Page 9 of Lone Star Showdown

Maybe not a physical threat, but something was wrong. “I can help,” Jericho settled for saying, figuring there was a good chance he could do just that. Well, once he got dressed, that is.

Rachel hit her hand against the steering wheel. “You have to move. The killer’s going after Aunt Tilda.”

And there it was. All spelled out for him. Rachel was in the fight mode.

“When? How? Where?” Jericho demanded.

She held up her phone, and Jericho risked moving away from the front of the car so he could go to the driver’s side and read it. Yeah, she’d definitely chosen the flight option.

“Your precious great-aunt is about to take her last breath,” he read aloud from the text. “Either you or her. You’ve got thirty minutes to decide.”

Jericho quickly went through everything he knew about the situation. “I’m guessing Tilda still doesn’t own a phone?”

“She doesn’t,” Rachel verified.

No surprise. Most people at Stronghold didn’t own phones because they felt it would make it too easy to be tracked by whatever or whomever they feared or loathed. The government, cops, aliens, enemies, unwanted acquaintances, you name it. Many, many precautions were taken to keep outsiders out and insiders in.

And he could remind Rachel of that.

“Tilda is at Stronghold. The killer isn’t just walking in there.”

“No, but he could have sneaked in, maybe cut a hole in the fence.” She stopped, and he could see she was trying to fight the panic. “He went after Hildie’s daughter,” she added in a hoarse mutter.

Yeah, Jericho was aware of that. Aware, too, that he needed some pants. Along with some supplies as well, just in case this asshole had indeed managed to get into Stronghold.

“We’re taking my van,” Jericho spelled out. “It’s in the garage and equipped with everything we need. Just let me get dressed, and we’ll go take care of this.”

Rachel seemed to freeze a second, maybe trying to figure out if this was the right way to go. It was. But she was probably deciding if she could wait the three minutes or so that it would take him.

Apparently, she chose to wait because she nodded.

“Spike, open the garage,” Jericho instructed. He pointed to the black van as the garage door slid open. “Get in, and while you’re waiting on me, grab a Kevlar vest from behind the seat and put it on.”

Jericho hoped she didn’t slide back into the panic mode and drive away. She didn’t. Rachel got out of her car and ran to the van. He waited until she was in before he had Spike close the garage again.

A precaution if the killer was indeed somewhere nearby, ready to move in and strike.

He raced back into the house and dressed in what he considered his uniform. Dark camo pants and a black tee. He added his usual weapons and backups. Two guns, three knives, and his slingshot. Then, he finished off the ensemble with what every well-dressed operative wore. A bulletproof vest with a built-in tracker that would alert his boss, Ruby Maverick, if he got shot or if he was unresponsive for more than fifteen minutes.

Jericho was still adjusting everything as he went to the garage. Rachel was there, waiting. Looking as if she might do the panic thing after all.

“I’m guessing you don’t want the local cops called in on this?” Jericho asked as he got behind the wheel and opened the garage door. He drove away with a bat out of hell mindset since every second counted.

“No to calling in the cops,” she said. Again, it was the answer he’d expected. “No one in Stronghold will open the gate for the police unless he or she has a warrant.”

“True, but in this case, I happen to know the sheriff who has jurisdiction in that area. It’s Bree O’Neil. She’s involved with one of my co-workers, Rafe Cross.”

Rachel seemed to consider that for a moment. “They were the investigators in the triple murder case that was on the news a couple of months ago.”

“They were.” Jericho had been, too, but unlike Bree and Rafe, he’d managed for once to keep his name out of the media. Press was rarely a good thing in his line of work. “Bree’s solid,” he added.

That was true. Ditto for Rafe. But Jericho wasn’t the least bit surprised when Rachel shook her head again. She also latched onto the grip handle above her door—AKA the oh-shit stick—as he maneuvered the curves of the country road.

“I think we’d get there faster than any cop could,” she said.

Jericho would see to it. They’d get there and get the attention of someone who could let them in to check on Tilda. That would be the easy part. A loud honking horn would be enough of an alert. Whoever responded would likely recognize Rachel. Might recognize him, too. And any responder would know Tilda and would no doubt want to verify she was indeed all right.

But there were some not so easy parts of this.

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