by Hope Anika
As if in answer, his office door suddenly opened, and Detective Bob Peabody stuck his head through the open doorway. “Start your engines. Someone spotted the car.”
Chapter Four
A real man does for others before he does for himself.
Sam turned aside that thought and focused on the stretch of road before him; wind blew ferociously, dirt, gravel and debris battered the side of the Rover. Ahead, the clouds were churning right along with his gut. He had a bad feeling, one that had nothing to do with the fact that he was currently aiding and abetting a kidnapper.
No, right now he was more worried about the massive thunderheads that were gathering overhead. Having been raised on a cattle ranch in Oklahoma, Sam knew tornado weather intimately, and every one of his instincts was screaming at him to get off the road and find shelter. Never mind that this part of the country rarely experienced tornados—the politicians could pontificate all they wanted, but the earth was changing, and as far as he was concerned, all bets were off.
“There it is! Holy cow, holy cow, holy cow, it has a Play Land! I love Play Land!”
Sam glanced in the rearview mirror. The youngest son of Donovan Cruz had his face pressed against the Rover’s window, his excited breath creating a sheen of fog across the glass. He didn’t seem at all upset about having been kidnapped. But then, he couldn’t have been more than five. What the hell did a five-year-old know?
He probably didn’t even understand what had happened to him. He probably thought they were taking a goddamn field trip.
But the other one, the older one, he was a different matter.
“Sí, monkey,” said the woman next to Sam. “I know.”
Her voice was shaped by a Spanish accent Sam couldn’t place, and she was tiny, no more than five-two, with warm, golden brown skin and a thick, braided rope of dark, chocolate-brown hair. Amber eyes flecked with green continued to shoot him wary, annoyed looks, and her delicate, exotic features were drawn into a scowl. The lush red bow of her mouth was flat. A slim, worn leather watch with a scratched face and slender, silver hoop earrings were her only accessories. She nearly vibrated as she sat next to him, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her head turned away as she glared out at the gathering storm. Sam watched her gaze flit to the side mirror, they away again, back and forth, as if she was watching for someone, and he could feel her anxiety and her irritation, and no matter how hard she tried to hide it, her fear, which was sharp and ripe, like the cold rain that battered them. Lucia Sanchez was afraid.
She fucking should be.
But far more potent was the emotion that pulsated from her, uncontained and electric, sparking against his nerve endings like a live wire; it was a sensation Sam would know blind and gagged in a dark room: fury.
Which was the last thing he’d expected. His fault, for having expected anything at all.
But he couldn’t afford to assume Tony was right in his belief of this woman’s innocence; there was history there, muddy waters, and Sam understood it was his job to be the neutral one, to render an impartial assessment of the situation, and the woman who’d created it. No matter her claims of abuse, the Cruz kids were worth a small fortune, and it was Sam’s experience that most people were assholes, so he operated under that assumption until they proved him different. Guilty until proven innocent. Because it was just easier that way.
That being the case, he’d fully expected a manipulator and a criminal, the same kind he dealt with on a daily basis. He was always assigned the hardest witness protection cases, usually the turncoats who were only saving their own asses, because he had an intrinsic understanding of human behavior and an uncanny ability to predict that behavior. Reading people had always come easy to him—their thoughts, their fears, their motives. Deciphering good from bad, truth from lie was instinctual for him, something he did without much thought. He just knew.
It had saved his life—and those he protected—more than once.
So when he’d come across the broken-down Nova and its stranded fugitives, he figured he’d stop, and Lucia Sanchez would jump at the chance for help. She’d bat her lashes and make use of his Rover—and him—and she’d do what she could to get the most mileage out of him. Either that, or she’d come at him armed and ready. Instead, she’d told him to go fuck himself and almost brained him with that damn tire iron. He’d had to strong-arm her into accepting his help, and he knew in his bones she would take the boys and hightail it the first chance she got. She clearly had no use for him and was only occupying the seat next to him out of necessity. And maybe she feared he would uncover her secret—because she feared something—but Sam got the feeling it was more a matter of his irritating the hell out of her. Which shouldn’t have bothered him—he knew he could be an abrasive son of a bitch—but did.
He had more questions than answers, and that pissed him off. Because he really didn’t want to care about who Lucia Sanchez was or what her motives were. Sam knew himself well enough to know he was in no condition to deal with it—not physically and sure as hell not mentally. It was unfortunate, then, that the thought of dumping her and the kids at the closest police station, or handing her over to Tony—before he understood exactly what the hell was going on—was not something he was now willing to do.
A real man does for others before he does for himself.
Christ.
The echo of his uncle’s voice wasn’t helping matters any. Magnus Steele had been a hard man, strong, and he’d considered it his responsibility to share that strength—to lend it—to anyone who needed it, regardless of consequence. He’d drilled that belief into Sam early and had never yielded in it.
You’re strong, boy. On the inside, where it counts. Someday others are gonna need that strength, and you gotta be there for ‘em. It’s your duty.
Sam knew his duty. He’d spent seven years as an Army Ranger doing his duty to his country and the last five as a Deputy U.S. Marshal, laying his butt on the line, taking whatever was meted out so those he protected didn’t have to.
He knew all about duty, and he didn’t particularly appreciate the reminder now.
“What’s your name?” he demanded brusquely, because the woman beside him hadn’t offered it, and he didn’t expect her to.
“Lucia,” she muttered, surprising him, but then her mouth tightened, and she looked away and shook her head, and Sam could almost hear the mental slap she gave herself.
But she couldn’t take it back, and her lack of foresight needled him. As did the piece of shit Nova. The bald tires, the tent, the sleeping bags. Her lack of planning was obvious. It made no sense to Sam. If he was going to kidnap the children of a billionaire, he sure as shit would have a plan. A decent fucking car. Hell, even an accomplice. Something other than what was sitting next to him. Nothing about her jived with what he’d been prepared to find, and that needled him even worse.
“I’m Sam,” he said and thought fuck.
He didn’t need this. The questions niggling at him, the doubt they gave life to, this stupid ruse. The enigma that was Lucia Sanchez and her endgame. He simply didn’t want to care.
Not about anything. But damn it, she wasn’t who she should be.
She smelled like spicy vanilla and rain, and washing his hands of her—and this entire mess—would’ve been simple, if she’d used that delicate beauty and lush body and tried to handle him. But she hadn’t. Hell, the storm was the only reason he’d won the tussle they’d had over the damned tire iron. Even though she clearly needed some help, because she hadn’t even known to loosen the goddamn lugs before lifting the car.
Then you have solved my problem. Gracias. You may go now.
Cold words delivered with a furious, heated glare. Damned if some part of him hadn’t responded to that impossible mix—which didn’t fucking help matters.
At all.
If he’d sensed—even minutely—that she was the woman Cruz claimed, an abuser, an opportunist, a threat, busting her ass and walking away would have bee
n easy. But Sam’s gut insisted there was more to the story, and he trusted his gut. Even if he didn’t trust her.
Double fuck.
A gust of wind shook the Rover, and he swerved hard to stay on the road. The vehicle rattled violently; a sharp cry sounded from the backseat. Next to him, Lucia clung to the dashboard, her knuckles bloodless. Gravel and sand blasted the Rover’s roof.
“We should stop,” she said.
“Not until we find shelter,” he replied grimly. “Otherwise, we’re sitting ducks.”
She glanced back at her two charges, tried to smile and failed miserably.
Goddamn it. No doubt about it, Lucia Sanchez was a dark horse. Unpredictable, which made her dangerous, but the fury Sam felt rolling from her was something he couldn’t ignore. That simmering rage, an echo of his own volatile state. In taking off with the kids—neither of whom appeared upset they’d been stolen—she’d gone completely off the reservation, so either she was crazy—which Sam had yet to see any evidence of—or she was driven by something so important, consequences didn’t matter.
Desperation? Or greed?
She sure as hell didn’t look like an abuser, but Sam knew better than anyone that what appeared on the surface was rarely a true reflection of what lay beneath.
Another gust of wind nearly blew them off the road. The steering wheel vibrated in his hands; the entire Rover shuddered in effort to stay upright. Hail was beginning to fall, pea-sized chunks of white ice that beat against the Rover like a slot payout.
