. He’s blond, younger than us, wearing a wrinkled linen shirt, trousers, and expensive loafers. He looks like he’s been pulled off Bay Street midway through his stockbroker shift. He’s gagged with his hands tied in front of him; a cable binds his legs so he can’t do more than shuffle.

“I was told not to remove the cuffs,” the woman says as she follows them out. “I was also told to leave the gag on. I made the mistake of removing it. That lasted about sixty seconds. I have no idea what he’s in for, but he’s a nasty son of a bitch.”

“In for?” I say.

“Yes, ma’am.” She looks around. “There is a detention facility out here, isn’t there? Some kind of ultra-maximum security?”

“Privileged information,” Anders says. “Sorry, ma’am. You know how it is. Same in the air force, I’ll wager.”

The woman smiles. “It was. And it’s no different in private security.” She nods at his tat. “Cross-border job shopping?”

“Something like that. I appreciate you bringing the prisoner. We weren’t expecting anyone new, so we’re a bit surprised.” Anders peeks into the cargo hold. “You wouldn’t happen to have any beer in there, would you?”

She laughs.

“No, sir.” She reaches in and pulls out a duffel. When she opens the zipper, it’s full of coffee bags.

“Just this,” she says.

“Even better,” Anders says. “Thank you.”

I look at the prisoner. He’s just standing there, with Dalton behind him, monitoring his body language as Anders chats with the pilot.

“Thank you for bringing him,” I say. “If you’re flying back to Dawson City, skip the casino and check out the Downtown Hotel bar. Ask for the sour toe cocktail.”

“There’s an actual toe involved, isn’t there?”

“It’s the Yukon.”

She grins. “I’ll have to try that. Thank you, ma’am.” She tips her hat and then motions to ask if she can pat Storm. I nod, and Storm sits as she sees the hand reach for her head.

“Well trained,” she says.

“At her size, she needs to be. She’s still a pup.”

“Nice.” She gives Storm a final pat. “I’ll head on out. You folks have a good day. And remember, keep that gag on for as long as you can.”





2





The bush plane has left, and we’re standing by the hangar. I’ve opened the letter, and Dalton is reading it over my shoulder while Anders guards the prisoner. Storm lies at my feet, her wary gaze on the stranger.

As usual, Dalton reads faster than me, and I’ve barely finished the opening paragraph when he says, “Fuck, no. Fucking hell, no.”

Anders leans over to see the letter—and the prisoner lunges.

Anders yanks him back, saying, “Yeah, it’s not that easy, asshole,” and the guy turns to see both Dalton and me with our weapons trained on him, Storm on her feet, growling.

“If you’re waiting for us to get distracted and let you run, you’ll be waiting a long time,” Anders says.

“It wouldn’t help anyway,” I say. “You’re hundreds of miles from the nearest community. Gagged. Bound. Your legs chained.” I turn to the guys. “Can we let him go? Please? Lay bets on how far he gets?”