He'd lost precious time in going back for the truck, then losing the keys, but now that he was speeding down the road, he began to regain mental control. There was no need to panic. One crippled woman would not be hard to find, and as much as he regretted the task, he would put her down just as he'd put down her uncle.
Roland tightened his grip on the steering wheel as he took a slow breath, making himself calm down while he concentrated on his driving. The drying ruts made it difficult to go fast, but he figured that Ally Monroe would have suffered a similar fate, so she couldn't be all that far ahead.
As he topped the hill just above the old Brown house and started down the road, someone stepped out of the ditch and onto the road. He started to honk to wave him out of the way when he realized that the someone was Wes Holden and he was carrying a rifle—a rifle that was aimed directly at him.
At that point, every rational thought in his head went into meltdown. While he was trying to decide if he should hit the brakes or the accelerator, the first shot hit the passenger side of the windshield. It shattered like an icicle on a cold winter morning, leaving tiny chunks of glass all over the front seat and in his lap.
He hit the brakes as the second shot hit a headlight.
He started to scream.
"Stop! Stop, you crazy bastard! What are you doing? Do you know what you're doing?"
He watched Holden widen his stance as he braced for the next shot.
"I warned you!" Wes yelled. "I told you to leave her alone."
"I didn't touch her!" Roland screamed. "If she says different, she's lying."
Wes shot out the other headlight and took some satisfaction in the sudden hissing of steam that began to spew out from under the hood.
"Oh shit, oh hell, oh damn," Roland muttered. "The bastard is crazy. He's fucking crazy."
He slammed the truck in Reverse and stomped on the gas. The tires spun, seeking traction. Wes shouldered the rifle again.
Roland hit the brakes and put the truck in Park as he bailed out on the run. The way he figured it, his only chance was to get out of sight, and disappearing into the trees was his best bet.
Roland hit the woods and started running. Not once did he stop or take the time to look back. He ran until his chest hurt and his legs felt like rubber, and then, too weak to run anymore, he crawled into a natural indentation in the side of the hill and pulled some brush in over him.
He lay curled up in a fetal position with his hands over his head, while the blood hammered against his eardrums. And as he lay, listening for the sound of running feet, he thought he smelled smoke and remembered seeing that thin gray column rising up into the sky.
What if the mountain was on fire?
Sixteen
Wes watched Storm disappear into the trees and thought about going after him. But he was afraid that if he began a game of cat and mouse with the man on his own turf, Storm might be able to double back before Wes could catch up, and that would put Ally in harm's way. He'd already left her alone too long.
Reluctantly, he lowered the rifle to his side and headed back to the house, but this time, there was no confusion as to where he was. He kept remembering Ally as she'd come out of the trees, with her hair flying out behind her, remembering the way she'd felt in his arms, the tremble in her body, the warmth of her breath against his neck.
Damn it, he didn't want to feel this—but he did.
He ran all the way back to the house, then ran inside, calling her name as he went.
* * *
Ally had heard the shots, but it was the silence that had come afterward that frightened her most. If the shooting was over, then why didn't Wes come back? The longer she waited, the more terrified she became.
Finally she thought she heard someone at the front door, and when it opened abruptly, hitting the wall with a thump, she tightened her grip on the knife and got up. She was bracing herself for a fight when she heard Wes calling her name.
She dropped the knife and shoved the pantry door open.
"In here," she called, and stumbled out of the pantry into his arms.
He leaned the rifle against the wall, then pulled her close, wasting precious minutes of their getaway time just to assure himself she was okay, and Ally obviously felt the same. She began running her hands over his body and touching his face to reassure herself that he was whole.
"Are you all right? I heard shooting! Oh, Wes, I've never been so scared."
Wes looked down at her then, and for the first time allowed himself the pleasure of the woman in his arms. Her hair was heavy on his arms as he steadied her against his chest, and even with the scratches on her face and arms, and the blood on her shirt, she was soft and beautiful—so beautiful it made him ache. Then he shook off the thought and set her down.
"We've got to get out of here," he said.
"What's happening? Was that Storm?"
"Yes. I don't know what the hell you saw up there, but he's doing his best to make sure you don't tell."
"I don't know what he's growing, but I think it's very dangerous."
"How so?"
"There are dead animals everywhere, and something is wrong with Danny and Porter. They were acting as if they were drunk or crazy or a little of both. They were fighting, and Danny was bloody, and—"
"Damn it," Wes muttered. "I guess it could be anything from bio-terrorism to a new designer drug. At any rate, we've got to leave before he comes back."
Ally moaned, then threaded her fingers through her hair, combing it away from her face in frustration.
"This can't be happening," she said.
"But it is. Can you walk?"
She pointed down at her ankle. He saw the telltale bruising and swelling, and dropped to his knees. After a quick inspection of the muscles and tendons, he stood back up and grabbed his rifle.
"I'm sorry. I didn't know it was that bad."
"What are we going to do?" she asked. "I can't walk fast enough to keep up with you."
"You won't have to," Wes said, then turned around and squatted down. "Get on."
"You can't carry me," she argued. "I'm too heavy."
"I've carried heavier men who were dying a lot farther than the two miles to your house."
At that point it seemed futile to argue. She crawled up on his back, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He grabbed her legs, holding them firmly as he stood, then tightened his grip on the rifle.
