Avenging Angel

Peg’s voice had softened to a whisper as she tucked both hands in her pockets and stared at the smoldering ashes. One side of her jacket hung lower than the other and obviously held a heavy cylindrical object like a flashlight. The thought of Peg wandering around her beloved property in the dark dressed in what looked like her late husband’s old coat made Elle’s throat swell.

Peg added, “But that has nothing to do with you. I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

“You didn’t do anything, Peg. You just expressed your opinions and—”

“I called your father.”

Elle closed her eyes and rocked back on her heels.

“I was just so blasted mad! Víctor Alazandro is one of those people who destroy everything and everybody they touch.”

Elle took a steadying breath. The judge wasn’t home, he was here, in Nevada, Peg couldn’t have talked to him. It was okay.

Peg said, “Mike told me your father was staying at the Lakefront Inn. So I called his room early this morning. Woke him up, but I had to do something. I told him you were leaving this morning with Alazandro. He said something about over his dead body and hung up the phone and then I saw you down here and I know I should have minded my own business, but it’s too late now. I wanted to tell you about this myself. Before he got here and—”

Elle grabbed Peg’s arm. “The judge is coming here?”

Peg nodded miserably. “There’s only one way out of this mess,” she said. “It’s up to me.”

Elle didn’t know or care much what Peg meant by that. She grabbed her duffel bag and took off toward the dirt parking area located by the largest stable. That’s where Pete and Alazandro would arrive. She glanced at her watch. It was almost six.

What would the judge do?

Threaten her? Threaten Alazandro? Would he say something that would alarm Alazandro enough to make him back out of taking her to Puerta Del Sol with him?

Of course he would.

She glanced back to ask how long ago Peg had talked to the judge. It took twenty minutes to drive here from town and if he’d been asleep, he would have had to dress—

Peg was nowhere in sight.

Elle scanned the area around the hay barn until a movement twenty feet above the ground at the opening used for loading feed drew her attention. Peg stood in the shadows, the flashlight in her hand.

Elle turned away and took a few more steps before realizing what she’d seen wasn’t a flashlight.

Peg was holding a gun. Most likely the .357 Magnum her husband had kept in the gun case located behind his big oak desk. Peg had bragged about him teaching her to shoot it….

At that moment, Elle heard a car on the gravel road and spun around to find a sleek sedan pulling into the parking area, Pete behind the wheel, Alazandro beside him in the passenger seat.

She ran as fast as she could, determined to get to the car before either man got out. She was closest to Alazandro’s side.

As the thinning verge turned to dirt, Elle skidded on the last of the dewy grass, landing on her knees, the duffel bag jarred from her hand. Pete and Alazandro opened their respective doors.

She looked up to see both men staring at her. Before she could utter a word, sunlight glinted off something on the hillside opposite the barn, behind the car. Narrowing her eyes, Elle saw the long barrel of a rifle. Behind it loomed a red truck.

The judge drove a big four-wheel-drive Dodge Ram, candy apple red. Gun rack in back. Vintage Winchester .401 caliber autoloading deer rifle always at hand….

She screamed a warning and ducked her head as a shot rang out and a bit of earth at Elle’s knee exploded. Covering her head with her arms, she saw Alazandro dive back into the car as more shots seemed to come from every direction. Pete was suddenly at her side, grabbing her arm, yanking her to her feet. She lunged toward her duffel bag until another shot took a bite out of the ground an inch from her boot.

To hell with the duffel bag.

She ran ahead of Pete who seemed to be one step ahead of gunfire. The driver’s door stood ajar. Pete all but threw her inside where she quickly climbed between the seats into the back, aware of Alazandro sitting crumpled with his head against the dashboard. Pete climbed in after her. The gun still clutched in his hand, he started the car, revved the engine and turned the wheel sharply to take off back down the gravel road.

Gasping for breath, Elle looked out the rear window.

Which one of them, Peg or the judge, had just attempted to murder Víctor Alazandro?

And as she looked at Alazandro’s slumped figure, a new thought surfaced.

Had they succeeded?

Chapter Four

What the hell was going on?

Pete glanced in the rearview mirror. His gaze collided with Elle’s. Wide brown eyes met his gaze and shied away.

“Are you okay?” he demanded.

She nodded.

She’d been worried that standing too close to Alazandro might be dangerous and she’d been right.

As far as Pete knew, there had never been a death threat made against Víctor Alazandro. That piece of fiction had been created by the DEA right before the staged shoot-out during which Pete had rescued Alazandro from a crazed gunman. Agent Ben Kipper had made a very believable, wigged-out drug addict firing blanks at Alazandro until Pete had single-handedly subdued him.

Alazandro hired him on the spot.

Still, Pete could understand someone taking shots at Alazandro. Peg Stiles came readily to mind. But would Peg shoot at Elle? No way.

That left Elle’s adopted father who Elle had told him was in the area last night. That meant the man had to love her enough to come to Tahoe to try and talk to her about something she obviously didn’t want to talk to him about, but hate her enough to take potshots at her when she blew him off.

Again, no way, it didn’t add up.

Someone had tried to kill Alazandro and hadn’t cared a whole lot who else they hit.

What was needed, of course, was a crime scene investigation. Collection of spent shells. Bullet trajectories. Witness interviews. All of that was as good as lost because Pete couldn’t break cover to call in the cops.

As he steered the car onto the main highway, he darted a quick look at Alazandro. Blood trickled down his forehead, ran along his cheek. “Sir?” Pete said, almost choking on the word.

Without looking up, Alazandro responded in a shaky voice. “Is it safe now?”

“Yeah,” Pete said. “You’ve been hit,” he added.

Alazandro’s voice was shaky as he mumbled, “I bashed my head when you shoved me into the car. It’s my arm that hurts like hell.” He turned in his seat. His left hand clutched the sleeve of his right arm. Blood soaked the tattered cloth between his fingers. The suit was history.

Following a gasp, Elle said, “The hospital is about fifteen minutes away. Take a right when you get to the second intersection—”

In unison, Pete and Alazandro said, “No!”