by Sharon Sala
“What’s going on?” Wayman said.
Then they heard the sound of breaking glass.
“What the hell?” Wayman said, and took off down the hall with Nick right behind him.
Tug had been drifting in and out of a feverish sleep in a state of pain and confusion. Part of the time he remembered what had happened to put him in the bed, but sometimes everything morphed into memories from his childhood, and the summer he’d been bitten by a poisonous spider and nearly died. In the dream, his mother had been talking to him, telling him how much she loved him, and how they would all go to the lake when he got well. He could feel the cool, wet compress she kept putting on his forehead in an effort to take down the fever, and the slight stirring of air from their small table fan blowing across his face.
Then the scent of something savory slipped into his consciousness, and he stirred and opened his eyes. For a moment he thought his mother was standing at the foot of his bed, but then she spoke and said something about soup, and he knew the voice was all wrong. He blinked a few times before it dawned on him that this wasn’t his mother, it was the woman from the house.
She was a looker—no doubt about that—but a little skinny for his taste. The jeans she was wearing looked like she’d slept in them, as did her white T-shirt. Sweaty wisps of her short dark curls were stuck to her forehead, and there were shadows underneath her eyes. All he remembered was that this was her house they were hiding in. Then she moved toward the side of his bed.
“I found a can of soup. Do you think you could eat?”
Suddenly he felt anxious. She was too close, and he was too helpless.
“Where’s my brother?” he mumbled. “Where’s Wayman?”
“He was still outside with the others when I came in. Do you want the soup?”
Tug got another whiff of the aroma. His belly growled in protest.
“Yeah, yeah. Sounds good,” he said, and started to sit up, but then the room began to spin. He groaned, fell back on the pillow and closed his eyes.
His obvious pain and the ashen cast to his skin were all it took for Amalie’s compassion to kick in. She put down the tray.
“Let me help you,” she said, and gently scooted a couple of pillows behind his head and neck, elevating him enough so he would be able to swallow without choking.
“My head hurts like a son of a bitch,” Tug said.
Amalie glanced at the bandages. The stains were old. Obviously Nick’s attempt at stifling the blood flow had worked, but there was no telling what kind of injury had been done inside.
“You need a doctor,” she said.
Tug eyed her expression. It was obvious she wanted them gone, but he didn’t see a hint of retribution. He eyed the bowl of soup. The aroma was getting to him, but he knew he couldn’t sit up and feed himself.
“I don’t think I can eat that after all,” he said.
Again, compassion for his condition overrode her desire for revenge.
“If I helped you, do you think you could swallow?”
Tug’s eyes widened in surprise.
“Help me how?”
Amalie almost smiled. “I dip the soup. You open your mouth. I put it in. You swallow.”
Tug chuckled, then groaned. “Oh. Shit. Don’t make me laugh.”
Amalie stifled a smile in return. She didn’t want to like these people. They’d done bad things and broken the law. But just now, when Tug grinned, she saw the redhead, freckle-faced boy he must have been. Instead of leaving him to suffer on his own, she pulled a chair up to the side of the bed, grabbed a clean washcloth from the bathroom to use as a bib, and then sat down with the bowl of soup. She spooned up the first bite, then blew on it, cooling the broth.
Tug frowned. Once again, the line between this stranger and his mother blurred.
“My mother used to do that.”
“Do what?” Amalie asked.
“Blow on my soup so it wouldn’t burn my mouth.”
Amalie sighed. Compassion for the child he’d been overrode her rejection of the man he’d become. She stuck the spoon near his mouth.
“Take a sip at first to make sure it’s not too hot.”
Tug stuck out his tongue. The thick, salty mix of flavors was the best thing he’d tasted in ages.
“It’s good…and it’s not too hot,” he said, then accidentally knocked an empty glass off the bedside table. It shattered on the floor.
“Damn it,” he muttered.
