Legacy of Evil door Sharon Buchbinder
Legacy of Evil
Beschrijving
When a wild mustang is shot in Montana, renowned horse whisperer and telepath, Emma Horserider, is called in to calm the herd and find out what happened. Once on scene she is almost killed by a bullet-spewing drone, and calls her black ops brother for back-up. Emma's help roars into her life covered in tattoos and riding a Harley. Remote viewer Bronco Winchester takes the assignment because he is ordered to, but he wonders what type of assistance, his boss's sister needs. That is until he sees Emma, a valiant Warrior Woman proud of her Crow heritage. Posing as a married couple, Emma and Bronco go undercover to infiltrate and stop a hate group. Both are anxious enough without the now growing attachment they feel for one another. When the lives of many are on the line, they are not sure if they will live or die — let alone have a chance at love.
Hoofdstuk 1
Feb 4, 2022
Prologue
Wild Mustang Ranch, Montana/Wyoming Border
Emma Horserider pressed the gas pedal of her battered pick-up truck like a NASCAR driver in a dead heat with the devil. She hoped no mountain goats decided to go for a walk in the middle of the road winding around the side of the rocky cliff. She didn’t have time to stop and wait for the stubborn beasts to decide if they would charge her truck or get out of the way. She was on a mission to protect the horses she loved and help to keep them unfettered by human saddles and reins.
The call from Margie Hunter, the long-time director of the Wild Mustang Ranch, had been frantic, almost incoherent, “Terrible. Slaughtered. Horses panicked. Get here fast!”
A lump rose in her throat, and tears threatened at the recollection of Margie’s grief-strangled message. She shook her head.
“None of that nonsense, Horserider. Marines don’t cry. Semper Fi!” As she shouted out the last words with a defiant whoop, she rounded the last bend in the road. Stunned at seeing the gates closed, she skidded to a halt in front of the white truck with the ranch logo parked dead center in the way. A string bean of a man in a worn Stetson, boots, and shearling vest leaned against the hood of the vehicle, a shotgun cradled in his arms.
“Holy crap.” She’d never seen anyone bearing arms out here, much less standing guard. Things must be even worse than she thought. Grateful she’d brought her trusty Mossberg, Emma rolled down her window.
“Thank God you’re here, Miss Emma.” Ralph, the director’s aged right hand man removed his hat and dragged the sleeve of his red plaid shirt across his pleated brow. “This is the worst thing I’ve ever seen in my life.” The creases on his sun-weathered face deepened. “We have no idea how it happened. No one’s been up here except the employees.” He pointed at the video camera mounted on the gatepost. “Nobody came through this gate last night. No one.”
“Let me get in, see what’s going on.”
Shoulders sagging, he nodded and opened the gate. “Talk to them, Miss Emma,” he called as she drove through. “They trust you.”
Much as she kept her gift under wraps from the outside world, here in this equine sanctuary, everyone knew of her special bond with the animals. Her ancestor, Beautiful Blackfeather, would have called it horse medicine. Her brother Bert called it telepathy, in keeping with his work as Director of Homeland Security’s Anomaly Defense Division. No matter what other people called this ability, Emma had been born with an unbreakable sacred bond with horses, one handed down through generations of the Crow or Absaalooke people. When old age, sickness, or injury carried a mustang away, it was hard on the entire herd. But…
Death by violence?
She shivered. Every member would be traumatized. She had to get in there and communicate with the alpha mare, her best link to find out what happened and calm them.
The rutted road came to an end, and Emma stopped the truck next to Margie’s four-wheel drive. Pulling on a denim jacket and slinging the tactical shotgun scabbard over her shoulder, she glanced inside the SUV for signs of Margie’s whereabouts. A backpack and walkie-talkie lay on the seat. She reached in and keyed the radio.
“Margie, you out there? It’s Emma.”
Static, then muffled noises that sounded like sobbing.
“C’mon back?”
A sorrow clogged voice responded. “Oh, Emma, I’m so glad you’re here. I’m over the rise, with him…” Her voice faded.
Emma climbed a boulder strewn hillside and scanned the lush green valley below. A speckled horse lay on its side, and a woman knelt by its head, stroking its muzzle. A geyser of curses in English and Crow erupted from Emma’s lips.
Powderkeg. The stallion had battled with every other male in the herd and had passed his distinctive gray spots on a white background to each of his offspring in varying patterns, so they knew exactly which youngsters were his.
Emma took deep gulps of crisp, cold air scented with the hardy prairie grasses and began the hike down the hillside to Margie and the victim. Horses huddled together in clusters away from the stallion’s body—like mourners at a funeral—standing a discreet distance from the dearly departed. Mares encircled their foals, nickering, whinnying, and nipping at little ones when they attempted to exit the protective barrier. Halfway to Margie, she locked gazes with the alpha mare, a blue roan named Indigo. The horse cantered over, and Emma threw her arms around Indigo’s big neck, locking her fingers in her mane. Foreheads touching, she whispered, “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Indigo shook her head and chuffed.
“What happened?” Emma closed her eyes, and the image of a large silver bird came into her mind. It dove down, buzzed the herd, and flashes of fire shot out. The horses reared up on their legs, wheeled away from the thing and bolted, but the mechanical monster pressed down on them and followed Powderkeg. One shot hit the mustang, then another, then a burst of gunfire slammed into him until the big stallion crumpled to his knees and fell. Full scale panic ensued—and the machine disappeared into the clouds.
Overwhelmed with grief, Emma broke the connection. Unbidden, tears poured down her cheeks onto Indigo’s forelocks and muzzle. Just as she began to regain control of herself, something whined in the distance. Indigo’s ears flattened, and she jerked out of Emma’s hands. The herd, which had just begun to settle down, neighed and shuddered into action. The adults bolted with their youngsters, leaving Margie and Emma exposed and vulnerable.
Emma screamed, “Lie down next to Powderkeg and stay there!”
The unmanned aerial vehicle—a drone—dropped out of the sky. Sun reflected a blinding flash on glass, telling Emma the thing had a camera aimed straight at her—and was coming closer. The outcropping of rock was her best bet for cover. She turned and sprinted across the valley, but tripped and fell head first into a hummock of grass, pumping up her heart rate and kicking her military training into higher gear. As she leaped to her feet, a staccato burst of bullets tore into the grass ahead of her, throwing dirt into Emma’s face. The sound of the drone receded, as she raced for the boulders, and seemed to be moving away from her. Then the buzz grew louder. The machine circled back and came right at her like an angry raptor.
“It’s my turn, you bastard.” Emma drew the pre-loaded Mossberg out of the holder, pumped, aimed, and fired six times at the dancing metal dragonfly. She nicked it—but that only seemed to make it more intent on aiming back at her. She dropped to her knees and covered her head. If only she could get a message to Bert—
A thunder of hooves shook the ground, and a shadow fell over her. She looked up.
“Indigo! No! Save yourself—take care of the herd!”
The big blue mare snorted, shook her head—and screamed.
“No, no, no, no, no!”
The unmanned drone unleashed its load with cold-blooded efficiency.
The mare staggered and sank to her knees. Great brown eyes fixed on the sky, she flashed Emma one last message before dropping to her side.
“Save my foal. Save the herd.”
Legacy of Evil
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