The Getaway

by Hope Anika

  “Confused how?” Tony demanded, and Isabel nearly put a hand on his arm. He was almost vibrating.

  “Many years ago, there was…an incident with Lucia’s brother, Elian,” Rosa said slowly. “Lucia’s mother, Selena, was my friend. We were both widows with young children, and we went to the same church—”

  “Our Lady of the Sacred Heart,” Tony interrupted—snarled—and Isabel did lean toward him then, and let her arm settle lightly against his. He went still, that glittering hazel gaze touching her profile.

  “Yes,” Rosa said, obviously surprised. “How did you know?”

  “It was in Lucia’s file,” Isabel murmured.

  “Oh. Well, her mother—Selena—was very…devout. The rituals, they comforted her. She never missed Mass, and every day she would light a candle for her husband who had passed.” Rosa caressed her rosary. “He was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Tony echoed.

  “It was not something Selena spoke of. I know only because Father Domingo mentioned it in passing.”

  “And the incident?” Tony pressed impatiently.

  Rosa took a deep breath. “Yes. Of course. It was summer, and Selena decided to send her son Elian—Lucia’s older brother—to a camp run by the church.”

  Tony went as tense as coiled wire, and Isabel pressed slightly closer. She knew this part of the story; he’d already told her. And in spite of the even tone he’d used, she’d heard his guilt. Felt the sting of his sorrow and regret, the power it had even today, a wound that still bled. But they needed to hear it from Rosa. No matter how painful.

  Part of Isabel knew she was bending too far. The Detective’s simmering anguish was not her concern. But she didn’t move, because they could not afford to have his rage tip their hand, and they needed Rosa Sanchez to trust them, which wouldn’t happen if Tony jumped the cheap coffee table and went for the woman’s throat.

  For the greater good, Isabel told herself, as the hard heat of him seeped into her skin. And knew she was a liar.

  “It was a very good camp,” Rosa said seriously. “There were sports programs and Bible classes and arts and crafts. A wonderful experience for the children. But when Elian returned, he told his mother that the Deacon who had gone with them to camp had been…inappropriate.”

  “Inappropriate?” Tony repeated, and his tone sent a sudden, icy chill through Isabel. She’d seen him angry, annoyed, amused. He’d been charming, belligerent, manipulative. But not…dangerous.

  Her heart jerked in response. Rosa blinked and lifted her rosary to her lips.

  “There were accusations of…molestation.”

  “Molestation,” Tony repeated darkly, and Isabel thought about what a benign word it was, so pale in comparison to the terror and evil it wrought. Man’s attempt to deflect the horror he was capable of. “You mean rape.”

  Rosa froze. Her gaze shot to Isabel. “That was in the file, too?”

  “Elian blew his brains out in his bedroom,” Tony replied, so cold Isabel clenched her hands into fists. “Lucia found him. Of course it’s in the file.”

  Rosa scooted back in the chair she occupied, as if just realizing how volatile the man before her was. “Yes, of course.”

  “How did Selena react when he told her?” Isabel asked calmly.

  “She did not believe him. She could not. The Church…that belief…it was all she had left.”

  “And once her son was dead?” Tony asked in that same brutally cold voice. “Did she believe then?”

  “I don’t know.” Rosa worked the rosary through her hands. “She withdrew into herself afterward. We did not speak of it. Then the police came and arrested the Deacon…” She shook her head. “He was such a nice young man.”

  “He was a fucking monster,” Tony said.

  Isabel leaned harder into him. “What happened then?”

  Rosa stared at Tony, fear flickering across her features. “Many people abandoned the church. Selena was one of them. I tried to stay in touch, but she just…went away. Then one day, I heard she had died. It was very tragic.”

  Isabel had read Selena Sanchez’s death certificate. Under cause of death it had stated organ failure due to dehydration and starvation.

  The woman had starved herself to death. Part of Isabel wasn’t surprised. She’d seen parents lose their children; it was not something a person ever recovered from. To outlive your child went against the paradigm, the natural order. Parents were prepared to go before their children, but not after.

  Never after.

  Add to that the relentless, unforgiving guilt Selena must have experienced…. A self-imposed death sentence had probably seemed a relief.

  But not to Lucia.

  Anger flared in Isabel. “How did Lucia end up working for Mr. Cruz?”

  “I saw her at the clinic where my doctor worked. She volunteered there sometimes. When I was diagnosed, she came to me and told me not to give up. To have hope.” A shaken smile turned Rosa’s mouth. “She is a good girl. She is. This…what is happening…she is just confusing then with now.”

  Beside Isabel, Tony growled.

  “You helped her get the job working for Mr. Cruz?” Isabel clarified.

  “Yes. I recommended her, and with her schooling, Mr. Cruz hired her. I thought…I thought it would be okay.” Another shake of her head. “She is a good girl.”

  “You never saw anything?” Tony asked, very quietly, and far too calm.

  Something moved through Rosa’s veiled gaze, brief, fleeting, but Isabel caught it.

  “Please,” she urged. “Off the record, just between us. He will never know. There will be no report, no witness statement. Nothing. You have my word.”

  Silence fell, broken only by the sound of traffic moving past outside.

  “He’s going to kill her,” Tony said bluntly. “You know that, right?”

  Rosa paled, which left her looking like the walking dead. “He would not—”

  “He will. You know he will. He will make her disappear.”

  “Like he did with Mrs. Cruz,” Isabel added, her heart beating hard. She could see Rosa’s internal struggle. Frightened for herself, for Lucia. The woman’s mouth worked, and her throat bobbed. