Wyoming Bold. Diana Palmer

“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?”

      “My fiancée’s father, her real father, is one of the biggest drug cartel leaders on the continent.”

      There was a very significant silence on the other end of the line.

      “He helped us shut down El Ladŕon,” Hayes added quietly. “And he saved the man’s family who helped rescue me and Minette. For a bad man, he’s something of a closet angel. They call him El Jefe.”

      “A sheriff with an outlaw for a future father-in-law,” Tank said. “Well, it’s unique.”

      “So is he. I can ask him to dig into his sources and see if he can come up with anything, like a budding politician with drug cartel ties.”

      “That would be a help. Thanks.”

      “I’m just as much involved as you are. Stay in touch.”

      “I’ll do that. And we should both watch our backs in the meantime.”

      “Couldn’t agree more.”

      * * *

      TANK’S NEXT MOVE was to drive over to Merissa’s house through the blinding snow. What he wanted to talk to her about wasn’t something he was comfortable discussing over the phone. If there was an assassin after him, he might monitor calls. Anyone in black ops would have that talent.

      When he pulled up at the front door of the small cabin, Clara, Merissa’s mother, was waiting there. She smiled as Tank got out of the truck and came up the steps.

      “She said you’d come,” Clara said with a sheepish smile. “She’s lying down with a migraine headache,” she added worriedly. “She woke up with it, so the medicine isn’t working very well.”

      “Medicine from a doctor?” Tank asked softly, and with a smile.

      Clara lowered her eyes. “Herbal medicine. My grandfather was a Comanche shaman,” she said.

      His eyebrows arched.

      “I know, I’m blonde and so is Merissa, but it’s true just the same. I had a little boy just after I had Merissa. He died—” she hesitated, still upset about it after all the years “—when he was just a week old. But he had black hair and dark brown eyes. It’s recessive genes with Merissa and me, you see. Our coloring, I mean.”

      He moved a step closer. He noticed that Clara, like Merissa, immediately backed up, looking uneasy.

      He stopped dead, frowning. “Recessive genes.”

      She nodded. She swallowed, relaxing when she saw that he wasn’t coming closer.

      “Clara, I don’t really know you well enough to pry,” he began softly, “but it’s noticeable that you and Merissa start backing away from me if I come close.”

      Clara hesitated. Oddly, she trusted Tank, even though she barely knew him. “My...ex-husband...he was scary when he lost his temper.” She managed a laugh. “It’s an old reflex. Sorry.”

      “No offense taken,” he replied gently.

      She looked back up at him with wide green eyes the same shade as Merissa’s. “I divorced him, with help from our local sheriff—the one before this one. He was so kind. He got help for us, sheltered us through the divorce and made sure my ex-husband left not only the town, but the state.” She managed a weak smile. She swallowed, not dealing with it well, even now. “We were always afraid of him, when...when he got mad. He was big, like you. Tall and big.”

      Tank looked into her eyes. “I’m a teddy bear,” he told her with pursed lips. “But if you tell anybody on my ranch that, I’ll send an email to Santa Claus and you’ll get coal in your stocking.”

      Clara, shocked, burst out laughing. “Okay.” She sobered. “Merissa says the man who led you into the ambush is coming.”

      His face hardened. “When?”

      “It doesn’t work like that,” she said. “It’s why you can’t prove it scientifically, because experiments under scientific control very rarely work. It’s sporadic. I know things, but they’re usually nebulous in my mind and I have to interpret what I see. Merissa is much more gifted than I am. It’s made her the subject of much cruelty, I’m afraid.”

      “I heard about that. May I see her?”

      “She’s not well...”

      “My older brother Mallory is subject to migraine headaches. He has high-powered medications that can prevent them if they’re taken in time. The ones he wakes up with, though, don’t even