13. Mara
MARA
“Stay behind me.”
I stare at Doc.
Bullets are hitting the outside of the building, glass is scattered across the floor, and somehow the man still has enough energy to irritate me.
“No.”
“Mara.”
“No.”
“This isn't the time.”
“Then stop wasting it.”
Trigger laughs from behind an overturned metal cart.
Doc looks at him.
“Something funny?”
“Grant.”
One word.
Doc's expression changes.
“What about him?”
Trigger grins. “He'd punch you.”
“For what?”
Wolf fires through the broken window, then drops back behind cover.
“Pick one.”
I laugh.
I can't help it.
Doc stares at all three of us as if he's seriously reconsidering coming back to Eagle River.
Another bullet slams into the concrete wall.
Sheriff Tate shouts from near the doorway.
“Could everyone save the family reunion until people stop shooting at us?”
“Good idea,” I say.
Doc points toward the steel table.
“Stay.”
I point my weapon toward the door.
“Go.”
His eyes narrow.
Mine do too.
Hampton crawls behind the cabinet.
“I understand Grant much better now.”
“Shut up, Hampton,” Doc and I say together.
Trigger laughs again.
This time even Wolf joins him.
I’m beginning to understand why Grant loved these men.
“North side!” a deputy shouts over the radio.
Tate crouches beside the broken window.
“How many?”
“Two shooters confirmed. Possible third near the tree line.”
Two.
Maybe three.
This isn't Hampton improvising another escape.
Someone came prepared.
I look toward the file box on the floor.
They came for Site Seventeen.
“Sheriff!”
Tate looks at me.
“They aren't shooting at us.”
Doc follows my gaze.
“They're shooting at the building.”
Another round punches through the window and strikes the steel cabinet.
Hampton dives aside.
“They want the files,” he says.
“No,” I answer.
He looks at me.
“They want to destroy them.”
A second later, something crashes through the broken window.
Small.
Metal.
Rolling across the concrete.
Doc sees it first.
“Move!”
He grabs me.
Again.
We dive behind the steel table as the device erupts.
Not an explosion.
Fire.
Flames race across the floor.
“Incendiary!” Wolf shouts.
The old papers catch immediately.
Hampton lunges toward File Seventeen.
Doc catches his jacket.
“Leave it!”
“We need those records!”
“You'll be dead with them!”
Smoke rolls toward the ceiling.
Trigger grabs one of the file boxes and throws it toward the door.
Wolf catches it.
Sheriff Tate points at him.
“Out!”
“We can save some of this.”
“Out!”
Another incendiary device crashes through the window.
This one lands beneath the cabinet.
Flames climb the wall.
We’re out of time.
I grab the photograph of Grant from the floor.
Doc sees me.
“Mara!”
“I have it!”
He grabs my hand.
Together we run.
We burst through the south exit into gunfire.
Deputies return fire from behind their vehicles.
“Down!”
Sheriff Tate pulls me behind an SUV.
Doc lands beside me.
Wolf and Trigger make it out seconds later carrying one file box between them.
Hampton comes last.
He has two.
Of course he does.
Sheriff Tate stares at him.
“I told you to leave the files.”
“I have selective hearing.”
Trigger points at him.
“I like him.”
“You hated him an hour ago,” Wolf says.
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain a head injury.”
“Same thing.”
Despite the smoke burning my lungs, I laugh.
Doc looks at me.
“You think that's funny?”
“Yes.”
“You ran through a burning building for a photograph.”
“You ran through gunfire because someone groaned.”
“That's different.”
Trigger raises a hand.
“There it is again.”
Doc glares at him.
A deputy shouts from the other side of the SUV.
“Shooter moving east!”
The humor disappears.
I peer around the rear tire.
Movement near the tree line.
Black shirt.
Rifle.
I raise my weapon.
The man disappears behind a truck before I have a clean shot.
“Two moving toward the road!” another deputy calls.
Sheriff Tate speaks into his radio.
“East team, intercept. Do not pursue beyond the perimeter.”
Doc looks at me.