“It’s all right. I’ll clean it up in a few minutes. Let’s finish this while it’s warm.”
“Okay,” he said, and opened his mouth.
Amalie slipped more soup into his mouth. As she did, they heard the sound of running footsteps. The hair rose on the back of Amalie’s neck. It didn’t feel good to be sitting with her back to the door. She sat up straighter, clenching the spoon, as the door swung inward.
“We heard glass breaking! What are you doing to Tug?”
Amalie flinched, assaulted by Wayman’s loud, angry accusation.
Tug swallowed, then frowned as his brother stomped toward him.
“She’s not doing anything, and I knocked a glass off the table,” he said, then opened his mouth for more soup.
Nick had come into the room on the run, thinking he was going to have to fast-talk his way out of yet another situation. But when he saw what was happening, his protective mode shifted to one of relief, then disbelief.
He’d seen Tug French pick up a man and nearly break him in half because he hadn’t liked the way he’d looked at him. To see him quietly having soup spooned into his mouth by a woman half his size was hard to absorb.
But what was even more amazing to him was Amalie Pope. They’d invaded her home, frightened her, threatened her, and she still had the grace to offer sustenance to an enemy. Once again, he was humbled by her spirit and courage.
But Nick wasn’t the only one surprised. Wayman was at a loss. He was the one who took care of Tug. He was the only one Tug trusted. That was the way it had always been. To see Amalie Pope sitting in his place at Tug’s bedside in a position of trust and acceptance was unsettling.
“So, uh…Tug, what do you want us to do?” he asked.
Tug frowned. His head was pounding, and the room was starting to spin again. He couldn’t think. He waved off Amalie’s next bite.
“I had enough. Thanks,” he said.
Amalie set the bowl aside, took the washcloth off Tug’s chest and casually wiped a drip of soup from his chin.
“You two might want to move those extra pillows so he can lie down again,” she said.
Nick moved to the side of the bed and grabbed hold of the pillows as Wayman lifted his head.
Movement exacerbated Tug’s misery, causing him to moan, then curse beneath his breath.
“Are you all right, bro?” Wayman asked.
Tug shivered. “Hell, no, I’m not all right. I’m sick, Way…I’m real sick.”
That scared Wayman. Tug never admitted to weakness. Without knowing how to commiserate, Wayman filled him in on what they’d been doing.
“We got the tree off the car, Tug. Soon as we pop that roof back up, we’ll be outa here. Right now I’m gonna clean up that broken glass. Wouldn’t want you to cut your feet or anything when you get up.”
Amalie didn’t want to feel sorry for the injured man, but she did. When she picked up the soup bowl and started out the door, Nick fell into step beside her.
“You continue to surprise me, Amalie Pope,” he said softly.
The words washed over her like a gentle caress. She sighed. God help her, but she was losing her objectivity where he was concerned.
“Really? Because I fed another human being? There’s nothing surprising about that.”
Nick slipped his hand beneath her elbow, pulling her even closer to him as they walked.
“Deny it all you want, but you know exactly what I mean.”
She was so weary of the drama and tension in this house that it was
all she could do to keep moving.
“Whatever,” she muttered, pulling away from his grasp. She couldn’t let herself weaken by believing she could rely on any of them.
Nick read the stress on her face. Again the urge to confess his duplicity was strong, if for no other reason than to reassure and comfort her.
He had yet to admit there was another reason he didn’t want Amalie Pope thinking badly of him. She was proving to be the kind of woman a man dreamed of having in his life. Then he shook off the fantasy and hurried to catch up with her. Losing his edge was the fastest way to get them both killed.
Amalie entered the kitchen and caught Lou wrapping a boiled weiner in half of a bun. It was obvious from the opened package that this wasn’t his first helping.
When Lou looked up and saw them, his rage took her by surprise.
“I know what you’re thinking, and I’m warning you now—just keep your fuckin’ mouth shut!”
