Stepping beside his pummeled body, I picked my Sig up off the floor and aimed it at him. Just as I considered putting a round between his eyes, the door slammed open. It was part of a SWAT team. I dropped my Sig, held my hands up, and leaned against the workbench beside me to catch my breath from the intense encounter.
The officers poured into the room, yelling out “Police!” and scanning their submachine guns over every inch of the interior.
“Deacon Lynch’s right here,” I said, nodding toward the white supremacist who lay sprawled out on his back.
Chief Barton had informed his men of our presence, so the officers didn’t ask me to get on the ground after I relinquished my weapon. Lynch moaned in pain as they forced him onto his chest and twisted his arms back.
“You asked how we found you,” I said to Lynch as the police shoved his face into the cold floor and cuffed his hands behind his back. I sauntered over to the skiff, knelt down, then pried the tiny tracker from the transom. I held it up for Lynch to see. “This is a tracking device.” I did my best to smile given the pain from the various encounters. “You led us right to you.”
Lynch fumed. He bared his teeth and let out a shrill cry.
“This isn’t over, you son of a bitch!” he yelled as the officers forced him to his feet and shoved him toward the door. “You hear me? I’m going to figure out who the hell you are, and one day, when you least expect it, I’ll—”
His voice trailed off as they forced him outside and around the corner toward the driveway. I may not have caught the last bit of his angry speech, but I didn’t need to.
Looks like my list of sworn enemies just got a little bigger.
I hoped that he’d be dealt with properly by the law and that it wouldn’t matter. Striding toward the back of the truck, I knelt down and picked up the gold bar I’d used to end the fight. It was partly covered in a layer of Lynch’s blood. The irony of it all was impossible to ignore.
I set it back on the floor, then rose and examined the rest of the bars in the back of the truck. A few more police arrived to take care of the scene, and as I stepped toward the door, Jason appeared.
“There weren’t any more in the house,” he said. He looked around the garage, then patted me on the back. “It’s good to see you’re all right.”
I nodded. “You too.”
He grinned, then said, “You just wanted to send me away so you could hog all of the fun, huh?”
I laughed as best I could. “Come on,” I said, motioning to the door. “I think I’ve had enough fun for one night.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Jason and I cooperated with the first wave of SWAT members, stepping out of their way and answering their questions until Chief Barton pulled up in a police cruiser. After getting an all-clear update from the officers, Barton approached us.
“Sounds like it went off without a hitch,” he said, looking proudly back and forth between us.
“Aside from an unfortunate tumble into a pit of alligators, yeah,” I said.
Barton raised his eyebrows, then looked me up and down. “I have ambulances standing by if—”
“No need,” I said, waving him off. “I’m sure it’s just a few bad bruises. Nothing that rest can’t fix.”
The three of us watched as one of the police cars in the driveway fired up its light and blared its siren. Through the back window, I could see the dark outline of Lynch’s upper body. I couldn’t tell for sure, but it looked like he was staring at us.
Staring at me.
The driver hit the gas, and the noisy cruiser turned and eased down the drive.
“We’ll fight for the death penalty,” Chief Barton said as the three of us watched the car pull out. “You can be sure of that.”
Before anyone could ask Jason or me any more questions, Barton ushered us into one of the unmarked cruisers.
“Most of the reporters will follow the car with Lynch in the back, so you should be fine slipping under their radar,” Barton said. “Senator Cooper said he’ll meet you down the street. You boys did good tonight, and I thank you. It’s a shame that no one will ever know who the real heroes were tonight.”
“They already do,” I said. “It was Sergeant Brian Tate.”
The chief gave a slight nod, then shut the door. The officer at the wheel drove us down the winding dirt driveway, through the gate, and out onto the main drag. Barton had been right. Most of the news vehicles had left, tailing Lynch and hoping to snap a few pictures of the locally renowned criminal when he stepped out.
We were dropped off at a dark pullout a mile from the farm, where Scott and Ange sat in the idling Range Rover. Without a word to or from the officer, we slid out and he drove back in the direction we’d come.
Ange climbed out of the passenger side first and sprang over to me. We hugged, squeezing each other tight. Jason strode over to Scott beside us, and the two shook hands.
“How do you always manage to save me just in the nick of time?” I said to Ange.
We let go of each other, and she inspected me from head to toe. My clothes were wet, muddy, and torn from
