Minutes to Kill (Scarlet Falls)

by Melinda Leigh

  Sam in a rage was way more dangerous than the police. The only way to calm him down was to give him what he wanted.

  “You’re right. I promised.” Mick took the device and got into the passenger seat. He buckled up. The crash had given him new appreciation for seat belts. A small green dot moved on a map. “The GPS was ballsy.”

  “You think that’s ballsy? Wait till you hear the rest of my plan.” Sam patted the duffel bag at his side. “Go ahead. Take a look.”

  Mick unzipped the bag. “Holy fuck. We drove across the country with that in the car?”

  Sam shrugged. “It’s not dangerous until it’s detonated.”

  In the passenger seat of the unmarked car, Hannah rubbed her hand on her denim-clad thigh as Brody ended his call. “That was Detective Douglas in Vegas. Mick Arnette’s prints match the one set of prints they found in your rental car. Mick has never been arrested in Nevada, and he isn’t in the national fingerprint database either. They’re going to check out the address on his license. They’ll let me know what they find.”

  Would they find Jewel?

  “Douglas did say that they have a criminal record for Sam Arnette. According to Douglas, Sam is one nasty SOB. He was dishonorably discharged from the army. Douglas doesn’t know why. Vegas police arrested him for armed robbery, but the sole witness mysteriously disappeared, so he was never convicted. Douglas is sending me a picture of Sam.” His phone buzzed. He swiped the screen with his thumb and handed it to Hannah.

  “That’s the other man from the attack in Vegas,” she said.

  Brody nodded. “Makes sense that the brothers would be together.”

  Police chatter hummed from the radio on the dashboard. Brody’s phone buzzed again. He answered it, uttered a few yeses, then signed off with “Call me when you have something.”

  “The warrant came through for Mick’s phone,” Brody said. “The geeks are already analyzing his records and trying to track data usage and pings on local towers. Hopefully they’ll be able to narrow down the search for Chet.” Brody took a deep breath. He looked haggard. The chief had kept him busy for too long. It was almost seven o’clock. Only one hour left until the end of Mick’s deadline. Tick tock. “It gets worse.”

  “Tell me.” Her stomach did a slow roll as Brody steered through a turn. She grabbed the armrest. He was pushing the speed.

  “The scene of yesterday’s shooting? The one where the woman was murdered?”

  Hannah’s brain shot ahead of his words. “The Arnettes?”

  “Their fingerprints were all over the inside of that house. Sam’s prints were on the bat used to kill Joleen.”

  Her hand shot up to cover her mouth. That woman was killed because the Arnette brothers followed Hannah to Scarlet Falls from Las Vegas. Sam had beaten that woman to death with a bat. What would he do to Chet?

  “What if we can’t find him?” she asked.

  “There’s no we.” Brody’s tone sharpened. “You’re a civilian. Law enforcement will find Chet. Local, county, and state cops are all over this, and the FBI is on alert. Every inch of this county will be combed. There isn’t anything else that can be done at this point. Patrol cops are already out searching.”

  Hannah nodded. “I still feel like it’s my fault, and I hate waiting.”

  “You cannot take the blame for what some psycho criminal does.”

  She knew Brody was right, but she still felt like she’d brought this danger home. If Grant hadn’t taken the family away, who knew what could have happened to them. Instead of Chet, Sam Arnette could have Carson or Ellie or another member of the family in his clutches. The temperature was still dropping. The forecast called for below-freezing temperatures tonight. Snow was a possibility. In the photo, Chet was wearing a thin shirt. No jacket. If he was still alive, he wouldn’t last long outside tonight.

  A voice call came over the radio. Brody turned up the volume. The dispatcher called off a string of numbers that meant nothing to Hannah, but the tone was urgent. Hannah caught the words shooting and officers down.

  Brody reached for his phone and speed-dialed a number.

  “All units, be on the lookout . . .” Mick Arnette’s name and description followed.