Amalie froze, shocked by the outburst and afraid to go closer. Then suddenly Nick was at her side.
“I’ve got it,” he said softly, as he took the bowl from her hands and carried it to the sink.
Lou continued to glare, watching every step Nick took.
“Something you want to say?”
Nick ignored him as he took a couple of clean plates from the cabinet.
“Move it,” he said softly.
Lou’s face flushed a dark, angry red. “You son of a bitch.”
Nick stared back without answering the taunt.
Finally Lou looked away and returned to the table, cursing beneath his breath with every step. Rage continued to build as he ate. He’d had it with Aroyo. He wasn’t the boss, and he damn sure wasn’t in charge of that bitch. Just thinking about her made him hard. It had been a long damn time since he’d had a piece of tail, and she was here and ripe for the taking. To hell with Aroyo, and to hell with her. He’d show them.
Amalie didn’t know what this was about, and she didn’t care, as long as they left her alone. When Nick handed her a bun-wrapped weiner, she took it outside to eat.
It felt good just to be out of the house. The tension between the men was palpable, and when she was around, it only escalated. She settled into a wicker chair, and then leaned back with a slow, exhausted sigh and took a small bite. The late evening air was sultry, but it felt good to be out—away from all the tension.
As she looked up at the sky, a large gray crane flew past her line of sight. She imagined herself flying with it—away from this place and these men. But reality returned as it disappeared. She looked down at her food, then shivered. She needed to eat, but her stomach was in knots.
Her solitude ended when Nick emerged from the house and took a seat in the other wicker chair. She felt his stare but purposefully ignored it. She was already losing her sense of self when he was around.
Nick caught the dejection in her demeanor and said the first thing that came to mind.
“This tastes good.”
Amalie blinked, then took another bite.
“Yeah, it’s an old family recipe,” she muttered, and then ate without tasting, knowing she needed the sustenance to keep up her strength.
Nick grinned, but when she didn’t look up, gave up the pretense. So she didn’t want to talk. He got that. He just didn’t have to like it.
He finished eating, then leaned back in the chair to gaze at the car, running scenarios through his head as to how they might raise the roof enough to get Tug and Wayman inside.
“The windshield is in good shape except for a crack,” he said.
“The crack was already there when I drove up,” Amalie said.
“Really? How did it happen?” Nick asked.
“A hawk flew into the windshield on the way here.”
Nick’s eyes widened. “Wow, talk about a freak accident.”
“Yeah, I seem to be getting a lot of that these days.”
Nick sighed. There was nothing else to say.
Shadows were spreading across the yard. It would be dark within a couple of hours. Just for a moment, he let himself play with the notion that all was well with the world and they were an ordinary couple, spending a quiet evening together out on the porch. It set off a longing he wasn’t prepared to face.
Amalie was lost in memories of her own, remembering the times when she and Nonna had sat out here together and regreting the loss of her grandmother’s company.
All of a sudden the sultry air shifted, lifting the hair from her forehead. She glanced up.
“The wind is rising. It will storm tonight.”
Nick frowned. Another delay. He glanced up at the sky, surprised by the swift gathering of dark clouds.
Amalie stood abruptly and walked off the porch, curious as to the amount of damage to her car. The closer she got, the more her hopes fell. The dent in the back of the roof was deep. She circled the car, eyeing the other dents and scratches, and the broken glass.
“What do you think?” Nick asked, as he walked up beside her.
“That my Chevrolet is shot and the world has gone to hell.”
He wanted to hug her. Instead he answered in a matter-of-fact tone.
“We’ll be gone soon.”
Amalie spun, fixing him with a hard, steely glare.
“And what about me? I can’t see your friends being the kind to leave witnesses behind.”
Despite the angry tone of her voice, he knew her words were driven by fear.
“I won’t let them hurt you,” he said.
“Why not? You’re just as culpable as they are. You’ll go back to jail, too, if you’re caught.”