“Ay, yai, yai, it is getting worse.” Lucia turned and looked at the boys. “Mijo, you must put something dry on.”
Sam met the older boy’s pale green gaze in the mirror. The shock of those eyes hit him again, like a sharp, quick blow to the solar plexus. They were so cold they chilled him. Remote and empty, the same soulless look worn by men he’d often fought next to, men who’d spent their lives killing other men.
What the fuck had been done to him?
When the boy had appeared outside the car while Sam was changing the tire, he’d been ready to intervene. Sam could feel the kid’s suspicion, his adrenaline, his aggression. The determination to do something, if necessary, without fear or hesitation. How old was he? Nine? Ten? What kind of kid confronted a stranger without batting an eyelash?
He’d obviously believed Sam was the threat—not Lucia.
“I’m fine,” the boy muttered, lifting his chin, his eyes still holding Sam’s.
“No. You will get sick.” Lucia leaned over the seat and wrestled with something. Sam watched in the rearview mirror as she pulled a shirt from one of the backpacks and thrust it at the boy. “Put it on, mijo. Please.”
The kid’s chin lifted mutinously, but he snatched the shirt from her. His icy gaze narrowed on Sam. “Don’t you look at me,” he snarled. “Don’t you even think about it.”
“Alexander,” Lucia said sharply.
“I mean it,” he hissed, and the fine hair at Sam’s nape started to bristle again.
Sam was no expert on children; hell, they were all like little aliens to him, but he knew fucked up when he saw it. He bit back the virulent words that rose in his throat and fought to keep the Rover on the road. “What the hell is his problem?”
Lucia looked away, the lush curve of her mouth hardening. “He is fine.”
Sam’s patience, which had been paper-thin to begin with, was beginning to rapidly disintegrate. “Bullshit.”
Lucia flinched and shot him another blazing, golden glare, and Sam knew he sounded as angry as he felt. Angry—at her, at Tony, at the storm bearing down upon them. At fucking life.
“If you could just drop us off at the McDonald’s up ahead,” Lucia said in a biting, cold tone that rubbed against him like sandpaper, “that would be fine.”
“Chicken nuggets and fries!” crowed the youngest son of Donavon Cruz.
Sam’s gaze again slid to the rearview. The older boy watched him, his stare unwavering, his eyes hard with hate and distrust as he threw his damp t-shirt into his backpack.
Jesus.
“Can I have two happy meals?” the little one wanted to know, making circles in the steam he’d left on the window. “And a chocolate shake?”
“One Happy Meal is enough, monkey,” Lucia replied. “And we will share a shake.”
The kid groaned. “But I love McDonald’s, and we never get to go there….” He trailed off, and Sam didn’t miss the glance he sent his older brother. “Are you gonna be okay now, Zander?”
Lucia stiffened.
“Shut up, Ben,” Alexander muttered, glaring at Sam in the mirror.
Ben looked back out the window and fell silent. Lucia turned and leaned across her seat to brush back his hair. “It will be fine, monkey. Do not worry.”
“But what if he comes?” Ben’s voice fell to a whisper. It was lucky, then, that Sam had sharp ears. He watched them in the mirror, his three fugitives, their heads bent close. They looked far more like co-conspirators than captor and abductees. “What if he finds us? He might…”
“Kill you,” Alexander said, his voice low.
“He will have to,” Lucia replied, her tone like steel.
Sam’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. Thunder boomed violently from above; wind lashed against them with hurricane force. Lightning broke apart the sky and sheared down toward them. The green Exit sign they were approaching exploded in a burst of fiberglass and metal; the sound was deafening. In the backseat, Ben screamed.
Sam wrenched the wheel; the Rover squealed in protest as it swerved wildly around the chunks of fiberglass and steel that rained down around them. The hail was the size of golf balls now, denting the Rover’s hood. They pelted the windshield like cherry bombs, and he knew their time was up.
They had to stop. He pulled over.
“What are you doing?” demanded Alexander, his eyes locked on Sam in the mirror.
Another crack of thunder sounded from above; the Rover swayed unsteadily in the wind.
