by Hope Anika
She wanted to protest, to take the tire iron from him and shove him rudely aside, into the dirt. Instead, she ground her teeth as rain ran down her cheeks and forced herself to watch in silence as he efficiently lowered the Nova, loosened the lug nuts, and then lifted it again. He removed the nuts and pulled the blown tire off. As he studied it, he shot her a veiled look.
“This thing is a piece of shit,” he said, echoing Alexander. “Do they all look like this?”
“No.” Yes.
He stared at her through the rain. His eyes slid down her, taking note of her worn flannel shirt, her sodden, threadbare jeans and cheap, battered hiking boots. His gaze flickered back to hers, but she could read nothing there, not even the annoyance that echoed in his voice.
“Hand me the spare,” he ordered.
Barely resisting the urge to salute, Lucia rolled the miracle tire toward him. She stepped back when he lifted it onto the bolts as though it weighed nothing.
“Is everything okay?” Alexander asked suddenly, making her start. The boy was leaning out the back window of the Nova, his pale eyes locked on the man changing their tire.
“Sí, mijo,” she said. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Are you sure?” His tone was careful, his attention focused unwaveringly on the man next to her.
That man looked up at him. They stared at one another for a tense moment.
“I needs me a Happy Meal,” Ben called through the window.
“In a minute, monkey.” The man and Alexander were having a chilly stare-down contest, and Lucia’s gaze flitted between them, trepidation worming its way through her.
“What about you?” the man asked Alexander. “Are you okay?”
Alexander only blinked, his face molded into its cold, arrogant cast, and ducked back into the car. The window rattled in protest as he rolled it up.
Lucia said nothing, and the man looked at her over his shoulder, a piercing look that made her belly tighten. She only stared back at him, unblinking.
He released the jack and lowered the Nova. The tire made a soft, keening whistle and deflated, leaving the weight of the car on the tire’s bent, rusting rim.
“No good,” the man said, his voice hard.
Lucia wanted to kick it. “Mierda.”
He stood, the tire iron gripped loosely in one hand. “You’ll have to come with me.”
“Oh, no,” she said. “I do not think so.”
His mouth thinned into a hard line. “I can take you to get a tire—or two.”
His mockery plucked at her last nerve, and no matter their dire situation, she wanted nothing more from this ornery jackass of a man. Lucia drew herself up and reached out to take the tire iron. “That is unnecessary.”
The man lifted the iron out of reach and took a step toward her, so close she could feel the immense heat he emanated. “Those are funnel clouds, sweetheart. Is the side of the freeway really where you want to be if they touch down?”
Lucia tore her gaze from him and looked at the sky. He was right. A wall of black moved steadily toward them, so thick and opaque it looked impenetrable, and clouds churned overhead, twisting into a dangerous, cone-shaped mass that was slowly arcing toward the earth. The wind had grown stronger while they argued, powerful enough now to make her sway on her feet, and lightning forked across sky, followed a heartbeat later by thunder so loud and violent, she felt it vibrate through her bones. Ben cried out, a sharp, piercing cry that made her heart slam into her ribs.
“At least think about your kids,” the man growled, taking another step toward her. His shadow slid over her like dusk falling, and the urge to step away was strong, but Lucia held her ground. His heat pressed against her through the wind and rain, and the force of his will was palpable. He smelled like peppermint.
Peppermint?
“What’s going on?”
She nearly jumped out of her skin. Alexander stood just behind the man, motionless, soaked to the bone. Watching tensely.
The man turned to look down at him. Again their gazes collided, and they eyed one another warily, as if they were animals vying for territory.
“Get back into the car, mijo,” Lucia told him. “I will be right there.”
“The tire’s still flat,” he pointed out unhelpfully, watching the man closely.
Thunder chose that moment to crack violently above them, making her jump.
“We need to go,” the man said. He moved around her and tossed the jack and the tire iron into the Nova’s trunk. “This your stuff?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, but gathered their packs, the tent, the first aid kit and the sleeping bags and turned to head toward his Rover.
“Stop!” she protested, but thunder boomed again, drowning her out.
“What’s he doing?” Alexander demanded.
She didn’t know. “We need a new tire.”
“We need a new car.”
A wild laugh caught in her throat.
“We can’t go with him,” the boy said seriously. “It isn’t safe.”
Lucia knew that. The man was a stranger—a contrary, belligerent stranger, perhaps even dangerous—who’d already proven to be trouble. Trusting him was out of the question. He’d made her angry, and she was already angry enough. She’d already been foolish enough. She didn’t need him to make everything worse. But her options were few and far between. Because at the moment, her status as an abductor—a fugitive—meant nothing; the storm raging around them took precedence. No matter that following this man could prove disastrous—for him should Ivan or the police descend, and for them if he really was as furious as he seemed—this hellacious storm was—
Thunder boomed; lightning flashed. Sand and gravel blasted her, and Ben cried out again. Above her, the clouds rolled and billowed into monstrous shapes, and around her, the Idaho desert watched with disinterest.
Ay, yai, yai. From the frying pan into the fire. You had to ask what else could befall you. You had to ask.
Destiny—bah.
Because no matter the danger their unwilling champion presented—or how much he provoked the rage that churned within her—she couldn’t leave the children behind in the Nova while she went in search of a new tire. It was only a matter of time before someone found the car, especially now that it was slumped uselessly on the side of the freeway. And the difficult, cross man who’d just commandeered their belongings didn’t appear to be willing to leave without them. Even if she got him to leave, Lucia had a feeling he would call them in to the authorities, if only to make sure they were safe.
There were no good choices here.
“Lucia?”
She headed toward the car. “Get your stuff; we are going with him.”
Alexander halted, watching her through the rain. “No.”
“We cannot stay with the car. Look!” She pointed up at the funneling clouds, rolling and dark and splintered by jagged lightning. The wind howled; dirt and sand peppered them, mixed with the driving rain. “We have to get out of here. Now.”
Alexander scowled up at the sky. “It’s a sign.”
“Get your stuff,” she repeated and turned away, toward the Nova. She gathered her purse and coat from the front seat.
“Did ya hear the thunder?” Ben wanted to know as she swung open the back door. “I screamed like a girl.”
Alexander was already unbuckling him, his mouth set in a hard, unforgiving line.
“We shouldn’t do this,” he warned softly.
The hair at her nape bristled, as if in agreement. But she didn’t know if it was portent or fear, and fear could not stop her.
“We have no choice,” she said. “We cannot chance the storm. The next town is only a few miles away; he can drop us somewhere we can get a tire and be on his way. It will be fine.”
She hoped. So unforgivably stupid. It was not destiny that had come up short. And she could only hope this decision—to follow a man she would just as soon smack with a tire iron—was not the final nail in her
coffin. Or in his.
“And if they find the car?” the boy persisted.
“Then we will take a bus,” she told him. “Or we will rent a car. We will work it out, mijo.”
“You really won’t give this up?”
His voice was tight, his eyes glittering wildly. Lucia stilled, aware of the inner battle that waged within him. Ben looked between them and began to chew on his thumb.
“No,” she said softly, with finality. “I will not.”
Alexander blinked and pulled Ben into his arms. “It’s your funeral.”
But there was something beyond the indifferent, cutting tone he had so perfected. It was small, wavering, uncertain.
She couldn’t have said for sure, but Lucia thought it might have been hope.
Chapter Three
“Do you mean to tell me you still don’t know where she is? What about the APB? Jesus Christ, there aren’t that many goddamn roads in this state; how the hell far could she get?”
Detective Tony Malone watched as the baby-faced Fed who’d introduced himself as Special Agent Austin Kent paced furiously back and forth within the small confines of Tony’s office and wondered how much longer he was going to be able to stall them.
