Saving Her: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance

by R. R. Banks

  I slam my fist down on the table, my fear and frustration starting to bubble over. I'm tired of living in fear. The last few weeks with Eric have shown me a world without fear. A world were I'm free. And I want it more than anything. I want to live free. To live in peace and start my family with Eric.

  Which means I need to cut ties with the past.

  “I'm going to hang up now,” I say. “Do not call this number again. In fact, you know what? I don't care if you do. We'll just have the number changed, so do what you want.”

  Raymond's laughter comes floating out of the speaker as maniacal as it is malevolent. It makes my stomach roil, my heart race, and leaves me feeling like I'm going to throw up. And I feel powerless to take the phone away from my ear and hang it up.

  “The right question,” he says, his laughter finally receding, “is where am I right now? Here's a hint, sweetheart, I'm not on the Ark.”

  The chill that sweeps through me is colder than an Arctic winter. I feel myself start to tremble as the tears roll down my cheeks. Fear, unlike anything I've ever known before grips me, squeezes my heart, and though it shames me to admit, I feel like I might wet myself.

  I jump up from the table and run inside, slamming and locking the door behind me. I run around the great room, looking for something, anything that can be used as a weapon. Grabbing a poker from the stand next to the fireplace, I grip it like a baseball bat and stand with my back facing a wall.

  Raymond hadn't said exactly where he was, but I got the overwhelming impression that he was here. Somewhere nearby. Since he'd somehow gotten my phone number, is it possible that he'd gotten my address too? Or was this Raymond simply screwing with me? Maybe he got my number and decided to scare me. To not give me any peace by continuing to torment me.

  Would he really come all the way to California just to take me back to the Ark?

  I stand there, straining my ears, listening for the smallest sound. But the house is completely silent. You could hear the proverbial pin drop. Part of me feels a little foolish, thinking that maybe Raymond had successful screwed with my mind. But there's part of me that isn't so sure. That thinks there's something sinister going one. But what? What could Raymond be doing or planning?

  I grab my phone and punch in Eric's number. He's at work, but he should know what's going on. And from day one, he made me promise to call him right away if I ever heard from Raymond or his goons. It's something I never thought would actually come to pass.

  After punching the button to dial Eric's phone, something heavy slams into the door. It hit so hard, I hear the door rattling in its frame. My heart is racing and I can taste the bile in my throat. There's another loud crash against the front door and I hear the sound of wood cracking.

  “Oh, God,” I mutter.

  Movement in the corner of my eye draws my attention. Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows are two of Raymond's men. They're looking at me, malevolent smiles upon their faces. My blood runs cold and I fight hard to suppress a scream.

  I hear Eric's voice just as the windows come crashing inward. I scream and drop the phone, turning to run when the front door explodes inward. Through the splintered debris of what used to be the front door steps Harold – with Raymond right behind him.

  As the four men converge on me, I take several steps backward, raising the fire poker and brandishing it.

  “Get out of here,” I hiss. “Get out of here right now.”

  Raymond steps to the front of the little pack, making a show of looking around. Then he looks at me and nods approvingly.

  “Very nice place, Calee,” he says. “You've done well for yourself.”

  “I've already called the police,” I say. “They're going to be here any second.”

  “No, you didn't,” Raymond says, his tone that of a disapproving parent scolding their child. “What does the Good Book tell us about lying, sweetheart?”

  The men all continue to converge on me and I start swinging the poker wildly. Harold catches my wrist in his iron grip. He squeezes hard until I cry out and drop the poker. I watch as it hits the floor with a clatter and feel the tears falling down my face, knowing that I'm in bad trouble. Knowing that my world – which was starting to resemble something good and perfect – now sits in ruins.

  Raymond's face is inches from mine, his sneer every bit as ugly and his breath just as bad as I remember them.

