Lethal (Lee Coburn)

That was a lie. If Tom had told her anything before leaving for that meeting, he’d have told her that he was to meet Honor, because that’s who Tom had expected to be there. Tom hadn’t been around later to tell her differently.

She’d learned it from somebody else. Who? Not the agents who would have been sent to notify her of her husband’s death. They wouldn’t have known. Even Hamilton hadn’t known until about a half hour ago when Coburn himself had told him what had transpired at the railroad tracks.

The only people who could have told her were the ones he’d spotted near the tracks, the ones who’d planted the bomb and who’d been there to make sure it did what it was supposed to—obliterate Tom VanAllen and Honor.

Honor was begging her to call for help. “He’s going to die,” she sobbed.

“That’s the point,” Janice VanAllen said coldly.

“I don’t understand how you can blame Coburn. He’s a federal agent like your husband was. Tom was only doing his job, and so was Coburn. Think of your son. If Coburn dies, you’ll go to prison. What will happen to your boy then?”

Suddenly Coburn sagged forward and groaned through clenched teeth.

“Please, let me help him,” Honor implored.

“He’s beyond help. He’s dying.”

“And then what? Are you going to shoot me, too? Emily?”

“I won’t harm the child. What kind of person do you think I am?”

“No better than me.” Saying that, Coburn cut a vicious swath with Stan Gillette’s knife, which he’d slid from his cowboy boot while hunched over. It connected with Janice VanAllen’s ankle and, he thought, probably had sliced through her Achilles’ tendon. She screamed. Her leg buckled, and when it did, he found enough strength to topple her with a push from both his feet.

“Honor!” He tried to shout, but it came out barely a rasp.

She practically fell out of the car, seized the pistol that Janice had dropped while falling, and aimed it dow

n at her, ordering her not to move.

“Coburn?” she asked breathlessly.

“Keep the gun on her. Cavalry’s here.”

Honor realized that squad cars were speeding toward them from a dozen different directions. The first to reach them bore the sheriff’s office insignia. Stopping the vehicle, the driver laid rubber on the pavement. He and his passenger, Stan, were out of the car in a flash. The uniformed man had his pistol drawn. Stan was carrying a deer rifle.

“Honor, thank God you’re all right,” Stan said as he ran up to her.

“Mrs. Gillette, I’m Deputy Crawford. What happened?”

“She shot Coburn.”

Crawford and two fellow deputies took over guarding Janice, who was writhing on the pavement, clutching her ankle and alternately groaning in pain and cursing Coburn. Others who were now out of their cars ran over to Doral’s corpse.

Stan reached for Honor and hugged her. “I forced Crawford at gunpoint into bringing me along.”

“I’m glad you’re here, Stan. See to Emily, please. She’s in the backseat.” Honor pushed herself free of his hold and shouted for the EMTs scrambling out of the ambulance to hurry, then dropped to her knees beside Coburn.

She touched his hair, touched his face. “Don’t die. Don’t you dare die.”

“Hamilton,” he said.

“What?”

He nodded and she turned. Two black Suburbans were disgorging officers wearing assault gear, along with a man who looked even more intimidating than they, although he was dressed in a suit and tie.

He made a beeline for her and Coburn, although his eyes darted about, taking in the various elements of the grisly scene. “Mrs. Gillette?” he said as he approached her.

She nodded up at him. “Coburn is badly wounded.”