Page 69 of The Fixer and the Fugitive

“Get off my property. I’ll send you a bill for the damage you’ve caused,” Celeste said.

He smiled. “I don’t think you understand, sugar. We’re not leaving until we get what we came for. Your boyfriend needs to know he’s not welcome here. We don’t like that type.”

“You’re the one who is not welcome. This is your last chance to leave.” She glanced at the smaller man behind him, obviously his toady. He grinned back with the spacy dimness of one not used to thinking for himself. “And take your trash with you.”

“That’s hardly friendly,” the oaf said. “Me and Jed, we want to have some fun. We’ll get to him, but now that I think about it maybe we should start with you. After all, you’re the one who brought him here. Maybe you need to be taught a lesson about staying away from the wrong kind.”

“If you like. I haven’t had fun in too long myself. Of course, I think our definitions are different,” she said. She withdrew her gun. Jed, the idiot on standby, shifted nervously. The oaf simply smiled.

“Aw, you’re not going to need that. You best put it away before someone gets hurt.”

“I didn’t expect to agree with you on anything, but here we are. I’m going to slip it back in my ankle holster.”

The oaf turned to Jed. “She got an ankle holster. Ain’t that cute? Girls these days think they’re so tough. They ought to teach them better, though. Strength always wins.” Celeste bent over to refasten her gun. As she stood up, the oaf’s hand shot out and gripped her bicep like a vise. She looked at his fingers.

“You should let me go,” she warned.

“I don’t think so,” he said, smiling. “Let’s go back behind the barn and have some fun.” He began tugging her, back stepping toward the barn.

“I prefer to have fun right here,” Celeste said. She was still half bent over with the knife she’d retrieved from her ankle. She used it to slice the tendon at the back of the man’s knee. With a scream he went down, landing hard on his useless knee. Celeste grabbed him by the hair at the top of the head and peeled his head back, pressing the tip of her knife to his windpipe until it drew blood. “I’m going to give you one more chance to get off my property.”

He flailed, trying and failing to grab her and fling her away. Being small and fast always worked to her advantage. She knew how to stand, how to hold herself just so, always darting and flitting out of range. By now the pain in his knee had to have fully registered, the realization that he could no longer stand, that he might never stand again.

“Shoot her,” he called to Jed. “Shoot her and get her off me.”

Jed shifted uncertainly, vacant cow eyes flicking from Celeste to the oaf and back again.

“You heard what he said. Shoot me,” Celeste commanded.

Shaking now, Jed raised his gun and fired, as slowly and clumsily as everything else about him suggested, so slow italmost felt like slow motion to Celeste as she moved out of the way, putting the oaf in the bullet’s path instead. By the time his body hit the dirt, she had her gun back out and trained on Jed.

“Drop it,” she said, and he did. His gun clattered uselessly to the ground as he stared at the oaf.

“Is he dead?” tears and snot leaked out of every hole on his face.

Celeste didn’t answer because she didn’t know. At the moment her priority was securing the man who was still standing. “On your knees.”

“Don’t kill me,” he pled, fully blubbering now. He dropped to his knees and put his hands on his head. Behind him she rolled her eyes. Clearly he had seen one too many mafia movies. Still, it was a handy reach for her to secure his hands with a zip tie and she did so, securing his feet and trussing them together like a calf. And then she stood over him, finger jutting in his face like a warning.

“When the authorities get here, you let me do the talking, do you understand? They’re going to take you to jail, but if you think I can’t get to you there, you’re wrong. You’ll let me handle this, or I’ll track you down and finish the job. Are we clear?”

He nodded and turned his face to the grass, using it to wipe away the messy goo that covered him. Celeste checked the oaf. He had a pulse, but it was weak. She debated the merits of finishing him and found none. He was in God’s hands now. If he made it, he made it. If not, so be it. Anything beyond this point would be a step beyond justice and into vengeance, something she swore an oath against years ago.

A truck barreled down her long driveway. Celeste shaded her eyes as recognition hit: Sam must have called Elliot. Overhead she heard the distinctive hum of an airplane. It swooped low and dropped something, either water or chemical foam that subdued the raging fire in her orchard. Too late, though. Half of her dryand decrepit trees had already succumbed. She turned her back, not wanting to see the destruction.

Elliot screeched to a halt and hopped down. “Celeste, are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” she said. Belatedly she realized he might find her placid tone odd or off-putting. After all, her orchard was in shambles, she’d spent the last hour or so under siege being shot at, a half dead man lay at her feet, another tied up like the world’s worst Thanksgiving turkey.

Elliot regarded her in silence, one eye blinking slowly as he took in the scene. “I see,” he said at last, and she wondered if he did. He had been in the army. He had to have garnered at least a passing acquaintance with the sort of training she’d had. “What do we have here?” He toed the oaf with his heavy boot before squatting next to him, checking for a pulse.

“They wanted Sam,” Celeste explained.

“And they got you instead,” Elliot said, darting her a wry smile.

She shrugged, aiming for innocence. “My land, my rules.”

“Now you sound like a true Montanan,” he said. “So what happened?”

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