  “First thing we're gonna do is get you back to the Ark,” he says. “Then we're gonna cut that little bastard child outta ya. And if you survive that, then we're gonna have a good old fashioned stonin'. Or, we may just go with the stonin' and be done with it. Haven't decided yet. How's that sound, sweetheart?”

  I do the only thing I can think of – the only thing I have the power to do – I spit in his face. The sticky glob hits his cheek and he just laughs and shakes his head at me.

  I never see it coming. But I feel the burst of pain when somebody's fist connects with my cheek. I taste the blood in my mouth and then the darkness claims me once more.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Eric

  “Calee!” I scream into the phone.

  In the background, I hear what sounds like glass shattering, bombs going off, and the voices of men. A cold worm of fear winds itself around my insides knowing who those voices belong to – Raymond and his Shepherds. Somehow, someway, they'd found us. They'd found her.

  I jump up from behind my desk and rush to Vance's office, my heart thundering and adrenaline pouring through me.

  He looks up from his charts and an expression of concern immediately creases his face. “What's wrong?”

  “They found her,” I say. “I don't know how, but they found her.”

  “Who? What?”

  “Raymond,” I say. “The cult. They found Calee. She just called me and it sounded like she was in the middle of a warzone.”

  “Go,” he says, getting to his feet. “Get home. Now. I'll call the cops.”

  I nod and run out of the office as fast as I can. Bounding down the stairs to the parking garage, I nearly trip and fall several times. I force myself to slow down a bit. I'm not going to do her a damn bit of good if I break my leg trying to get to her.

  Getting to my car after what seems like an eternity, I jump behind the wheel and fire it up. The tires squeal as I back out quickly and then squeal more as I stomp on the accelerator and rocket out of the garage. I hear the shriek of tires and the blaring of a horn as a car comes to a screeching halt when I pull out of the garage and into traffic without looking.

  It's a twenty-minute drive from the office to home normally. But driving like a maniac, I think I can cut that time in half. I weave in and out of traffic, horns blaring and middle fingers being stuck out of windows the whole way. I don't care. I need to get home. I need to get to Calee.

  Finally, I pull into my driveway and slam on the brakes. I jump out of the car and feel my heart stutter when I see that my front door has been kicked in. The shattered remains are lying in the entryway and the frame of the door hangs limply. It looks like they used a damn battering ram to get inside. But then I remember the big, brawny cowboys and figured they'd probably done it.

  How in the hell had they found us?

  Running inside, I see that the windows in the great room have been shattered. There's glass everywhere. Tables have been overturned, pictures knocked over – the place looks like a bomb went off inside. I look around, running from room to room, upstairs and down.

  But no Calee.

  I hear the cars coming to a screeching halt in my driveway followed by the sound of feet on the pavement.

  “San Diego PD,” calls a voice. “We're coming in.”

  “In here,” I call, my voice thick with emotion. “I'm in here.”

  Four officers come storming into the house, weapons drawn. I raise my hands to avoid any potential trouble.

  “I'm Dr. Eric Galloway,” I say. “I'm the owner of the house.”

  “We had a call about an a
bduction,” says the first officer who'd spoken. “Is there anybody else here?”

  I shake my head. “No, they took her.”

  “Spread out and check the house,” he calls to his partners as he steps over to me.

  I'm overwhelmed by a feeling of despair. I'm supposed to be protecting her. Giving her a new life. And I failed her. I fucking failed her.

  “Sir,” the officer says, holstering his weapon. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

  I shake my head. “I got here about two minutes before you did,” I say. “I got a call from Calee and she was screaming. I heard the windows breaking and the door being kicked in. I got in my car and got here as fast as I could. Obviously, way too late.”

  “Who is Calee, sir?”

  I sigh and run a hand through my hair. And then I tell him everything. The whole story. I leave nothing out and when I'm done, he's nodding, but I can see something in his eyes. I don't know if it's disbelief or something else, but I can tell, just by the way he's looking at me, that he's not going to do a damn thing to help her.

