Chapter 3
Never should've let him go in there.
Chris consulted his watch for the third time in as many minutes, pacing back and forth beside the truck. Sweat dampened the hair that fell across his forehead and plastered the white dress shirt to his back. "Stubborn, pig-headed Texan. There isn't an ounce of self-preservation in your mangy hide."
Except that wasn't fair, and Chris knew it. Vin was cautious, deliberate, considering a problem from every angle before offering a solution. Chris had hired him for his sharpshooting skills, never guessing that Vin would turn out to be a steadying force against Buck and J.D.'s more impulsive natures. The only time he threw caution to the wind was when someone else's life hung in the balance.
Which was why Chris was so damn worried.
Vin might insist that his childhood was irrelevant, but his actions had already proven otherwise. Chris felt off balance, and not only from Vin's flippant confirmation of the abuse they'd all suspected.
Vin had known.
Chris had gone over the last hour in his head, examining every look exchanged, every word spoken, with a fresh eye. He considered Vin's reluctance to step inside the house, the way his teammate had studied Jonah with a wariness usually reserved for dangerous felons, the instant intensity of his dislike for Sinclair. Chris had dismissed it; chalked it up to Vin dragging his feet over a job he'd never wanted a part of in the first place. But now...
"Like they always say, it takes one to know one."
Almost immediately, Vin had recognized a kindred spirit in Jonah. And Chris feared that the emotional connection would cloud Vin's judgement. He wasn't concerned for Vin's personal safety; he had no doubt his friend could take the bastard in a fair fight, despite Sinclair's size. But professionally, his teammate could wind up with a formal reprimand, be brought up on charges, or even lose his job.
If what Vin claimed about Sinclair was true, Chris would be first in line to nail him to the wall. But not at Vin's expense.
His watch said Vin had been gone nearly ten minutes when Chris pocketed his keys and started for the barn. He'd taken only a few steps when the crack of a gunshot sent a flock of crows squawking for the clouds and him reaching instinctively for his weapon.
He ran around the corner of the barn, nearly colliding with Jonah, who was pale and wild-eyed with panic. He grabbed Chris's arm, tugging him toward the door.
"Help! You g-gotta come quick! There's been an accident!"
Chris let Jonah propel him a few steps before digging in his heels.
"C'mon, c'mon!" Jonah pulled harder, focused only on the open door.
"Jonah, stop!" Chris grabbed him by the shoulders, distantly aware his fingers were digging into the boy's thin arms. "Slow down. What happened?"
"Your f-friend and my dad, they...they were yelling at each other. M-my dad h-hit him and they started f-fighting. The gun w-went off!"
"Vin's gun? Are you telling me Vin shot your dad?"
"It...it was an accident." Jonah's gaze skittered away, and he again began tugging Chris forward. "He s-said come quick."
"Shit." Shrugging free of the boy's grasp, Chris yanked his cell phone from his pocket. "Here. Call 911."
He jogged up to the barn door, pausing to listen. When only silence greeted him, he moved cautiously inside, hovering near the opening as his eyes adjusted to the muted light.
Scanning the area for Vin, he walked closer to the body sprawled on the floor. Just as his eyes took in the long hair and slim build, he heard a familiar click and something hard nudged the base of his neck.
"Drop it." Sinclair at his back, his voice a smug purr. "And keep your hands where I can see 'em."
Chris hesitated, watching blood soak the dirt in an ever-widening circle. Vin's eyes were closed, his skin gray. Fury rose up in Chris. If Sinclair had already killed Vin, then what did it matter--
"Now, Agent Larabee. Your friend needs you breathing."
Sinclair's command and the almost undetectable rise and fall of Vin's chest, cooled Chris's anger to a manageable level. He tossed down his gun, glaring at Sinclair as the man circled in front of him.
"He's still alive. Let me call an ambulance and you can still avoid a murder charge."
"It's a little late for that. There's a lot more at stake here than the life of one federal agent."
Chris gritted his teeth. "Really. Feel like sharing?"
"Your friend barged in here uninvited. Unfortunately, he got an eyeful before I could send him on his way." Sinclair tipped his head at a stack of crates.
Chris nearly groaned aloud when he recognized the contents. They'd cleared Sinclair of the bombings, and all the while he had a barn full of illegal firearms. There were enough guns for a small army in those crates.
"Twenty-four hours," Sinclair said, shaking his head. "If you'd just showed up a day later those guns would've been safely in the custody of their new owner and Jonah and I would've been on our way to a new life in another state."
