The Full Story. Dawn Stewardson

should put ice on that,” Mickey said.

      Before he could tell her he didn’t have time to waste on first aid, she added, “Why don’t you go sit down and I’ll get some.”

      Sitting down struck him as an excellent suggestion. But since his cell was lying on the kitchen counter, and he didn’t trust her not to grab it and call her editor, he followed along to make sure she wouldn’t, his head only hurting a little more with each step he took.

      He picked up the phone and clipped it to his belt, thinking that even though his plan to lure the killer here had worked, the end result sure wasn’t what he’d been hoping for.

      So now he was back to square one, and there wasn’t a chance in the world of that guy giving up. He’d try something again, just as soon as he had a good opportunity—which, unless Ken lucked out in New York, could well be tomorrow morning.

      “Here,” Mickey said, handing him some ice wrapped in a dish towel.

      “Thanks.” He pressed the ice pack to his temple, saying, “I’ve got to make a call.”

      That was her cue to give him privacy, of course, but when she pretended not to pick up on the hint, he couldn’t be bothered making a big deal out of it.

      Since she already knew the basic story, what would it matter if she listened in on the next installment?

      He got hold of Ken and asked whether he’d found Billy yet.

      “Still working on it,” he said. “But I have to admit I’m losing hope. Anything happen there?”

      “Yeah, and it wasn’t pretty.”

      He began filling the other man in, trying not to think that Ken must figure he was an idiot.

      What else would he think, though?

      It was just a good thing he was the type to keep quiet. Because Dan O’Neill setting a trap for a killer, and then entirely missing the guy’s arrival, was so much not the norm for him that a lot of people would find it too damn funny.

      After he finished relating the basics of what had happened, Ken said, “Are you still hearing bells?”

      “No, I’m fine now.”

      And that was only a slight exaggeration. He was feeling a lot better than he’d been a few minutes ago.

      “But Billy sure isn’t going to be fine,” he added. “Not if this guy gets to him before we do.”

      “And we don’t have any more idea of who we’re up against than we did before,” Ken said.

      “Uh-uh. His mask was the kind that pulls down over the head. So all I know is that he’s average height, average build, and hits like a heavyweight.”

      “You think he’s going to hear about Billy being on Sherry Sherman’s show?”

      “Yeah, I think there’s a real good chance. Even if he’s still thinking Billy’s holed up here, he wouldn’t come back. He’ll realize that his first visit put me on high alert, which would make a second one too dangerous. So now he’ll start planning a different approach. And he’ll hear about the show as soon as he begins nosing around for fresh information.”

      “I assume you’ll be leaving for New York right away, then.”

      “As soon as I can get a flight. I didn’t have a chance to check on them, but I’ll just head to the airport and take whatever’s available.”

      “Well, I’ll keep looking here.”

      “Right. And I’ll call you again later.”

      “So,” Mickey said as he clipped the phone to his belt once more. “We’re on our way to New York now.”

      We? He almost laughed.

      Did she figure that getting punched in the head had given him amnesia? That she’d be able to convince him he’d agreed to more than he had?

      If so, she was about to be very disappointed.

      “I’m going to New York,” he told her. “Alone.”

      “But—”

      “No,” he said firmly. “Our deal wasn’t that you’d go along. It was that, if I went, you’d stay here and get your exclusive once the excitement was over. And that you wouldn’t breathe a word about the story until then.”

      “But things have changed.”

      “Meaning?”

      She shrugged. “Meaning I kept you from getting killed. I probably did,” she added before he had the chance to correct her.

      “Plus, that ice is working wonders. I can hardly see any swelling now. So all in all, you owe me.”

      Ah. She was trying emotional blackmail this time around.

      “Maybe I do,” he admitted. “But I don’t owe you a trip to New York.”

      He set down the ice pack and picked up the semiautomatic she’d put on the counter, then started toward the front door.

      “Wait a minute,” she said.

      He kept walking, not even remotely surprised when she followed him.

      “Look,” he said, stopping a few feet short of the door. “This isn’t open for discussion. My gun’s outside and I’m going to get it. After that, I intend to throw a few things into a suitcase and—”

      “So you’re expecting to be in New York for a while?”

      “No, I doubt I’ll be there long. But the only way I can get a gun on a plane is in checked luggage.”

      “People can still do that? Doesn’t airport security X-ray everything these days? Whether it’s checked or not?”

      “Uh-huh. But my stuff gets special treatment.”

      “What?” she said, looking as if she figured he was delusional.

      He simply shrugged. He didn’t care whether she thought he was crazy, and he had no intention of getting into any hows and whys with her—although the “arrangement” his company had for transporting guns was really a blessing.

      It wasn’t always easy to acquire the sort of weapon you wanted when you’d just arrived in a city.

      “You mean,” she was saying, “that you can walk into any airport, carrying anything you like in your luggage and—”

      “I didn’t say anything I like. I said guns. Now let’s drop it, okay?” he added as he took a few final steps to the door.

      Cautiously he opened it and surveyed the clearing, virtually certain the killer wouldn’t have hung around but not wanting to take any chances.

      Then he glanced at her again, and said, “Would you mind waiting inside?”

      For once, she did as he asked and simply stood in the doorway while he collected his Glock.

      As he headed back up the porch steps, she said, “I could be a big help in New York.”

      “I told you it wasn’t open for discussion,” he reminded her.

      “Then we won’t discuss,” she said, trailing after him when he started toward his room. “I’ll talk and you just listen.”

      TURK HAD RUN like hell almost the entire way from Billy Brent’s place back to where he’d left his rental car—hidden down an old pull-off that was so overgrown it couldn’t have been used in years. For a city slicker, he’d done well to even spot it.

      He climbed into the driver’s seat and took his Beretta from the glove compartment in case things went even further off course.

      Then he powered down the windows, thinking that he hadn’t had such a close call in…hell,