The feds were a pain in the ass. Always late to the game, always thinking they could cut in line. Always counting their chickens.
Tony was a cop because the process of investigation—of crime solving—fascinated him. He liked collecting clues and amassing the missing pieces; he enjoyed trying to fit them together. The psychology of his suspects, the idiosyncrasies of the criminal mind, the recognition of reason within chaos—those were the reasons he’d joined the force.
He had no respect for someone who rode the race piggybacked and then showed up at the finish line and expected a medal. If they wanted a goddamn medal they had to run the goddamn race.
This was no different. It might have been a fucking mess, but it was his fucking mess.
“No one’s reported seeing her? In this entire city? What about the camera footage? We were told there was a possible sighting north of the city. Is that true? Was there a sighting?” Kent halted in front of Tony’s desk, his eyes narrow, his tone demanding. Kent, who was young—too young, in Tony’s opinion—and impetuous, his impatience only serving to highlight his inexperience. One had to be patient to be a good investigator. Rushing just got people killed. “Have you issued an Amber Alert?”
“Of course.” There had been no choice. An Amber Alert was standard operating procedure when they had a description of the abductor and vehicle, and he hadn’t been able to justify not issuing one. Not even for Lucia. “Just like the book says. But we’ve been unable to confirm from the video footage that it’s her.”
The slender woman who’d accompanied Special Agent Kent into Tony’s office suddenly cleared her throat. Her name was Isabel Bjorn, and she stood next to the only window in Tony’s office, her pale hair and skin illuminated by the misty gray light that filtered into the room. Her gaze was oddly dark in her face, as if somewhere in her genes a swarthy ancestor had skewered her pure Nordic lineage, and as she lifted that gaze to him, Tony felt a streak of heat skewer him just as effectively.
“These allegations of abuse…have you looked into them?” she asked. A faint drawl pulled at her words, slowing the cadence of her speech. Her head cocked to the left as she waited for his response.
“Yes.”
Kent halted in his pacing and turned to look at him. Agent Bjorn’s brows rose. “And?”
“And I think Donovan Cruz is full of shit,” Tony told them bluntly.
Kent’s gaze narrowed on him. “Why?”
Because Tony had known Lucia Sanchez his whole life. Because he knew exactly what she was capable of—and what she wasn’t.
Because what they’d survived together made it impossible.
“You think Mr. Cruz is lying,” Isabel clarified.
Tony focused on her. Her face betrayed nothing, not even the typical derision the feds displayed toward anyone who wasn’t on the federal payroll. She only watched him calmly, her stillness a telling juxtaposition against her partner’s restless movement. “Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because Lucia Sanchez spent the last three weeks trying to convince the Clark County Health and Welfare Department to open an investigation on Donovan Cruz. And when they refused, she went to the Las Vegas chapter of Child Protective Services, who were also reticent to rock the Cruz Boat.” His mouth twisted in self-disgust. “The LVMPD was no better.”
“Those agencies require physical evidence,” Isabel murmured. “One woman’s word is never enough, especially against a man like Donavon Cruz.”
“Lucia Sanchez kidnapped those boys,” Kent said with a sharp shake of his head. “Right now, that’s the priority. We can figure the rest out later.” He swung away and began, once again, to pace back and forth. “Cruz is certain she’s our perp. She’s gone, they’re gone. The mother’s dead, no other living relatives. So it has to have been Sanchez, right? Has to be. But I’d be surprised if she went north. I think she’s far more likely to head for the southern border. Her father was from Belize; it’s a good bet she has family down there. We need to find out if—”
“She’s alone,” Tony said and knew he sounded as angry as he felt. Isabel’s speculative gaze touched him, but he looked at Kent instead. “No family.”
“That’ll make things easier,” Kent said. “She won’t have anyone to help her.”
A soft growl welled in Tony’s chest. He should have fucking helped her.
