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“Shoot me a text if you need a lift back.”
Booth patted the roof. “Will do. Thanks for the lift. And for the chat. It helped.”
Houston waved and turned the corner, heading toward Ember.
Booth waited until the truck topped the hill and disappeared before he took off down the road to the abandoned Western town that had been rebuilt and redressed for the movie this summer.
The walk was good. Fresh air. Summer sun. Jagged tops of the Kootenai mountains as the perfect backdrop for the little town.
He kicked a rock and sent it skittering across the wooden sidewalk.
Booth heard a noise. He stopped midstep and listened.
Grunting. A hard knock. The sound of a fist hitting flesh. A moan.
He raced down the sidewalk. His boots thudded a steady beat on the worn wooden planks. The jail’s small window allowed Booth to peek inside.
A battered Crispin came into focus. He’d been tied to a metal chair. Bound by his hands and feet. Beaten, his face swollen and purple.
“Where is it!” A man with greasy brown hair wore tattered jeans and a threadbare shirt. He stood about six feet away with a gun pointed at Booth’s former partner.
This wasn’t Walsh the arsonist, and it wasn’t Floyd. It was someone Booth didn’t recognize.
“I’m not afraid to end this right here!” The way the man’s hand vibrated as he thrust the gun out toward Crispin said otherwise.
Crispin flicked his gaze to Booth, eyes flashing with anger.
Booth’s muscles coiled.
Decision time.
He crouched and duckwalked toward the doorway. Pressed his back to the wall. No time for second-guessing. He had to save Crispin.
Booth burst into the room. Ran flat-out and sacked the gunman from behind.
A grunt erupted as, together, they slammed into the floor in a tangled mess of limbs. Booth roared and wrestled the attacker, trying to pin him down. The gun went flying. It clattered across the wood planks and slipped between the bars of the jail. The attacker scrambled for it, but Booth grabbed his ankle and dragged him backward.
The gunman rolled over and smashed his other boot into Booth’s stomach. A low growl escaped Booth’s throat.
From his chair, Crispin strained against his bindings, rocking his chair back. Booth tossed the small pocketknife he always carried into Crispin’s lap. He put himself between the gunman and Crispin.
The attacker backed up. “Who are you?”
That was the question Booth had been wrestling with for months. But not the response this guy was looking for. “I’m the guy who’s taking you to jail.”
The man sneered. “I don’t think so.” He charged Booth.
Booth caught him by the shoulders and spun him into the wall. The attacker cried out as his nose smashed against solid wood. Blood bubbled out of his nostrils.
Crispin rocked the metal chair forward, sending it crashing into the gunman’s legs. The attacker cursed and stumbled into the jail bars. He dropped and stuck his hand through the slats.
“No!” Booth ran for the man, jumping over Crispin, who’d just freed himself.
He was too slow.
The attacker grabbed the gun, rolled over, and aimed it at Crispin.
A gunshot blasted.
