Rocky Mountain Rescue

Patrick opened the door. “Is something wrong?” he asked.

“Oh!” The clerk looked startled. “I, uh, I thought this was Ms. Jackson’s room.” He frowned at the number on the next door over—Patrick’s room.

“Ms. Jackson is fine,” Patrick said. “What did you need?”

“One of the guests called the front desk and said they heard gunshots coming from this room.”

“They must have heard a car backfiring.” The lie came easily; no need to involve this clerk until Patrick had made up his mind how to handle this.

“They sounded really certain.”

“I think I’d know a gunshot, don’t you?”

“Of course. Of course.” He tried to see past Patrick, into the room. “And Ms. Jackson’s okay?”

“She’s fine. But she’s not dressed for company.” He winked and the clerk blushed red. No doubt the guy thought Patrick’s story about conducting surveillance on Stacy had been an elaborate cover for an affair.

“I’ll just, uh, get back to the front desk.” The young man backed away. “If you need anything, just, uh, call.”

Patrick shut the door and hooked the security chain, then returned to the bathroom. Stacy had moved from the shower to the toilet, where she sat on the closed lid, head in her hands. She looked up when he entered the room. “Who was that?”

“The front-desk clerk. Someone reported gunshots.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I told him it was probably a car backfiring.” He knelt in front of her. “Now tell me everything that happened.”

She took a deep breath. “When I woke up, he was already in the room. He must have had a key or something, because I never heard a thing. Carlo was sleeping beside me and the guy already had hold of him, pulling him out of bed. That’s what woke me.”

She put the washcloth back over the gash, which had slowed its bleeding. “I screamed and he ordered me to shut up. I was terrified, finding a guy in my room like that. ‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘What are you doing with my son?’

“‘Carlo is coming with me, Mrs. Giardino,’ the guy said. ‘If you know what’s good for you, you won’t interfere.’”

The guy might as well have told the sun not to shine. “Was there anything distinctive about his voice? An accent or anything like that?”

She frowned. “Not really. I mean, he sounded American, but not from anyplace in particular. He told me if I called the police he would kill Carlo—that if anyone followed them, they’d cut his throat.” She bit her lip, fighting fresh tears.

“What did you do?” Patrick prompted.

“I tried to pull Carlo away from him. Carlo woke up and started crying. I wouldn’t let go of Carlo, so the guy hit me.” She winced, whether in real or remembered pain, Patrick couldn’t say. “I staggered back and he grabbed me and threw me in here, then ran out with Carlo. I heard more shooting in the parking lot.”

“He was firing at me. Your screaming woke me. I tried to stop him, but he was using Carlo as a shield. I couldn’t get off a good shot.”

“He wore a mask,” Stacy said. “A ski mask. I couldn’t see his face. But his voice didn’t sound familiar.”

“There were two of them,” Patrick said. “The driver was a big, bulky guy. The one who snatched Carlo was slighter. The car was a dark sedan with mud smeared across the license plate.”

“You saw them! Then you could find them.” Her eyes lit up with hope. “They won’t suspect you—you’re not in uniform, or driving a cop car. They probably don’t even know you’re here. I didn’t, so why should they?”

“Except they shot at me. And I shot back.”

“But they wouldn’t have gotten a good look at you. Please, Patrick. Say you’ll help me.”

Only a colder man than him could have been immune to the pleading in her eyes. He wanted to promise her that he’d find Carlo, and soon. That he would protect them both from whoever was threatening them. He wanted to make that promise, but the knowledge that he might not be able to keep such a vow held back the words.

“Let’s go back to my room and take care of that cut on your head,” he said. “Then we’ll decide what to do.”

He found Stacy’s coat and purse and draped them over her shoulders, then steadied her while she slipped into her boots. The gash had stopped bleeding and though she’d probably have a heck of a headache for a while, he hoped the damage wasn’t more serious.

He led her to his room and shut the door behind them. She sat on the bed he hadn’t slept in. “You’ll be safer here with me,” he said.

“I wasn’t safe tonight. How did they find me?”

“If we can track you by your phone, they can, too.”

She stared at the purse on the bed beside her. “Should I destroy the phone?”

“Not yet. The kidnappers may try to reach you through that number.”

“Do they want money?” she asked. “Is that what this is about—ransom?”

“If they knew the Giardino family, they know Sam had money. Maybe they want to take advantage of his death to get their hands on some of it.”

“Then maybe they won’t hurt Carlo.” Fresh tears filled her eyes and she covered her mouth with her hand, as if to hold back sobs.

Patrick squeezed her shoulder. “I know it’s hard, but you need to pull yourself together. For Carlo’s sake.”

She nodded and made an effort to compose herself. He pulled out his phone again. “Who are you calling?” she asked.

“My office. I want to find out if anyone has noticed any unusual activity related to other people we’re tracking in this investigation.”

“You can’t tell them. The kidnapper said—”

“I won’t do anything I think will endanger Carlo. Why don’t you go into the bathroom and clean the rest of the blood off your face while I make the call.”

She glared at him, but stood and did as he asked. While she was out of the room, he’d talk to his supervisors about getting her into WITSEC right away—before the people who’d come after Carlo decided to come after her, too.

* * *

STACY STARED AT herself in the hotel bathroom mirror. She looked horrible—no makeup, blood matting her hair, an ugly bruise forming above her left eye. But what did it matter, with Carlo gone? Who would have taken him? Some enemy of the Giardinos, intent on revenge? Someone after money? She closed her eyes against the pounding in her head and tried to think, but her mind offered up no answers.

She debated eavesdropping on Marshal Thompson’s phone call, but she didn’t really want to hear what he had to say. And she needed to stay on his good side—he was the only one who could help her find Carlo. He’d seen the men who’d taken her boy, and he had weapons and a car and she presumed some training in tracking people. She wasn’t going to do better right now.

She told herself she ought to be angry he’d followed her to Durango, but if he hadn’t, she’d really be stuck with no one to turn to. And he’d been a decent enough guy. He’d listened to what she’d had to say and hadn’t tried to order her around as if he automatically knew what was best. That was a change from the men she was used to dealing with.

Not that he wasn’t all man. A woman would have to be half-dead not to notice those broad shoulders and muscular arms. He was taller and bigger than any of the Giardino men; she felt like a shrimp next to him. But that was okay. Being around him made her feel...safe. Something she hadn’t felt in a long time.

He knocked on the door as she was washing the last of the blood out of her hair. She grabbed a towel and wrapped it around her head, turban fashion, and opened the door. “What did they say?” she asked.