“There’s a culvert running beneath the road.” Sam released his seatbelt. Adrenaline speared through him, a heady rush of current and white heat, like a shot of Tennessee moonshine. “It’s safer than the underpass.”
“We cannot go out there!” Lucia protested. “The hail—”
“It’s either the hail or that goddamn tornado,” he snapped, his tone sharp. He pointed out the twister on the horizon that was churning toward them, surrounded by a violent whirl of dust and debris. “Your choice.”
Ben started to cry.
“Shhh, monkey, no tears.” Lucia took a deep breath. “Okay, take off your seatbelts. We are going to go to the culvert.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Alexander said, but his eyes were wide as they surveyed the black vortex of wind and debris headed toward them. “Maybe it will miss us.”
“Maybe is not good enough.” Lucia unbuckled her own seatbelt. “Get ready.”
Sam climbed from the Rover; the wind slapped him in the face, dust, gravel, sand stinging his eyes and scouring his skin. The door wrenched against its hinges, and hail fell like hellfire, pummeling him. He wasted no time, collecting the bags, tent and his own large backpack from the back of the Rover, then went and swung open the passenger side door next to Alexander.
“I’m scared!” Ben wailed, but when Lucia reached for him, he went, wrapping himself around her like a second skin. She tucked his head into her neck, murmuring something Sam couldn’t hear. He met her gaze briefly before she lifted Ben from the seat and turned away. Alexander stared up at him, unmoving, his pale eyes wide and wild, his hands clenched into fists.
“Don’t you touch me,” he growled.
“Don’t flatter yourself, kid,” Sam told him. “Out. Now.”
The kid’s eyes flared and violence simmered for a moment between them, but thunder cracked like sudden gunfire and effectively shattered the moment. Sam stood back, and Alexander climbed out, giving him wide berth, hurrying around the sid
e of the car to stand so close to Lucia they were nearly touching. But not quite.
Sam said nothing, just headed for the large cement culvert he’d spotted. Hail battered him like falling rock, and he moved closer to Lucia, trying to shield her and the kids as best he could from the brutal downpour. The ditch that housed the culvert was steep, shifting desert scrub and slick rock, and he slid down it, gritting his teeth against the pain that immediately twisted through his left leg. Damned bullet wound. He’d taken knives, bullets, hell even a little shrapnel from a roadside bomb in Kandahar, but nothing had hurt worse than the last 9mm round he’d taken in his thigh. Too fucking old for this shit.
Lucia scrambled down beside him, Alexander glued to her side like an errant shadow. The culvert was only four feet in diameter, barely big enough for them to crowd into; water rushed over their feet with enough force to make Alexander sway. Sam reached to steady him, and the kid reared back, hissing like a feral cat.
“Christ,” Sam muttered. The wind was getting stronger, louder, and pressure was welling, pressing against his lungs and making his eardrums pop painfully. Debris swirled around them like earthen confetti as he shoved Lucia and Ben in and glowered at Alexander until he followed. Sam climbed in behind them. Lucia curled up against one wall, Ben buried in her arms, Alexander beside her, his mouth trembling, water streaming down his pale cheeks like salty tears. The sudden roar that sounded shook the concrete around them; rain and grit and rock flew sideways, into the culvert, pelting them with vicious force. Sam moved to brace himself over Lucia, urging her closer, until Ben was securely between them. He slid an arm around Alexander, ignoring the boy’s violent protest, and pulled him close.
Hail and debris hammered at Sam’s back, eating through his thin t-shirt to bite at his skin. Alexander squirmed and fought with bony fists and kicking feet. Lucia tried to calm him, but Sam only pulled him closer, the boy’s struggle no match for his own brute strength.
An explosion sounded, followed by several violent pops, and the wind whirled and screamed. The pressure built until all Sam could hear was the pulse of his blood throbbing in his ears. Beneath him, Lucia shook violently, and Ben’s tiny shoulders vibrated against his chest. The bags he held strained against the call of the wind; next to him, his pack lifted and he barely caught it before it flew out of the culvert. The water beneath them rose, until the current nearly reached his knees and he had to brace himself against the ceiling of the culvert to stay on his feet. His thigh felt like it had split wide open.