His watchful eyes settling on the girl, Ashford snickered at the mess on her face. “She’ll be home soon, Cass.” He faced forward and got out, his amusement fading. After scanning the street and opening the back door, Ashford noticed his stepdaughter had wriggled free of her seat belt. “What have I told you about doing that?”
“But I just now got out.”
“Yeah,” he lifted the youngster, “right,” and set her feet on the driveway. “You know it’s not saf—”
Cassandra screamed.
Ashford took a fist to the right side of his face. Stars floated amid darkness, as another blow found his stomach. He stretched out his arms and grabbed the vehicle’s roof and doorframe.
Cassandra screeched again.
Regaining his senses, Ashford saw the next incoming punch. In one motion, he rose to his full height, blocked the strike with a forearm, and delivered a left cross to a stranger’s jaw.
The masked attacker toppled over backwards.
Ashford clutched a second masked attacker, who had a hold of Cassandra’s arm, and sent a knee into the man’s gut.
The little girl wailed, as she twisted free and dropped to her butt.
Attacker #1 righted himself and charged.
Ashford slammed #2’s face onto the trunk and thrust his right foot into #1’s chest before bouncing #2’s head off the sheet metal again.
Gunshots rang out, and bullets skipped off the trunk, shattering the back window.
Ashford flinched. A split second later, he shoved #2, scooped up Cassandra, and darted for cover behind the car’s front bumper.
Tires squealed, and a black SUV, its windows blacked out, sped by the house.
The assailants ran.
Ashford felt tiny blades cutting into his bare arms. He looked down. Cassandra had a death grip on him. Her whole body was shaking. “Are you hurt, Cass?” He examined her for injuries.
Trembling, she managed to pivot her head twice.
The big man swallowed her up in his arms. “It’s okay, sweetie. You’re safe now. They’re gone. There’s nothing to be afraid of...I’m right here.” He stroked the back of her hair and kissed the top of her head several times. “Nothing’s going to happen to you. I promise.”
She whimpered.
The porch light turned on, illuminating the front yard.
Devlin’s father ran toward the driveway, his bare feet slapping the pavement. “What’s going on? I heard gunshots.” Father Mahoney went to one knee in front of his granddaughter. “Is she—”
“She’s fine, Martin. Get her inside and call the police. Tell them two men just tried to rob us.”
Mahoney carried Cassandra into the house.
Ashford retrieved his cell phone and tapped an image.
Seconds later, “You’ve reached Deputy Marshal Jessica Devlin. Please leave a—”
He squashed the ‘end’ icon, dropped hands onto his hips, and surveyed the street. Envisioning the mysterious black SUV that had tailed him this afternoon, Ashford reiterated his father-in-law’s question. “What is going on?”
*******
6:11 p.m.
two miles east of
san fernando, mexico
“I thought the Marshals Service doled out forty-caliber Glocks to its agents...22’s and 23’s.” Randall motioned toward her hip. “How is it you get to carry a Colt 45?”
Devlin glimpsed her firearm. “My boss and I have an understanding.” She pinched her shirt and fanned herself. “As long as I keep putting away the bad guys, she agrees to look the other way.”
“That’s a nice piece.” He pointed at a one-lane dirt path cut through the trees, “This way,” and veered right. “I see it has your name engraved on the slide.”
Devlin turned and fell in step with him. “How do you know that?”
“Please,” he shot back. “It isn’t that difficult to spot,” he paused, “especially when the muzzle’s only a few inches away from your nose.”
She recalled the incident he had referenced: Out of breath, breathing heavily, Patton turned around. “Do you think,” he sucked in more air, “we lost—” he stood straight, his eyes staring down the black hole of a 1911 muzzle.
“So are you in the habit of engraving all your guns?”
Devlin wiped her brow and swiped the hand across her pant leg. “The gun was a gift from my father.”
“Nice gift.”
“He has an identical one himself. Actually, there are three identical pistols. My mother died when I was young. Left alone to protect my sister and me, Dad bought three Colt 1911’s. He kept one for himself, which we all used on trips to the range, and stowed away the other two...one for each of his daughters. We were surprised with ours when we turned twenty-one.” Devlin sniggered.
Randall glanced her way. “Feel like letting me in on the joke?”
“I’m older than my sister, so I received my Colt first.” She half laughed again. “Dad never told either of us that he had one waiting for her when she hit the legal age to own a handgun.” Devlin shook her head. “She was so mad at me...and jealous.”
“I can imagine.”
“I don’t think she spoke to me for that whole year leading up to her twenty-first birthday.”
“And so began the sister rivalry.”
“Oh, that had already been going on. Thing is though...we never let it stand in the way of our friendship.” Devlin hesitated, remembering good times with her sister. “Anyway,” she brushed more sweat from her forehead and cheeks, “a year later, she got her gun, and all was well again in the Mahoney family.”
Devlin and Randall entered a clearing and strode toward a house. “So I assume,” he said, “your sister’s gun has her name engrav—”
A gunshot rang out, as dirt sprayed the side of Randall’s face.
∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞=∞
.
Chapter 17
Handling the Matter
Devlin and Randall dropped to the hardpan earth, each sprawling in separate directions.
She drew her 45 ACP and pointed the weapon at a house setting atop a shallow incline.
He faced her. “Don’t shoot.”
“What do you mean don’t shoot? We’re being shot at.”
“Trust me, Devlin. If he wanted us dead, we’d be dead right now.”
“Somehow, I don’t find that comforting.”
“Let me handle this.” Randall did a push-up and bounded to both knees. Lifting his hands above his head, he slowly stood. “Are you,” he shouted, “that freaking blind, old man, that you can’t see what you’re aiming at anymore?”
Devlin looked up at him, one eyebrow
