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The Bridgeland hunting cabin had more than one dirt track leading to it due to the four-wheelers often used to access it.
Dawg wiped his hand across his brow, his gaze locked on the van ahead of them until Cranston made the turn. The coil of fury and fear iced in his gut then.
Dawg pulled his handgun from the holster at his back and checked the clip. Replacing it, he pulled the extra clips from the supply Cranston had tossed in the back, checked them quickly, then loaded the bulletproof vest before pulling it on and strapping the sides in place.
God bless Layla Matcher’s heart. If it hadn’t been for her standing at the window and seeing Jim Bedsford forcing Crista into that van, then Dawg would have never found her.
Cranston had been watching for Johnny Grace in the main customer parking lot. It was evident that no one had expected Bedsford to move this fast or to do so without Johnny physically backing him.
“Bedsford had the contacts for the black market buyers,” Cranston told him. “We found that out only in the past twenty-four hours. The Swedish mercenary making the buy finally made a deal with the federal prosecutor. He didn’t have Bedsford’s name, but he had enough information for us to ID him. He spent his time in the Army making contacts in the black market and setting up weapons deals. ”
“You should have been on the ball, Cranston. ” Dawg strapped a backup weapon to his ankle and stuffed several spare clips for it into another pocket of the vest. “You fucked up. ”
“Information was slow coming in. ” Cranston shook his head. “Our sources do have other things they’re working on as well, you know. ”
“You fucked up. And if Crista gets hurt, then you’ve really fucked up. Because I’ll kill you. ”
Dawg didn’t let free the fury burning in a small corner of his mind. He kept it bottled, kept it contained. He couldn’t afford it now, not when logic and clear thinking alone were going to get Crista through this.
His cell phone beeped.
“Give me the goods,” he answered with the order to Natches.
“I’m positioned in one of the pines beside the cabin on the side Bedsford’s van will have to use.
Johnny’s here in full Crista disguise. Hell, Dawg, he looks hot. ” There was murder in Natches’s voice.
“Want me to draw a little blood?”
“Hold tight. Cranston has a transmitter in that damned pocketbook Johnny’s carrying as well as in the wig. I’ll be in place before Bedsford gets there. We’ll go in together. ”
“Here. ” Cranston tossed him an earbud. “We’re close enough to use these. Tell Natches to put his in place now. Don’t fuck with me, Dawg. This is a team play, not a vendetta.
”
“Use the earbud, Natches. ” Dawg grinned back at Cranston through the rearview mirror. The sight of that smile had the special agent’s gaze flickering.
Attaching the communications device, Dawg activated it, then tested it quickly before disconnecting the phone. Cranston and Dane were both similarly wired as, Dawg assumed, the rest of the team was.
“Now, we’re all here,” Cranston spoke into the device.
“Now I can tell you I’m going to kick your ass personally when this is over, Cranston,” Natches spoke through the ear receiver. “Didn’t I warn you about pulling surprises on us, man?”
Cranston grunted. “Keep your finger off that trigger, Natches, and your eyes on Grace. Let’s at least get a little evidence against these bastards before we start shooting. If you don’t mind, that is?”
“And if I mind?”
TWENTY-THREE
Natches kept his sniper rifle trained on Johnny and his finger on the trigger. That finger twitched. He wanted to kill the bastard so damned bad it was all he could do to hold back. It ate at his gut with a power that nearly gave him indigestion.
Johnny Grace. He was a first cousin. He had been raised with them when he was younger, until he, Rowdy, and Dawg figured out that Johnny was more like Natches’s father than the gentle, smiling father Johnny’d had.
Ralph Grace, before his death, had managed to keep his wife and his son in check. After his death, though, Nadine and Johnny had revealed the vicious, evil streak they possessed.
He caressed the trigger of his rifle as he trained his sights on Johnny’s forehead. Fucking bastard.
God, how he hated Johnny. It was a hatred that nearly rivaled the hatred he had for his own father, Dayle Mackay.