“He's letting them go.”
“He's keeping deputies from running into another ambush.”
Doc nods.
He knows Tate is right.
So do I.
I still hate it.
An engine roars.
A dark pickup tears away from the trees.
State police vehicles move to intercept.
Then a second engine starts.
A motorcycle.
Hampton's face changes.
“That's not theirs.”
“What?”
He stands.
Doc grabs him and pulls him back down as another round cracks overhead.
“Whose is it?”
“Kane.”
Everything stops.
“You saw him?” Doc asks.
“No.”
“Then how do you know?”
“The motorcycle.”
Hampton points toward the road.
“Daniel Kane has ridden the same make for twenty years.”
Trigger looks at Doc.
“The Kane from Grant’s journal?”
Doc nods.
The motorcycle disappears behind the trees.
My pulse races.
Another man from Grant’s past.
Another man who apparently isn't where he should be.
“Was Kane supposed to be dead too?” I ask.
Doc looks at Hampton.
“No.”
Hampton answers for him.
“Worse.”
“What does that mean?”
“He's supposed to be in federal prison.”
Of course he is.
I close my eyes.
“Does anyone Grant knew have a normal life?”
Wolf answers from behind me.
“We own a tavern.”
Trigger looks at him.
“People throw furniture in it.”
“Occasionally.”
“Last week.”
“It was a stool.”
Doc makes a sound.
I turn toward him.
His mouth is twitching.
“Was that a laugh?”
“No.”
“It was.”
“Smoke inhalation.”
“You're blaming smoke?”
“Seems reasonable.”
I grin.
Then the roof of Site Seventeen collapses.
The sound wipes the humor away.
Flames rise into the morning sky.
Fifteen years of evidence disappears with it.
Not all of it.
Wolf and Trigger saved one box.
Hampton saved two.
And I saved Grant.
I look down at the photograph still clutched in my hand.
My brother stands outside this building fifteen years ago.
Alive.
Smiling slightly.
He had no idea I would someday stand in the same place.
Or maybe he did.
Not this place.
Not this moment.
But he knew me.
He knew if someone threatened the people I loved, I would come looking.
Doc kneels beside me.
“Let me see.”
“I'm fine.”
“You have blood on your hand.”
I look down.
A cut crosses my palm.
Glass.
“It's nothing.”
His expression changes.
I sigh.
“Fine.”
He takes my hand.
Everything around us seems to quiet.
His thumb moves gently beneath the cut.
“You'll live.”
“That's reassuring.”
“You may lose the hand.”
I stare at him.
He looks completely serious.
Then I see it.
The smallest hint of amusement in his eyes.
“You're making a joke.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I don't joke about medicine.”
“Liar.”
His thumb is still against my palm.
Neither of us moves.
For one second, the fire, the deputies, Hampton, and fifteen years of secrets disappear.
There is only Doc.
Colin.
I haven't thought of him that way before.
Colin Shaw.
Not my brother’s medic.
Not the Ranger who disappeared.
Not the man carrying Grant’s dog tags.
Colin.
His gaze drops to my mouth.
My heart stumbles.
Then Sheriff Tate walks past us.
“Not beside the burning building.”
I jerk my hand away.
“Sheriff!”
“What?”
Doc looks down.
I swear he's trying not to laugh.
Tate continues walking.
“I have eyes.”
Heat climbs into my face.
Trigger calls from somewhere behind us.
“So does the whole county.”
“I will shoot all of you.”
Wolf answers, “That's generally frowned upon for deputies.”
Doc finally laughs.
Actually laughs.
And God help me, I love the sound.
The fire department arrives before the last flames die.
By noon, Site Seventeen is a smoking shell.
The shooters escaped.
So did Kane.
But we have three boxes of records.
Sheriff Tate isn't letting Hampton within ten feet of them.
Hampton isn't happy.
I consider that a benefit.
We gather around the hood of Tate’s SUV.
Captain Miller has been transported to the sheriff’s department under guard.
Parker is stable at the hospital.
Trigger continues insisting his head is fine.
