“Left mine on a logging road, came on foot,” Dean said in a jovial voice. “I’ll be borrowing one of yours when we leave. But we’ll figure all that out in good time. First, how about some introductions?” He pressed the muzzle of his semi-automatic hard against Rachel’s temple and she gave a small yelp of pain. “This must be the missus, and you are—” He jerked his chin at John, who’d taken an aggressive step forward.
“My son,” the Reverend answered. “John.”
Finally, Dean glanced at Harper, who didn’t meet his eyes, instead trying her best to appear meek and timid. “And who’s this? Your deacon or some such thing?”
“My assistant, Naomi.” The Reverend straightened, shoulders back. “Let them go and I’ll give you what you want.”
“Bit too late for that, Rev. Afraid my timeline has shortened drastically.” He nodded to the Reverend’s recliner, then eyed John, who clearly posed the greatest threat. Or so Dean thought. “You, Junior, have a seat.”
John backed into the chair and sat down heavily.
“Push it all the way back, that’s it, feet up high. Keep your hands on the arms where I can see them. Everyone else, stay still, don’t make a move.”
It was a good tactical move on Dean’s part—short of shooting John—to eliminate the potential threat. And it also placed John out of Harper’s line of fire. The Reverend was clear too, standing over near the fireplace. Now all she needed was to find a way to separate Rachel from Dean.
“Tassi told me about the mistress,” Dean continued. “I mean, she was a bit reluctant at first, but aren’t they all? In the end, she told me everything, even took me to the girl’s cabin. Imagine my surprise when I see a picture—and it’s the same girl who’s been plastered all over the TV, the one with the sick baby.”
“Please—” the Reverend tried, but Dean waved him to silence with his gun, returning it to Rachel’s temple before Harper could do more than slide her hand behind her back, slowly inching her weapon from its holster. Still, the Reverend’s interruption covered her movement and from the way he caught her gaze, she knew he’d planned it that way.
“Spencer trusted you, Rev. Tassi said he told you everything. She thought it was part of the con, to set you up to protect her after Spencer faked his death. As if the Zapata family would fall for the same trick twice. But I guess Spencer was conning Tassi as well, planning to run off with his sidepiece, dump his wife. He knew I was getting close, but I don’t believe he killed himself, not for a second. So I gotta ask, was it you who killed him, Rev?”
The Reverend managed to look insulted by Dean’s accusation. “No.”
Dean shrugged. “Just a theory. But you have my money, right?”
“Your money?” the Reverend asked with an arched eyebrow. Harper needed Dean to drop his guard, even for a second. “I thought it belonged to the Zapata family.”
“Seeing as how returning that money to the cartel is the only thing keeping me alive right now, feels like it’s rightfully mine. Where is it?”
The Reverend pinched his lips tight. He was making himself a target—and yet, he was also the one person Dean wouldn’t kill, since he had what Dean wanted.
Harper knew it, but so did Dean. He pivoted and, with barely a glance, shot at the recliner, the bullet impacting inches away from John’s head, foam and upholstery spraying as John jolted upright.
“Freeze,” Dean commanded, now aiming at John’s torso. “Just a warning shot, to let your father know I’m serious.” He kept one arm around Rachel and his weapon pointed at John, but his focus returned to the Reverend. Clearly, Dean had dismissed Harper as not posing any threat. “Now, then. Where’s my money? I’m going to count to—”
Harper didn’t give him a chance to finish as she drew and fired.
Forty-Three
Leah hated waiting, helpless, as Luka raced into danger, but she understood the necessity of it. The last thing Luka needed to worry about right now was having to protect a civilian. Still, it rankled. After six months of working together, it felt as if he and his team were finally treating her as an equal, not an outsider.
She sat in the dark, not sure what she could do except be ready to help if needed. Her backpack held a field trauma kit, including a vial of ceftriaxone, an injectable antibiotic. If they found Beth’s baby, she could begin treatment immediately. She opened the kit, fingering her supplies, taking mental inventory, ready to access them without needing to search. Then she zipped it closed again and went back to waiting.
Damn, this was worse than waiting for a trauma to arrive at the ER—at least then she’d be in communication with the medics, have some idea of what to expect and when to expect it. But this, not knowing… sheer hell.
Movement at the back of the church caught her eye. A woman was waving to her from the rear entrance.
Leah squinted.
It wasn’t just any woman.
It was Beth.
Leah searched the shadows of the trees surrounding the church and parking lot. No one else was near; Beth seemed to be alone. Still, she remained wary as Beth crossed the parking lot heading toward the car. Leah kept her hand on her phone the whole time, ready to call 911 or alert Luka if she saw anyone else. But it was only Beth, still dressed in scrubs, otherwise empty-handed.
Leah opened the car door and stepped out. “Beth?” she called softly. “Where’s your baby? Is anyone with you?”
Beth reached her, her face contorted with anguish. “Reverend Harper, he told me not to go outside, but the baby—something’s wrong. When I saw the policeman leave and you here alone—” She grasped both of Leah’s wrists. “Can you help him? Please, you have to help my baby.”
Leah gazed at the distraught mother. Beth definitely wasn’t acting. Leah raised her phone to