  Brody ended his call. He curled his fingers around his phone and punched his thigh. “A moving van knocked the sheriff’s car off an overpass. Both deputies were shot and killed. Mick Arnette escaped.”

  He slowed the car and turned right. The rural road was empty, and he punched the accelerator. The car surged forward into the dark.

  “He’s loose?” Horror crawled up Hannah’s throat.

  Brody nodded.

  “Oh, no.” Two women were murdered. Chet was taken, and two police officers were dead. “Now what?”

  “Massive manhunt,” Brody said. Determination hardened his face. The car approached a wooden bridge over a shallow creek, and he slowed the vehicle.

  The bridge exploded in front of them. Wood and dirt plumed into the air as the car hurtled forward into a cloud of smoke.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  On instinct, Hannah grabbed for the armrest. Brody yanked the wheel to the side. The car flew down the embankment. The world spun as the vehicle flipped. Momentum and gravity flung her against the seat belt. Something exploded in her face. She had no idea how many times the car rolled before coming to a stop.

  She breathed. Fine, acrid dust settled over the car’s interior, and the deflated airbag lay across her knees. Her heart banged against her ribs, and her eyes watered, blurring her vision. She wiped a forearm across her face. “Brody?”

  In the light of the dashboard, she could see blood from a gash on his temple running over his closed eyes. She touched his shoulder, but he didn’t respond.

  Bridges didn’t blow up by accident. She knew instinctively Mick Arnette was responsible, with his ex-military brother’s assistance—and they had explosives. She needed to get Brody out of the car.

  Though she suspected adrenaline was blocking her pain—no one walked out of an accident this serious without at least minor injuries—her limbs seemed to be intact and usable. Her fingers were slippery with sweat. She wiped them on her sweater and grabbed for the seat belt release. The button was jammed. A broken piece of rearview mirror on the seat nicked her finger.

  Calm down.

  But even if she unfastened their seat belts, how would she get Brody out? She couldn’t carry him.

  They needed help. Her phone. Where was her phone? She couldn’t think straight.

  “Hurry up,” a voice said from outside the car.

  Hannah reached for her weapon. Before she could clear the gun from its holster, the door opened.

  “Ah, ah, ah.” The muzzle of a gun was in her face. Behind it, Mick Arnette was looking into the car. She almost didn’t recognize him. He was dressed like a Best Buy clerk, and his head was shaved bald. But the evil glint in his eyes was unmistakable. “Put your hand where I can see it or my brother shoots your boyfriend in the head.”

  The driver’s door opened. Another man stood on Brody’s side of the vehicle pointing a gun at his temple. She squinted. In the dashboard light, his features were just visible enough that Hannah could recognize Sam Arnette.

  “Get out of the car.” He made a small motion with the muzzle of the gun. “Take it slow.”

  Hannah reached for the seat belt release but it still wouldn’t give. Mick pulled a knife from his pocket. “Don’t try anything. My brother would like nothing more than to kill the cop.”

  He took her gun, leaned across her body, and cut her seat belt, then slashed the strap across Brody’s chest and took his handgun as well.

  Mick backed up. “Let’s go, sweetheart.”

  Hannah swung her feet out of the car. Her fingers closed around the mirror shard. She tucked it up the sleeve of her sweater. Her knees buckled, and her head swam as
she tried to stand. Her muscles felt weak and shaky. Her heart pumped triple time.

  Mick swirled a finger in the air. “Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”

  She pivoted, curling her fingers into fists. He bound her wrists with a plastic zip tie. Then he patted her pockets, his hand lingering on her butt. “This ass is mine.” He slid his hand between her legs and squeezed hard. Tears poured down Hannah’s cheeks.

  How would she and Brody get out of this?

  Mick’s brother hauled Brody out of the car and pulled him over his shoulder fireman style.

  “How come I get to carry the man?” the brother complained. “And why can’t I just kill him?”

  “You’re stronger than me,” Mick said. “And I want to hold on to him in case we run into trouble and need more leverage.”

