How do you survive being shot and left for dead in the Chihuahuan Desert? By being found by a beautiful wildlife photographer willing to risk her life to save yours.
A bitter ex-cop fights for his life after he runs to the sound of gunfire on the Ri...
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Character Designs by Dana Nicole Joiner
A slender tree with tender, soft-green shoots bowed beneath a steady wind, carrying with it fine silt from newly plowed fields on the plains. The sky was the color of the earth.
Normally, the wind beckoned to Mendocino. He yearned to be back outside, to feel sun on his skin, the wind on his face. But not wind with blinding, stinging sand. He'd be content inside until the dust storm passed, sitting in the cloth recliner wearing navy blue pajamas Patty bought for him. They were so much more comfortable than the gown.
Sipping coffee from a ceramic hospital mug, Mendocino opened the Sunday newspaper that accompanied his breakfast. Unfolding the newspaper, discarding the advertisements, Mendocino straightened his back seeing the front-page headline. In bold type across the front page, Double Murder in Big Bend.
The writer interviewed rafters who saw the bodies of a man and woman near the Rio Grande River earlier in the week, describing the scene as horrifying. The victims had not been identified and investigators would not say how they died. Foul play was suspected. Hackles rose on the back of his neck and his scalp tingled as he read on. "Authorities will not release the identity or condition of a third person found nearby. Asked if the person was a victim or suspect, a spokesperson for the FBI declined to comment. The individual is hospitalized; being held in protective custody."
The print on the paper blurred as Mendocino's mind vapor locked. Son of a bitch. His jaw clenched in anger. He wadded up the paper and chunked it across the room. They'd left him for dead. Now, they'd know he survived. He was in the only hospital he knew of between Pecos and El Paso. They did it, anyway. They used me for bait. His ears were ringing, and his heart pounded furiously. He strode across the room, jerked the door open, and stepped into the corridor.
A uniformed guard sat in a straight-back wooden chair by the door. Anyone walking through the hospital could see the patient in Room 133 was being guarded. It wouldn't be hard to relay his location to the people who shot him.
"Who are you?"
The guard flinched. "John Wilson." He stood. "I've been assigned to guard you, sir."
The kid was barely able to grow facial hair. Who in hell thought he could protect himself, much less anyone else? "Who do you work for?"
"Triple A Security."
The kid was so rigid Mendocino thought he might salute. "Who hired Triple A Security to guard me?"
The guard hesitated. "I couldn't say, sir, even if I knew."
"You in the academy?"
"Yessir, I work for Triple A while I'm going through the police academy."
"Get another line of work!" Mendocino tried to slam the heavy hospital room door, but it had one of those slow-release hydraulic hinges. His effort was wasted, making him even madder. He plopped down in the recliner. Bad move. Too jolting. The now-familiar fire shot through his chest, infuriating him further. He was so sick of the pain.