No one believes him.
Sheriff Tate opens the first rescued box.
“Before anyone touches anything, photographs.”
I pull out my phone.
Hampton reaches toward a folder.
Tate slaps his hand.
Hampton stares at him.
“Did you just slap me?”
“Yes.”
“I'm fifty-three years old.”
“Then you're old enough to follow instructions.”
Wolf turns away.
Trigger doesn't.
He laughs directly in Hampton’s face.
Hampton looks at Doc.
“Are they always like this?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you come back?”
Doc looks at me.
My pulse jumps.
He answers Hampton without looking away.
“I'm beginning to wonder.”
Liar.
Sheriff Tate photographs the contents.
Financial records.
Personnel sheets.
Shipping manifests.
Most mean nothing to me yet.
Then Wolf pulls out a folder.
“Here.”
The label reads:
FILE 17
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL
He opens it.
Names.
Real ones this time.
Six.
Elias Hampton.
Fred Miller.
Daniel Kane.
Three others.
Doc reads them aloud.
“Martin Cross. Samuel Price. Robert Vance.”
“Do you know them?” I ask.
“No.”
Hampton does.
I see it immediately.
“You know all three.”
“Yes.”
“Where are they?”
“Cross died seven years ago.”
“Actually died?”
Hampton looks offended.
“Yes.”
“Forgive me if death certificates have lost some credibility.”
Wolf snorts.
“What about Price?” Doc asks.
“Missing.”
“And Vance?”
Hampton doesn't answer.
Sheriff Tate looks up.
“Mr. Hampton.”
“I don't know.”
“You hesitated.”
“Because Robert Vance is the one man on that list I never found.”
Doc's expression hardens.
“Why does that matter?”
“Because Vance worked directly for the Colonel.”
Silence.
“Name?” I ask.
“I told you. I don't know.”
“But Vance did.”
“Yes.”
Sheriff Tate removes another document.
“This one has an address.”
Hampton goes still.
“What?”
Tate reads it.
“Robert Vance. Eagle River, Texas.”
No one moves.
I think I heard him wrong.
“What?”
Sheriff Tate turns the paper toward us.
There it is.
Eagle River.
A local address.
My town.
Wolf takes the document.
“That road doesn't exist anymore.”
“Where was it?” I ask.
He looks at me.
“McKinley Road.”
The pasture behind Mom's house.
Cold moves through me.
The cottonwoods.
The creek.
The place where the first shooter stood.
Doc sees the realization on my face.
“He's been here.”
“Maybe for years.”
Hampton swears.
“What?” Doc asks.
“Vance wasn't missing.”
He looks toward the remains of Site Seventeen.
“He was waiting.”
My phone rings.
Unknown number.
No one jokes this time.
I answer.
“Deputy Ellis.”
Silence.
Then a man's voice.
“You have something that belongs to me.”
“Who is this?”
“You already know.”
I look at Doc.
“Vance.”
Hampton's face changes.
The voice continues.
“You found Grant’s box.”
My hand tightens around the phone.
“Yes.”
“And I have the key.”
Everyone around me goes still.
There it is.
The man who entered my house.
“What do you want?”
“What Grant took from me.”
“I don't know what's inside the box.”
“But I do.”
“Then tell me.”
He laughs softly.
“No.”
“Where are you?”
“Closer than you think.”
The call ends.
I lower the phone.
Doc is already moving toward me.
“What did he say?”
I look past him.
Beyond the road.
Beyond the smoking building.
Toward Eagle River.
“He has the key.”
Hampton closes his eyes.
Wolf swears.
Sheriff Tate reaches for his radio.
Doc looks at me.
“What else?”
I hear Vance's words again.
Closer than you think.
“He's in Eagle River.”
Doc's expression goes cold.
This time, when he reaches for my hand, I let him take it.
Robert Vance has Grant’s key.
We have Grant’s lockbox.
And for the first time in fifteen years, every surviving piece of my brother’s secret is in the same small Texas town.
Whatever Grant hid inside that box?—
Someone is willing to kill all of us to get it.