  They climbed the bank to the road. Without her hands to stabilize her climb, Hannah tripped twice on rubbery legs. A moving van was parked on the road next to the demolished bridge. Mick rolled the back door up. The interior was a black void.

  Sam heaved Brody into the back. He hoisted himself into the truck, rolled Brody onto his face, and zip-tied his hands behind his back. Another plastic tie went around Brody’s ankles.

  “Your turn.” Mick gestured toward the van.

  Hannah climbed up the metal steps into the back.

  “Stop,” Mick commanded, his gun pointed at Brody’s temple. “Get her ankles. Bitch can be tricky.”

  Sam bound her feet together.

  The door slammed down. The van went dark. A metallic click signaled the slide lock closing. A few seconds later, an engine started, and the truck moved. Hannah nearly fell over.

  She dropped on her knees beside Brody. A little moonlight came through vents near the roof of the van, just enough for her to see Brody’s outline. How badly was he hurt?

  “Brody!”

  Hannah’s voice stirred Brody. What happened? His body felt like someone had beaten every inch of it with a stick. He tried to open his eyes, but they were crusty.

  Blinking hard, he forced his eyelids open. Was he blind or was it dark? “Hannah?” His voice sounded hoarse, even to his own ears.

  “I’m here.” Her lips found his face, and she kissed him on the mouth.

  “Is it dark?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank God.” His head pounded. He remembered the bridge blowing, the car rolling . . . His hands were tied behind his back. He tried to move his arms. Pain blasted through his shoulder. “I can’t move. Where are we?”

  “Back of a moving truck. Mick and Sam Arnette are in the front.”

  If Brody got his hands on them . . . He stopped himself. That didn’t look likely. “Are you injured?”

  “No,” she said, and a small amount of relief coursed through Brody. Moonlight filtered through small vents in the top of the van. He squeezed his eyelids shut and opened them.

  “How badly are you hurt?” she asked.

  Brody took stock of his body. “My vision is blurry, my head feels like it’s stuffed with C-4, and I’m pretty sure I have a couple of broken ribs. Are you tied up, too?” Brody blinked hard again. Still blurry, but better.

  “Yes, but I’m working on that.” Hannah was on her butt, her legs stretched out in front of her. Her face was tight with concentration.

  “What is that?”

  “A piece of rearview mirror.”

  “Nice.” He rolled. Pain slammed through his head and chest. His hands and feet were numb.

  “How do you feel?” she asked.

  He tested his limbs. Despite the pain and limited movement, everything also seemed to work. “I don’t think anything is broken except some ribs. I can move.” And if his injuries were more serious, he’d deal with it later.

  “Good.” She leaned forward, kissed his temple, and pressed her forehead to his for a few seconds. Emotion flooded his throat. He could not deal with these men hurting her. They could kill him, but he couldn’t bear the thought of them raping or killing her. His mind went to Joleen Walken’s pummeled corpse.

  With a shaky breath, she lifted her head. A tear rolled down her face.

  “How are you doing with that shard?” he asked.

  “It isn’t my father’s KA-BAR.” Her shoulders moved as she worked her hands behind her back. “We should have a plan,” she said with conviction.

  The corner of Brody’s mouth pulled. Hannah would be proactive to the end. She was a fighter. She would never give in, and no matter what happened to their relationship, he could count on her. She would have his back until the bitter end.

  She was one of a kind.

  “Have I ever told you how much I love and appreciate your stubborn streak?”

  Her head tilted. “What?”

  “Nothing.” He shook his head. “You’re right. We need a plan. Tell me everything you saw.”

  “They’re both armed. They had their own guns. Plus, they took ours.”

  “If that was Sam who ran from the back of Joleen’s house, he also has a rifle,” Brody remembered.

