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A broken trail through the underbrush showed where he'd dragged himself away from the wreck. More blood stained leaves and rocks—he was hurt, but still mobile.
And still dangerous.
Sheila followed the trail, weapon ready. The ground grew steeper, forcing her to pick her way between granite outcroppings. The Irishman was heading for a box canyon—either he didn't know the terrain, or he was setting up an ambush.
Either way, this would end here.
A twig snapped somewhere ahead. She pressed herself against a boulder, listening. Nothing but wind through pine needles and the distant cry of a hawk.
The blood trail ended at a jumble of fallen rocks. Perfect cover for an ambush. Sheila studied the terrain, looking for another approach. There—a game trail that would let her circle behind his position.
She began picking her way along the narrow path, every sense straining for signs of movement. The Irishman was injured, probably desperate. That made him unpredictable.
A pebble clattered down the slope behind her.
She spun, but too late.
The Irishman hit her like a freight train, sending them both tumbling down the rocky incline. Her weapon went flying as they grappled. Despite his injuries, his grip was like iron as they rolled to a stop on a narrow ledge.
Blood ran down his face from a gash in his forehead. His mask was gone, revealing features sharp as broken glass. One arm hung useless, probably broken in the crash.
But his good hand held a knife, which she was desperately holding at bay as he leaned down on her.
"Should've let it go, Sheriff," he gasped, using all his weight to force the knife down, closer and closer to her throat.
The ledge crumbled slightly beneath them, distracting the Irishman for just a moment. Harley kicked him, pushing him away. She crawled back, and they both rose to their feet.
Then the Irishman came at her again.
Despite his wounds, he knew how to fight. His strikes were precise, economical, the clear results of many hours of training. But Sheila was no slouch herself. She had spent her life in rings and dojos, learning the language of combat from masters like her father.
She caught his knife hand in a joint lock, just as she had with his man in the farmhouse. This time, she didn't let go. Bone and tendon reached their limits. The knife fell, clattering into the abyss below.
A headbutt caught her by surprise, sending her stumbling backward. The ledge crumbled at her heel, rocks tumbling into empty space. The Irishman pressed his advantage as he tried to shove her over the edge.
Sheila was ready, however. She ducked, driving her fist into his ribs. As he staggered, she followed with a combination that would have made her father proud. The Irishman went down hard, blood spraying from his nose.
She pinned him against the rock face, forearm across his throat.
"Carlton Vance," she growled. "Who is he?"
The Irishman laughed, blood staining his teeth. "After all this, that's what you want to know?"
"Tell me."
"Vance was Internal Affairs, back when the system was first being built. He saw what was happening—judges taking bribes, evidence disappearing, drug money vanishing between seizure and processing. But instead of fighting it..." He coughed, spitting blood. "He decided to manage it. Make it efficient. Professional."
"He was dirty from the start?"
"He was smart. Created Meridian Holdings as a shell company to move the money. Set up the whole structure." Another wet laugh. "Your father, that old pitbull, worked under him in IA. He realized your mother was asking the wrong people the wrong questions, so he sent Eddie Mills to keep her quiet."
"And Tommy? Vance sent him to kill me?"
"Had to tie up loose ends. You were getting too close, asking too many questions. Just like Thompson did. Just like your mother."
"Where's Vance now?"
"Gone. Retired to some island with no extradition. But the system he built?" The Irishman's eyes gleamed with something like pride. "That lives on. Too big to fall now. Too many powerful people involved."