Wyoming Bold. Diana Palmer

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СКАЧАТЬ laughed. “What a lucky man, to be marrying a woman like that.”

      “Yes, I am. We’re getting married tomorrow, in fact.” Hayes chuckled. “And going on our honeymoon to Panama City for a few days. Next week is Christmas, so we have to be back by then. You married?”

      “No woman in Wyoming crazy enough to take me on,” Tank said dryly. “Both my brothers are married. I’m just waiting to be snapped up by some kind passerby.”

      “Good luck to you.”

      “Thanks. Keep safe.”

      “You do the same. Nice talking to you.”

      “Same here.”

      Tank hung up and went looking for his brother Mallory. He found him in the living room, by following the exquisite sound of a score from a popular movie. Mallory, like Tank himself, was a gifted pianist. Mallory’s wife, Morie, was better than both of them.

      Mallory noticed his brother standing in the doorway and stopped playing with a grin.

      Tank held up a hand. “I’m not conceding that you’re better than me. I was just thinking, however, that Morie puts us both in the shade.”

      “Indeed she does,” Mallory replied with a smile. He got up. “Problems?”

      “Remember I told you what Merissa said, about a sheriff in Texas whose case was connected to the shooting I was involved in?”

      Mallory nodded, waiting.

      Tank sighed. He perched himself on the arm of the sofa. “Well, it turns out that there actually is a sheriff in Texas who was kidnapped by a drug cartel—maybe the same cartel that shot me up.”

      “Son of a gun!” Mallory exclaimed.

      “His name is Sheriff Hayes Carson. There was an assassination attempt against him by one of the drug lords he arrested, just before Thanksgiving. He and his fiancée were kidnapped by some of El Ladŕon’s men and held across the border in Mexico. They escaped. But Carson says he had a run-in with one of the drug cartel henchmen before that. There was a DEA agent in a suit who was at the scene. The local police chief’s secretary saw the guy, and has a photographic memory, but even when the police artist drew him, neither Carson nor the feds could recall him.”

      “Curious,” Mallory murmured.

      “Yes. I remembered, after Merissa came here, that it was a DEA agent, in a suit, who led me into the ambush on the border.”

      Mallory let out a long breath. “Good God.”

      “Merissa says the same guys are coming after me because they’re afraid of what I’ll remember. The damnedest thing is, I don’t remember anything that would help convict someone. I only remember the pain and the certainty that I was going to die, there in the dust, covered in blood, all alone.”

      Mallory got up and laid a heavy, affectionate hand on his shoulder. “That didn’t happen, though. A concerned citizen saw you and called the law.”

      He nodded. “I vaguely remember that. Mostly it was a voice, telling me that I’d be all right. Had a Spanish accent. He saved my life.” He closed his eyes. “There was another man, arguing with him, telling him to do nothing. It was too late—he’d already made the call by then. I remember the other man’s voice. He was cussing. He had a Massachusetts accent.” He laughed. “Sounded like old history tapes of President John Kennedy, actually.”

      “What did he look like?”

      Tank frowned. He closed his eyes again, trying to remember. “I just vaguely remember. He was wearing a suit. He was tall and very pale with red hair.” He started. “I never thought of that.” He opened his eyes and looked at Mallory. “I think he was a DEA agent.” He frowned. “But why would he tell the other man not to get help for me if he was a fed?”

      “Was he the same one who took you out there?”

      Tank frowned. “No. No, it couldn’t have been him. That guy, the DEA guy, had dark hair and a Southern drawl.”

      “Did you describe him to the sheriff?”

      Tank got up. “No, but I’m about to.”

      He picked up his cell phone, found Hayes Carson’s number in the stored files and autodialed the number.

      It only took three rings before Hayes answered. “Carson.”

      “It’s Dalton Kirk, in Wyoming. I’ve just remembered a man who called for help when I was shot. There was another man with him who tried to stop him from calling 911. The other man was tall, with red hair and a Massachusetts accent. Does that sound anything like the man you remember?”

      Hayes actually laughed. “No. Our guy was tall and sandy-haired and had a slight Spanish accent.”

      “A Spanish guy with blond hair?” Tank chuckled.

      “Well, people from Northern Spain are often blond and blue-eyed. Some have red hair. And they say the Basque people of Spain settled in Scotland and Ireland.”

      “I didn’t know that.”

      “Neither did I, but one of our federal agents is a history nut. He knows all about Scotland. He told me.”

      “This whole thing is really strange. The man who led me into the ambush was tall and dark-haired. The man who was with the guy who called 911 was a red-head. But I remember them both wearing the same suit.” He shook his head. “Maybe the trauma unseated my memory.”

      “Or maybe the man uses disguises.” Hayes was thinking, hard. “Listen, did you ever see that movie The Saint that starred Val Kilmer?”

      Tank frowned. “Once, I think.”

      “Well, the guy was a real chameleon. He could change his appearance at the drop of a hat. He could put on a wig, change his accent, the whole deal.”

      “You think our guy might be someone like that?”

      “It’s possible. People who work in the covert world have to learn to disguise themselves to avoid detection. He may have a background in black ops.”

      “If I knew somebody in military intelligence, I might be able to find out something about that.”

      “We have a guy here, Rick Marquez. He’s a police detective in San Antonio. His father-in-law is head of the CIA. I might be able to get him to check it out.”

      “Great idea. Thanks.”

      “I don’t know if he can find out anything. Especially with the odd descriptions I’ll have to give him.”

      “Listen,” Tank said quietly, “it’s worth a try. If he’s ever used disguises in the past, there’s a chance somebody will remember him.”

      “It’s possible, I suppose. But in covert work, I don’t imagine using disguises is exactly a rare thing,” Hayes said. He hesitated. “There’s another interesting connection, in my case.”

      “What?”

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