He motioned with the gun. "On the ground, face down, arms and legs spread." When Chris didn't move, Sinclair edged over and swung the gun downward, pointed at Vin's head. "Like you said, he's still alive. Do as you're told and he might stay that way."
Chris complied, cheek pressed to the dirt and gaze glued to Vin while Sinclair patted him down, pulling his handcuffs from his pocket.
"All right, get up--slowly." When Chris regained his feet, Sinclair toed Vin roughly with his boot. "Pick him up."
Ever mindful of the gun leveled at his head, Chris knelt beside his friend. The bullet wound was high on the right side of Vin's chest, still oozing blood at an alarming rate. Hooking his arms under Vin's he gingerly pulled his teammate to a sitting position. Vin made an inarticulate sound of protest and his head thudded onto Chris's shoulder.
"Relax. I've got you, pard." Running a soothing hand down Vin's back, Chris's heart sank. No exit wound.
"I said pick him up, not feel him up," Sinclair sneered.
"The bullet's still in there. He needs a doctor," Chris growled, glaring up at him.
"Yeah, well, you'll just have to do the best you can. Jonah!" Sinclair kept his gaze and the gun trained on Chris as he bellowed for his son. "Stop sniveling and get over here."
Chris had nearly forgotten the boy. Jonah emerged from the shadow of an unoccupied stall, Chris's phone still clutched in his hand. He cringed when his father snatched it and thrust a set of keys at him.
"Unlock the cellar."
Jonah's gaze darted between Vin and Chris and tears spilled down his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he said to Chris. "I c-couldn't--"
"Now!" Sinclair roared.
Jonah nearly tripped over his own feet in his haste to obey. Chris turned his attention back to Vin, torn between sympathy for the kid and cold anger for the way he'd been set up.
"Pick him up. I don't have all day," Sinclair said.
He tried to haul Vin upright, but his friend's legs buckled and he nearly slithered out of Chris's grasp. For several minutes he struggled to support 170-odd pounds of unresisting sharpshooter--much to Sinclair's amusement, if his smirk was any indication.
"Sorry, pard," he finally murmured, and tipped Vin across his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Disoriented and in pain, Vin fought against his restraining grip. "Easy, easy. It's me, Vin. It's Chris."
"Chris?" Vin choked on the name, his breathing harsh and uneven. "Don't...don't feel so good."
"I know. Try to stay with me." Chris grimaced at the warm stickiness spreading across his back. If he didn't get the bleeding stopped, Vin wouldn't last much longer.
"That way." Sinclair motioned for Chris to follow Jonah's path.
He spied the boy standing at the other end of the barn, shuffling his feet. As they drew nearer, Chris saw that Jonah was standing next to an open trap door in the barn's floor. Rickety wooden stairs descended into blackness. He stopped, turning slowly to Sinclair.
"You don't really expect me to take him down there."
Sinclair smiled. "You ATF boys are real sharp, aren't you?"
Chris eased Vin to the ground. "Sharp enough to realize that cellar is a one-way ticket for Vin. Do you have any idea the kind of trouble you'll bring down on you and Jonah if he dies? We're Federal agents; you'll be on the bulletin board of every police department in the country."
The smile slid off Sinclair's face as something dangerous and a little bit crazy flickered in his eyes. "And that's the only reason I haven't put a bullet in your heads. Now you two are going to sit tight down there until I conclude my business. And then--if you behave yourselves, and if I'm feeling generous--I just might make an anonymous phone call to the people who give a damn whether you keep breathing."
"You son of a bitch." Chris didn't even realize he'd started for Sinclair until a bullet flew past his right ear.
"Yeah, but I'm the son of a bitch with the gun." Sinclair inclined his head toward Vin. "Pick him up."
Furious with Sinclair and his own impotence, Chris had no choice but to yield. Vin was attempting to push himself upright, his eyes open but unfocused. Chris laid a hand on his shoulder.
"Hang on, Vin. You need to let me--"
Bright agony erupted at the base of Chris's skull. Vin slipped from his grasp and Chris toppled onto his side, his limbs heavy and uncoordinated. Two brown work boots appeared in his field of vision. The last thing he heard before losing the battle to remain conscious was Vin's low moan and the cold amusement in Sinclair's voice.
"Been wanting to do that ever since I met you, Agent Larabee."
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Somebody had smashed his head into pieces. There was no other explanation.
Chris cracked open his eyes, wincing when even the dim light pierced his head like an ice pick. Pushing himself upright with shaky arms, he had to close his eyes and breathe slowly through his mouth until the wave of nausea passed.