  “Mick has a knife . . .” As Hannah continued to describe their abduction, Brody’s hope sank. He and Hannah were still bound. They had one semi-sharp piece of glass. Their kidnappers were skilled and well armed with at least four semiautomatic pistols. How could he and Hannah possibly survive?

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Mac stopped at the traffic light in town and speed-dialed Hannah’s number. Again. No answer. Again. Where was she? Hannah practically kept her cell phone superglued to her hand, but he’d been calling her for an hour, and she hadn’t picked up.

  He looked at the photo she’d messaged him. CR 268. What the hell was that? But damn it! There was something familiar about the image. Something from his life a long time ago. The Dark Days, as he called that period of his youth.

  He pulled over, a memory nagging at him. Picking up his phone, he opened his messages and stared at the picture.

  It popped into his head. He knew where this was taken. He shifted into drive and gunned the gas, trying Hannah’s phone again with his thumb. The call went to voice mail. Something had happened to Hannah. He knew it in his soul.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  His sister had needed him, and once again, he’d been unavailable. What the hell? His timing was always crap. He dialed the police station. “I need to speak to Detective Brody McNamara.”

  “Hold, please.” Silence. Then, “Detective McNamara is unavailable.”

  “I need to speak to someone.”

  “Hold, please.”

  Screw this. Mac turned toward the police station. He was still holding when he turned into the lot and parked behind the building, another place in Scarlet Falls filled with bad memories. Nothing good ever happened here. He ended his call and went inside. The place was bustling, and not in a good way.

  He went into the reception area and approached the counter. Thick glass separated him from the old cop manning the desk.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I’m looking for Detective McNamara.”

  The cop said, “Hold on.”

  He disappeared. A few minutes later, he came back with another uniformed cop, but this one didn’t look like any cop who had ever arrested Mac. She was tall and slim, with black hair coiled in a severe knot at the nape of her neck.

  “I’m Officer Dane. Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m Mac Barrett. I’m looking for Detective McNamara and my sister.”

  “Can I see some ID?”

  Mac pulled out his wallet and passed his driver’s license through the gully under the glass.

  “What’s going on?”

  She scrutinized his ID.

  Mac ran a hand over his two-month beard. He hadn’t shaved or had a real haircut since he left the States, not that
he was exactly diligent about those things when he was home. He probably looked as civilized as one of the otters he studied. “I know. I look like a bum. I’ve been in Brazil, out in the rain forest. I’m a wildlife biologist. My passport is out in my Jeep.”

  Officer Dane passed his license back. “Come with me, please.”

  A lock clicked open on a solid door on the other side of the room. Mac went through into the police station. He knew what bad vibes felt like, and the cops in the station were putting them out like radio waves. For all the activity, there were precious few bodies in the station.

  “Officer Dane, where are we going, and what the hell is going on?”

  She led him to a conference room. Her frown marred her otherwise perfect face. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.”

  A minute later, a middle-aged man in a fancier uniform came in. He held out a hand. “Mr. Barrett.”

  At the Mr. Barrett, Mac almost looked behind him. He shook the man’s hand.

  “I’m Police Chief Horner.” He gestured to a chair. “Please have a seat.”

  The chief’s somber tone was enough to spin the drive-through burrito in Mac’s stomach.

  “Just tell me.”

  “Your sister was with Detective McNamara on their way to the county administration building. They disappeared.”

  “What do you mean by disappeared?”

  “Someone blew up a bridge, and we found the vehicle rolled down the embankment. Neither Detective McNamara nor Ms. Barrett were inside.” The chief buttoned up. There was more he didn’t want to say.

  “What else? There’s more, isn’t there?”

  “There was blood in the front seat of the vehicle.”

  “Shit.” Mac jumped to his feet. “Earlier today, my sister sent me a picture and asked me if I knew where it was taken. I think I do.”

  The chief stood. “Where?”

  Mac took out his phone and opened the message. “CR 268. I think CR stands for Conrail. This looks like part of the markings on the side of a freight car.”

  The chief rushed to the door. “The rail yard.”