Blind Tiger by Sandra Brown

That prospect was more terrifying to her than the actuality of Gert, who was standing over her, loading shells into her shotgun. When she snapped it closed, she crammed the barrels beneath Laurel’s chin.

And Laurel’s last thought: I love Thatcher.

* * *



Thatcher stared at the emptiness at the bottom of the staircase.

Laurel was unhurt. She’d gotten herself to safety.

No. If she’d been able to respond to his shouts, she would have. Unless she hadn’t wanted to give away her position to…Gert.

Gert hadn’t been behind the bar reloading. She’d abandoned Bernie to fight it out with Bill while she was settling her grudge against Laurel.

But if Gert had fired the shotgun, he would have heard it. Laurel would be dead at the bottom of the stairs. Gert had a reason for keeping Laurel alive.

Hostage.

Okay, so where had Gert taken her?

The back room. Had to be.

Thatcher processed all this within a millisecond. By the time he’d completed the last thought, he was already moving in the direction of the back room. But as he reached the open space at the end of the bar, he was met with a hail of bullets.

He fell back and ducked under the counter. He waited, breathing hard but as quietly as possible. He would be no help to Laurel dead.

His mind tapered down to the single purpose of killing Bernie Croft. Now.

Gun hand extended, he stood up and moved into the space at the end of the bar, intentionally making himself an easy target. Croft was lying on his back in a pool of soda pop and his own blood. He must’ve spent all his bullets in that last barrage, because the pistol lay on the floor at his side.

Thatcher drew a bead on him.

Croft’s eyes showed stark fear, but he couldn’t speak for the blood bubbling from his mouth. He was frantically clawing with both hands at the multiple bullet wounds in his torso. His bloody watch fob kept getting in the way of his futile attempts to stanch the gushers of blood.

It would be a mercy kill. To hell with that. Thatcher lowered his gun. “Scotty!”

Scotty and the two other deputies rushed in, weapons drawn.

Already on the move, Thatcher said, “See to Bill. Croft’s gut-shot.”

“Dead?”

“Yeah. He just hasn’t stopped breathing yet. Two of you follow me.”

Thatcher ran into the dark, narrow passage behind the bar that led to the back room. “Laurel!” He tried the door. It was locked. “Laurel!”

He put his shoulder to the door. It burst open just as two gunshots were fired.

* * *



“You’re my ticket out of here, princess.” Gert yanked Laurel to her feet and began hauling her across the room toward a rear door.

Having taken several blows to the head, the sudden movement sickened her. Bile filled the back of her throat, but she knew that with that disgusting rag in her mouth, she would choke to death if she retched. She forced down the fiery bile.

The shooting in the front room had stopped. She heard scuffling footsteps and shouting, but the only distinct word she heard was her name.

Hearing Thatcher’s voice coming nearer spurred her, imbued her with energy she would have thought unattainable. More than that, it filled her with die-hard determination not to let this ogress defeat her.

She jammed her feet against the floor, trying to halt or slow Gert’s progress.

“Move! I’ll shoot you!”

Laurel didn’t believe she would. She was Gert’s bargaining chip, but only for as long as she stayed alive.

A thumping noise came from beyond the door behind them. “Laurel!”

“Shit!” Gert muttered.

Try as she might, Laurel couldn’t match Gert’s strength, and they reached the back entrance. She still held the shotgun beneath Laurel’s chin, but Laurel thought that if she could hold out for just a moment longer—

Gert reached around her and pulled open the door.

Corrine was standing within two feet of the threshold.

Taking advantage of Gert’s surprise, Laurel lunged sideways.

Corrine stretched out her arm and fired two rounds point-blank into Gert’s throat.

* * *



Thatcher crashed through the door in time to see Gert drop the shotgun. She clutched her throat with both hands and staggered backward as blood spurted from between her thick, tobacco-stained fingers. She landed on the floor like a felled redwood, her eyes wild.

Even before they went unseeing, Thatcher was kneeling beside Laurel and yanking a rancid dishcloth out of her mouth. In seconds, he had her hands untied. He ran his hands over her to reassure himself that she was intact.

She placed her hands on his chest, saying in a rush of breath, “She caught me at the foot of the stairs and stuffed that cloth in my mouth. I couldn’t call out to you.”

He pulled her to him and placed his chin on the crown of her head. He looked at Corrine. “How’d you get here?”

“Irv and them deputies setting up the roadblock got into an argument over who was moving what vehicle first. It got to be a real pissin’ contest. Ain’t that just like men? I run off while they weren’t looking.”

She grinned and extended her hand, palm up, on which lay the small Derringer. “I come to give Miss Laurel her pistol back.”





Sixty



The J.P. was summoned to declare Bernard Croft, Jimmy Hennessy, and Gertrude Atkins dead. Lefty, who seemed relieved rather than upset to learn that Gert had departed this life, was taken in for questioning and to sleep off his bender. He would keep Gabe Driscoll company in the cell block that night.