Cautiously, he assessed his surroundings. A single light bulb burned overhead and a few shelves lined cinderblock walls. As he fingered the lump on the back of his head and stared at the wooden steps leading to a trap door in the ceiling, his muddled brain abruptly cleared. Vin!
He turned too quickly and paid the price, almost blacking out when the throbbing beat in his head became a percussion ensemble. Vin lay sprawled on his stomach about five feet away, utterly, frighteningly still. For a moment Chris couldn't move, dreading what he might find when he did.
He didn't even notice the chain until he began crawling toward Vin. The jingle of metal and a pinch at his ankle broke through his single-minded concern and he sat back, confused. "What the...?"
Hitching up his right pant leg, Chris snarled at the handcuff clamped just above his foot. The other cuff was threaded through a five-foot length of chain securely fastened to one of the support beams. He quickly realized he'd be able to reach Vin, but not the stairs.
"You're dead, Sinclair," he muttered. "It's just a matter of time."
He placed a tentative hand between Vin's shoulder blades and heaved a sigh of relief at the regular, if rapid, heartbeat. As carefully as he rolled Vin onto his back, his friend still moaned and tried to curl into a ball.
"Shhh. Easy, Vin. Let me check you over." Chris mimicked the routine he'd watched Nathan perform time and again when one of them was injured, running his hands down Vin's arms, legs, and ribs. Palpating his belly and lower back.
From what he could tell, Vin hadn't sustained any additional injuries at Sinclair's hands. The wound was still steadily oozing blood, though the flow had slowed. Chris was pretty sure that the bullet had broken a couple of ribs--he'd felt them give a bit under the pressure of his fingertips and Vin nearly took his head off with a reflexive swing of his fist.
Sinclair's reluctance to kill them apparently didn't extend to offering help. The room was stripped bare, the shelves empty. Chris looked at his watch: 7:18. Realistically, it would be at least 18 hours before they could expect a rescue, and then only if Sinclair followed through on making that phone call. Chris wasn't so sure the odds of that happening were in his and Vin's favor.
With a hard tug, he pulled open Vin's dress shirt, sending buttons flying. He ripped away the sodden tee shirt, exposing torn and bleeding flesh. Eyelids fluttering open, Vin groaned and batted at Chris's hands when he cleared as much of the debris as possible from the wound.
"Tryin'...to kill me?"
Chris mustered a thin smile. "If I'd wanted you dead, Tanner, it would've happened a long time ago."
Vin studied his face, and Chris was relieved to see clarity in his solemn gaze. "Bad?"
"Not good." Chris peeled off his own shirt and began folding it into a pad. "Not much to work with. And I'm no Nathan."
"You'll do...do the best ya can." He caught Chris's hand. "Jonah?"
Chris jerked away, unreasonably angered. "Damn it, Vin, you took a bullet in the chest and there's not a thing I can do about it! Why can't you for once worry about yourself instead of everyone else?"
Vin just looked at him. "Jonah."
Chris blew out a gusty breath, shoulders tightening. "The kid's fine. In fact, he did a bang-up job of helping his father get the drop on me."
"Didn't have...a choice."
"There's always a choice." Chris didn't try to smooth the edge in his voice.
"Easy to say...when you've always had one."
That expression was back, the same raw vulnerability Chris had seen mirrored on Jonah's face. He looked away, swallowing hard, and resumed folding the shirt.
Vin scanned the room. "Where?"
"Cellar under the barn. Tucked out of the way so Sinclair can finish conducting his business."
"When?" Vin's voice had sunk to a raspy whisper; he was fading fast.
"Tomorrow. He says he'll call the authorities and let 'em know where we are once he's made a getaway. Right now that's looking like our best chance."
"We're...screwed."
It startled a laugh from Chris, genuine if a little weak. He sobered. "Gotta stop that bleeding, Cowboy. Only way I know to do it is pressure."
Vin's gaze drifted to the makeshift bandage. "Best not hold back then."
Chris nodded, his throat too tight for speech. He straddled Vin, pinning his friend's arms against his torso. "Here goes."
Gritting his teeth, he placed the pad over the bullet wound and pressed down firmly with the heels of both hands. Vin stiffened, dragging in a great, gulping breath and squeezing his eyes shut. Tears trickled down the sides of his face as he shuddered hard, then went limp.
Chris didn't flinch, despite the sticky warmth oozing between his fingers. He held the steady pressure until the bleeding stopped and his arms trembled with fatigue. And he imagined all the ways he'd make Sinclair sorry he'd ever met Vin Tanner.
Continued in Chapter 4