He couldn’t allow the man to reach the door to the shed. He strained his legs to their full length. Charging across the scrub grass, he ignored the sweat that dripped from his face.

The guard reached the first gate.

Lockhart raced nearer.

The guard reached the second gate.

Lockhart had seen the difficulty that the guard had experienced when trying to shoot through the three fences. Continuing to rush forward, he simultaneously veered toward the lane.

Need to shoot through the open gates, he thought.

A hundred yards.

Abruptly the guard stopped walking toward the tiny building.

Does he hear me? Lockhart worried.

The guard turned, but instead of looking in Lockhart’s direction, he came back and reached for the first open gate. As he started to close it, he froze at the sight of Lockhart racing toward the lane.

Lockhart stopped, raised the M4, fought to control his breathing, and leveled the rifle’s sights on the target. His exertion made his arms unsteady. Years of combat training enabled him to brace his muscles and keep the barrel from wavering.

The guard raised his weapon and tried to shoot first, but nothing happened-he’d used all his ammunition when he’d fired at the air- plane. He turned and ran toward the middle gate.

Lockhart pulled the trigger. The selector switch on his rifle was set to deliver bursts of three shots. The first group missed. He took a deep breath, held it, and fired again.

The guard lurched but kept running. He passed through the second gate and headed toward the final one, each frenzied step taking him farther away, making him a more difficult target.

Lockhart fired another burst, and again the guard seemed to lurch. But he made it past the open-backed truck, disappearing into the darkness beyond the shed’s open door.

Cursing, Lockhart fired into the void of the door. His ammunition ran out, so he ejected the empty magazine, pulled a fresh one from his duffel bag, slammed it home, freed the bolt, and fired yet again through the open door.

Then he realized how out in the open he was and what an excellent target he made now that the guard had been given the opportunity to reload. He darted to the left of the lane, stopping where the three lines of fences provided some cover, and dropped to the ground, making himself a smaller target.

Unfortunately, while the fences gave him some protection, potentially deflecting bullets, they also protected the guard.

Lockhart studied the open door.

I hit him twice. I’m almost positive. He’s probably bleeding to death in there.

The void taunted him.

Sure. It’s just a matter of time. I’ll wait for a while and let him bleed out. After that, there’ll be no problem getting inside.

Right. No problem.

Abruptly the door was slammed shut.

In the weakening light, Lockhart stared at it. Cautiously he stood, walked to the lane, and went through the three open gates. He looked for blood on the lane but didn’t see any.

I didn’t hit him after all. He just stumbled.

Aiming his weapon, he approached the closed door. It was solid metal. Yesterday, when he’d arrived with Colonel Raleigh and the team, he’d noticed how thick it was. He had no doubt that it locked automatically, just as he had no doubt that similar thick metal lined the entire concrete structure. The pad next to the door would require a specific sequence to unlock it, and it wouldn’t matter if the colonel knew the numbers that had been used yesterday-the guard would almost certainly have changed that sequence by now.

Even if I had grenades, I wouldn’t be able to get through that door, Lockhart thought.

He studied the ground again but didn’t see any blood.

He walked to the open-backed truck and smelled the corpses before he saw them.

To vent his frustration, he shot the security camera above the door and a security camera on one of the fence poles. There were plenty of others to destroy, and he did so, one after the other. Now the guard wouldn’t be able to see what he was doing, but the destruction didn’t really accomplish anything because Lockhart had no way of getting inside.

The colonel isn’t going to be happy.

Lockhart waited several seconds before making himself reach for the two-way radio in the duffel bag.

61

Page landed as softly as he could, keeping the nose wheel off the ground as long as possible so the injured woman wouldn’t feel a jolt. He taxied from the runway toward the airport’s adobe office, where the man in frayed coveralls stood waiting.

After shutting off the engine, Page quickly got out, tilted the seat forward, and eased the woman from the back seat. She remained unconscious.

The man in the coveralls rushed to help.

“The ambulance is on the way,” he said as they set her gently on the pavement, using the Cessna’s shadow to keep her out of the sun.

Page heard the wail of approaching sirens.

“The Highway Patrol’s on its way, too,” the man said.

Page didn’t look forward to that conversation.

Tori and the reporter joined them.

Tinted by the red light of the sunset, the reporter faced him.

“I didn’t get a chance to introduce myself.” He had the television camera on his shoulder, and it took some effort for him to hold it with his left arm while he extended his right hand. The sleeve of his suit coat was torn. “Brent Loft.”

“I know who you are,” Page said.

Loft missed his tone, evidently pleased that Page recognized him. “And I certainly know who you are.”

“Excuse me?” Page asked.

“You have red hair,” Loft said, turning to Tori. “You’re the couple I’ve been looking for-Daniel and Victoria Page, from Santa Fe. I’ve done my homework. You stopped the shootings on Thursday night.”

“Is that camera still on?” Page asked.

“It’s worthless if it isn’t.”

Page had been through so much that his emotions nearly over- whelmed him. His need to shield Tori almost made him yank the camera from Loft’s hands and hurl it onto the concrete.

The approaching sirens helped him keep control.

He took a deep breath.

“Can’t this wait? It’s not something we want to talk about right now. We saved your life. With luck, we got your friend back here in time. Isn’t that worth something? Give us a break.”

Loft glanced in the direction of his unconscious companion and nodded. As he turned back to Tori, the sirens wailed closer.

“I have only one question.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

“Really. Just one question.”

“What is it?” Tori demanded. “I’m tired of hiding from you. Let’s get this over with.”

“I can understand how your husband was able to do what he did. He’s a professional, trained to take charge in emergencies. But you’re a real estate agent. In your place, most people would have panicked. Somehow you found the strength to pick up a pistol and stop the gunman. Your courage was remarkable. How on earth were you able to do that?”

“There wasn’t a choice,” Tori answered. “He was trying to kill my husband.” She looked directly at Page, then back to the reporter. “How could I not have tried to protect my husband?”

“So you’re saying it was love that gave you courage?” Loft asked.

“Yes.” Tori looked again at Page. “Love gave me courage.”

Loft lowered the camera and studied each of them. “Thank you for saving Anita and me.”

The sirens became terribly loud. An ambulance sped into view and skidded to a stop next to the airport’s office, followed closely by a Highway Patrol car. Attendants jumped from the ambulance, hurrying to unfold the wheels of a gurney. One carried an emergency kit as they rushed toward the woman lying on the pavement.

Medrano got out of the patrol car, put on his Stetson, straightened to his full height, and took powerful strides toward Page.