Before he could answer, the back door slammed. He frowned when he saw it was Lou, then turned back to Amalie.
Lou walked to the top of the steps. His belly was full, but his rage had not been sated. From day one, when Aroyo had first appeared on the scene, they hadn’t bonded, but it hadn’t mattered as long as Tug was in charge.
Now things had changed. Tug was out of the loop and he didn’t like Aroyo running the show. His gaze slid to the dark-haired woman. He could tell by the way Aroyo was looking at her that he wanted her—had probably already had her. The thought made him furious.
Lou’s hands clenched into fists as he watched her walking around the car, thrusting her breasts and twitching her butt in Aroyo’s face. She was asking for it, and Lou was in the mood.
He came down off the steps and started across the yard, oblivious to everything but taking her down.
Amalie’s back was to the house, her arms crossed beneath her breasts as she watched the growing cloud bank.
Nick was trying to open the driver’s side door when he heard approaching footsteps.
“Hey, Lou, there’s a crowbar beside the front wheel. Hand it to me, will you?”
Lou picked up the tool, hefting the weight of it in his hands. But instead of handing it to Nick, he drew back and swung.
Nick looked up just in time to catch a glimpse of Lou’s reflection in the window. He threw up his hand as he spun, deflecting part of the blow, which would have cracked the back of his head like a melon, otherwise. The force of the blow knocked him backward against the car. He felt a sharp burst of pain, and then everything went black.
Lou grinned. “Not so damn tough now, are you?”
He dropped the crowbar beside Nick’s motionless body and looked up just as Amalie screamed.
She had seen it all.
When Nick went down and didn’t get up, she knew she was in trouble.
Then Lou started toward her, his fists doubled and a look on his face that stopped her heart.
That was when she began backing up.
“You’re not calling the shots anymore,” Lou said softly.
“Just leave me alone!” she screamed.
“I’ll leave you bleeding and begging for mercy!” he yelled back.
“God help me,” she whispered, then bolted, knowing her only hope lay in outrunning him and losing him in the swam
p.
“Bitch!” Lou yelled, and started after her.
Amalie cleared the yard in less than a minute, panic lending speed to her feet. She dashed past the old barn, then beyond, past where the slave cabins once stood.
The brush was thicker here, which made it harder to run, but she knew it wasn’t far to the edge of the swamp. She could hear the sound of Lou’s footsteps coming up behind her but didn’t dare look back. There was no time to gauge her lead. She just kept running.
Hershel hadn’t been in his office long when his phone rang. He glanced at the caller ID. When it read Number Blocked, he frowned. “Hello?”
“Chief, Agent Edwards here. We have info regarding your missing prisoners.”
Hershel stood up, vaguely registering that cell service must have been restored. If this was true, it didn’t look good for him or his office. The DEA search team had been here less than a day and found something his men hadn’t? “I’m listening.”
“We discovered an older model Lincoln in a creek several miles outside Bordelaise. It was one of the cars reported missing right after the tornado. There appears to be blood on the seats, both in back and in front. We lifted prints from the dash and steering wheel, and faxed them to Quantico. Just got verification that the driver of the car was our missing agent, Aroyo.”
Hershel was speechless for a long moment, then he asked, “Prints and blood types aside, you’re sure it wasn’t dumped in the creek by the tornado?”
“Not unless tornadoes are in the habit of going backward and forward at the same time.”
“What?”
“We’re at Bonaventure Bridge, and according to our information, the storm that spawned your tornado came through here first. So it couldn’t have gone into Bordelaise, picked up this car, then backtracked nearly fifteen miles to dump it in a creek. It got here because someone was driving it. Nick Aroyo’s prints are on the dash, the steering wheel and the door panel. Also, we found four bloody jail-issue jumpsuits among some storm-damaged goods at the local department store. We’re guessing they crawled in through the broken windows, took fresh clothing off the racks and dumped their prison garb in among the damaged clothing on their way out of town.”