  “Unfortunately, because this is in another state, it's an entirely different jurisdiction,” he says. “I don't know exactly how it works, but I can pass this along to a detective. They're going to have to follow up with the Sheriff and go from there. In the meantime, we'll put out an alert for all cars to keep an eye peeled for the woman – for Calee.”

  “So, that's it,” I say, my voice dark with anger. “These assholes come in here and take her, and you're going to pass the buck? You're not going to do a damn thing about it?”

  “Listen, I know you're upset –”

  “You have no goddamn idea,” I spit.

  “If they're crossing state lines, it becomes an issue for the Feds,” he says. “Again though, I need to pass this on to a detective. I'm a patrol car cop, sir. My power is a bit limited. Frankly, in a case like this, it's useless.”

  I see a woman step through the doorway. The officer nods to me and goes over to her and has a conversation with her. When they're done, the four officers all go outside while she steps over to me.

  “Detective Whitson,” she says. “I'm very sorry for what's happened.”

  “Yeah, he already filled me in,” I say. “You're going to pass the buck to the Feds.”

  “Unfortunately, I have no choice in the matter,” she says. “If these guys took your girl and are heading for Wyoming, that's crossing state lines. That's a federal issue. But, I know a couple of field agents and I'll get on the phone with them. I'll get them up to speed and they'll take the ball from there.”

  I roll my eyes and step away from her, the knots in my stomach twisting painfully. I'm angry at the world right now – but I'm angrier at myself. I can't shake the feeling – the certainty, really – that I failed Calee. I let her down. And now she's going to pay the price. Now she's going to pay for my fuck up with her life.

  “Dr. Galloway,” she says. “I know this is difficult. I know you're hurting and you're angry. But in a case like this, you need to be patient. You need to let this –”

  “What part of they're going to kill her is in any way unclear to you, Detective?” I snap. “This isn't a kidnapping for ransom. They took her because they're going to kill her. So, don't you dare stand there and tell me to be patient or let this process play out. Calee is going to die if I let this process play out.”

  “I certainly hope you're not talking about taking this into your own hands, sir,” she says. “If you commit a crime –”

  I wave her off. “Yeah, I'm well aware. I'll be punished for my crime immediately,” I hiss. “In the meantime, I just need to be patient while these assholes kill the woman I love.”

  The words that just fell out of my mouth leave me stunned for a moment. I'd never given voice to those words before. But as I think about it, I realize it's true. I love Calee. I love her in a way I never thought I could love a person.

  But then I feel my heart sink again. It's a great realization to come to and something I think I should share with her – except for the fact that she's about to be murdered.

  I hadn't realized she'd even moved, but the detective is suddenly standing next to me, her hand on my shoulder, giving me what she probably thinks is a reassuring squeeze.

  “Let the FBI to their job, Dr. Galloway,” she says. “They're really good at this kind of thing and they have plenty of experience. Just trust them to handle this.”

  I say nothing and just stare at the wreckage of the house around me, my mind spinning a million miles a minute. Detective Whitson steps away and starts talking on her cell phone. An idea is beginning to form in my mind as I look around at the ruins of my house. Ruins that bring back some old memories. Raise some old ghosts in my mind.

  I take it as a sign when I see Calee's cell phone half-buried under a pile of debris near the sofa. Looking around to make sure I'm alone, I step over and pick it up, slipping it into my pocket. Crime scene techs come in to start dusting for prints and all of the other shit they're going to do that will be utterly useless. This is going to be over before they even get some of their test results back.

  I'm going to make sure of it.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  An hour later, with the cops still running roughshod through my place, I'm sitting at a quiet, dimly lit little dive bar called Jack's. After giving my statements, I left the house and made a call, setting up the meet. Jack's is in a shadier part of town and only going by the reputation it has, it's probably perfect for the type of meeting I'm having. From what I gather, the place is pretty anonymous and the patrons have a great habit of not seeing or hearing anything.