"Hold on to me, and don't let go."
"Okay," Ally said.
Wes hurried to the door, pausing only long enough to make sure Storm was nowhere in sight. Then he saw the smoke.
"Something's burning," he said. "Something big."
"Oh, my God," Ally said. "Despite that rain last week, this state is in the middle of a drought. The mountain will burn like paper."
Now there was a new danger behind them. Wes took off down the path that led to Ally's house, moving as fast as he could, aware that time was of the essence.
Ally buried her face against the back of his neck and hung on, knowing that their lives were teetering in the balance of a madman's plans. She wouldn't let herself think of what was happening to her brothers, or if they'd gotten caught in the fire. They knew the mountains like the backs of their hands. She had to trust that they would find a way to stay safe.
The mill where Gideon worked always closed at noon on Saturdays, but he'd had to stay late to help unload a load of logs. Afterward, he'd gone to Kathy's Cafe" and gotten himself a burger and fries before heading home. His joints were aching, and he felt like he was getting a crick in his neck. It wasn't the first time lately that he'd thought about retiring. Lord knew he was past the age. He could apply for social security and take it easy for the rest of his life. But he wasn't sure how satisfied he would be by staying home alone, so he shelved the notion again.
He was almost home before he saw the smoke, and when he did, chills ran up his spine. It had been years since they'd had a fire on the mountain. This one looked huge, and Ally was all alone. Anxious to get to her, he stomped on the accelerator.
He was sliding to a stop in front of the house when he saw Wes Holden come running out of the trees, carrying Ally on his back. He jumped out of the truck and ran toward them. When he saw Ally's condition and her swollen ankle, he felt sick.
"Ally...honey...what happened?" he cried.
“Roland Storm is after her. Help me get her in the truck!" Wes ordered.
Gideon quickly ran back to the truck and opened the door. When Wes slid Ally into the seat, he accidentally bumped her ankle, causing her to cry out in pain.
“Oh, hell, oh, Ally...I'm so sorry." Wes said, and then he grabbed Gideon's arm. "I need to use your phone, then we've got to get out of here,"
Gideon unlocked the front door for Wes. “By the chair." he said, pointing to the phone.
Wes quickly dialed the operator.
"This is an emergency," he said. "Get me the local office for the DEA in West Virginia, and hurry."
Gideon frowned. "Damn it, man, you need to be calling the fire department, not some government office."
"Go talk to Ally."
Gideon frowned, then ran back to the truck. Wes watched the expression on the old man's face as she began to explain; then his own attention shifted when his call was answered by a woman with a calm, businesslike voice.
"Drug Enforcement Agency, how may I direct your call?"
"I need to talk to the director, and hurry. This is an emergency."
"I'm sorry, sir, but—"
"Connect me now, damn it." There was a long moment of silence; then Wes heard a buzz in his ear. At first he thought she'd disconnected him; then he heard a man answer.
"This is Mitch Collins. Start talking, and it better be good. I don't take kindly to people bullying my employees."
"Sir, I'm Colonel Wesley Holden, Army Special Ops. I'm on a mountain above a little town in West Virginia called Blue Creek. I need people from your office, as well as from the CDC, here as fast as you can get them, and probably the FBI, as well. There isn't time to explain everything now, but I believe we've got some kind of new drug being grown here, or some form of bio-terrorism being planned. We've got a whole bunch of dead animals in and around the place where the crop is growing. I don't know how they're connected, or even if they are, but I've got a bad feeling about this."
"Tell me your name again," the director said.
"Colonel Wesley Holden, Army Special Ops. Call the commander at Fort Benning, Georgia, for verification. Tell him I'm up and running, and that I'm serious as hell." Then he added, "And hurry."
"Do you have a number where I can reach you?" Collins asked.
"No. Due to a forest fire, we're evacuating this place as soon as I hang up. Call the local authorities in Blue Creek. They'll give you directions."
He hung up, then made a run for the truck.
Gideon was pale and shaking, and Ally looked as if she'd been crying. Wes shoved the old man into the seat between himself and Ally, then got behind the wheel.
“Hang on," he said. "This might be a rough ride going down.”
“Did you call the fire department?” Gideon asked.
"No."
Ally stared. "Why ever not?"
He pointed. "Look at it," he said. Flames were licking above the treetops less than a mile away, and smoke was billowing up in the sky. "Remember what you saw up there?"
Ally frowned; then suddenly she understood.
"The fire...it will kill whatever is killing the animals, won't it?"
"We can hope," Wes said. "But we can't send men up there to fight that, knowing there could be something that would put them in far worse danger."
"Dear Lord," Gideon said, and then covered his face with his hands. "My sons."
Ally's chin quivered, but she wouldn't let herself cry. Instead, she looked at Wes.
"Get us out of here," she said.
Wes yanked the truck into gear and hit the gas.
Halfway down the mountain, they met the fire crews heading up. Wes braked to a halt and briefly explained enough to the fire chief and his crew that they turned around and headed back down to Blue Creek in a hurry.
Wes put the truck back in gear and followed them, driving as fast as he dared.
Ally was so scared she felt sick. Her father had aged years before her eyes. He seemed small and shrunken as he clung to her and cried.