If he’d listened when she’d come to him, none of this would be happening. But that damned name—Donovan Cruz—had thrown him badly. Had shaken him. And when Lucia had spelled it out to him…
Jesus Christ.
Talk about dropping a fucking bomb.
“Alone?” Isabel repeated, one sleek silver brow arching at him.
“No family,” he repeated.
“And no friends?”
Her question was indirect, but he heard it. And ignored it. “None that we’ve been able to hunt up.”
“A loner, then.” Kent nodded as he paced. “That’ll make things harder. Still, chances are, she’ll head to her homeland. Somewhere she feels safe.”
Tony said nothing. America was Lucia’s ‘homeland,’ which the dumb fucker would know if he’d done his homework. But Special Agent Kent could make all the ignorant assumptions he wanted. Tony wasn’t going to correct him. If Kent wanted to embark on a wild goose chase to Central America, Tony was more than happy to help him pack.
But Isabel…she was going to be another matter. Her dark gaze pierced him like an X-Ray. Perceptive. Intelligent.
Trouble.
“You believe Lucia,” she said, watching him closely. “Why?”
Tony felt a flush touch his cheeks. It made him scowl. “I don’t know what the hell to believe.”
“But you think Cruz is lying,” she pointed out, her melodic voice rising above the cacophony of phones and raised voices outside the office door. “Which means you must believe that Lucia Sanchez is telling the truth. Why is that?”
He stared at her. Hard. He let his gaze fall to the square toes of her black leather shoes, up the slender line of her legs encased in a stylish, severely cut black suit, over the gentle swell of her breasts, along the long graceful line of her throat to that dark, unwavering gaze. The thick web of her lashes flickered, but she didn’t otherwise respond to his perusal.
She just waited.
Tony eyed her, annoyed by the tension that tightened the muscles lining his spine as he looked at her. Bad enough she was on top of the game. Worse that he wouldn’t mind playing along with her.
“I think Cruz is a corrupt, dirty son of a bitch who I wouldn’t let walk my dog,” he retorted. “And until I have physical evidence—either way—I don’t believe anything anyone says.”
Agent Bjorn only stared at him, silent.
“We need to move.” K
ent continued to pace. “Too much talk, not enough action. I thought she’d go south, but if that was her going north, we need to follow up. Now. ”
Tony was ready to tie him to a chair. Punk fed. Just a fucking kid—
The phone on Tony’s desk burst suddenly to life. He answered it with a scowl. “Malone.”
“This is Donavon Cruz. I want to talk to the FBI. Put me on speaker.”
Tony stiffened. The big man himself. “Mr. Cruz—”
“Now, Detective.”
He snarled softly and stabbed the speakerphone button, annoyingly aware of Isabel Bjorn’s unflinching gaze. “You’re on.”
“I want my children back.” Sharp words that fell like glass shattering. “Where are they?”
“We’re working on that now, sir.” Kent halted abruptly in his furious pacing and rubbed at the back of his neck, his features tight. He looked at Isabel, who only blinked at him. “We have an APB out, and an Amber Alert has been issued.”
“And?”
“And we’re compiling resources, mobilizing local law enforcement, and getting the word out through social media.”
“And?”
Tony shook his head.
“And she may have been spotted heading north, out of the city. We’re going to try and confirm the sighting but—”
Goddamn it.
“Try harder.”
“With all due respect, sir, until we get more information—”
“You have what you need. Find them. Or I will.”
Kent looked alarmed. “Sir, you shouldn’t—”
“You will bring them to me within twenty-four hours,” Cruz cut in, his tone like granite, the laconic, Louisianan accent he was known for barely in evidence, “or I will act.”
Kent took a step toward the phone. “Sir—”
“You’ve been warned.”
The dial tone sounded, and a heavy, steady pulse began in the back of Tony’s skull.
Jesus Christ, what the hell else could happen?