  “It's been a while,” he says as sits down in the booth across from me.

  I push the glass of Irish whiskey across the table to him. “I assume you're still a Jameson's man?”

  He holds the glass up to the light and then takes a long sniff of it. “Liquid ambrosia, my friend.”

  I raise my glass and tap it against his. “Good to see you, Mike. It has been a while.”

  “I was surprised to get your call.”

  I shrug. “Sometimes, it's good to know people who have specialized skill sets,” I reply. “Especially when you happen to be in need of them.”

  Mike Toomer. He's one of the baddest, scariest men I know. A former Navy SEAL, I'd run across him in Afghanistan on a few occasions. I'd patched him up in the field and I'd even had to patch him up again after I'd transferred to Landstuhl. Though the two things don't seem to be compatible, Mike is capable of some horrendously awful shit, and he's also a good man.

  “In need of them, huh?” he asks. “Sounds interesting.”

  “You still doing private contracting work?”

  “You asking if my specialized skills are still sharp?”

  I give him a rueful grin. “Are they?”

  “Like a razor.”

  “Good to know,” I say. “I have a job. Name your price.”

  He swallows down his whiskey and looks at me for a long moment, saying nothing. I'd already had the bartender leave the bottle at my table, knowing that Mike likes to drink. I'm nothing, if not prepared and well organized. I pour him another shot and wait.

  “You patched me up a few times,” he says.

  “I remember.”

  “Probably saved my life,” he says.

  “I probably wouldn't go that far.”

  “I would,” he says. “If you'd reported some of my wounds like you were supposed to, they probably woulda stuck a purple heart on me and shipped my ass home. That woulda been as good as death, you ask me.”

  I shrug. “My job was to patch people up,” I say. “The paperwork and bureaucratic bullshit is better left for somebody else.”

  He drains his glass and I pour him another. I'm not trying to get him drunk or make him sloppy – Mike is a seasoned drinker. I'm simply trying to grease the wheels. If I strike out with him, I don't know what the hell I'm going to do. Other than wait for the FBI to tell me tha
t they recovered Calee's body.

  Mike looks at his glass thoughtfully. “What's the op?”

  “Rescue,” I say – and knowing what he likes to hear, add, “with the option to blow some shit up and kill some bad guys.”

  His eyes light up and a slow smile spreads across his face. “No shit?” he asks. “You yankin' my chain?”

  “Have I ever?”

  “No, suppose not,” he says. “Where's the job?”

  “Wyoming.”

  “Militia country,” he says. “Bunch of Second Amendment freaks out that way.”

  “And pseudo-religious, doomsday prepping cults.”

  He laughs and nods. “Yeah, them too.”

  “So, what's it going to cost me?”

  “For you?” he says, sipping his drink. “Two fifty. That's my good friend discount.”

  “Make it five,” I say. “Two things I need though.”

  He looks at me curiously. “Name it.”

  “One, it has to be now. We can't wait. Time is critical,” I say. “Second, I'm part of your team.”

  Mike sips his drink and looks at me for a long moment. “Five hundred grand, huh?” he says. “Must be important.”

  “You have no idea.”

  “Done.”

  “Perfect,” I say.

  Over the next hour, I fill him in on all the details. I make sure to tell him that the FBI will be getting involved – something that seems to particularly delight him. He nods throughout, takes a few notes, but doesn't say much. But then, Mike's never been a big talker anyway.

  “That it?” he asks.

  “That's it.”

  “Should be a walk in the park,” he says. “These doomsday preppers talk big, but they're a bunch of pussies when the real shit starts flying.”

  “How soon can you have your team ready to go?” I ask.

  “Given the urgency of the situation,” he says. “Give me until tomorrow morning. Wheels up at oh-six-hundred. That should be enough time for me to round up my team, brief them, and gather our equipment. I'll text you with the location.”

  I nod. “Sounds good,” I say. “I'll wait for your text.”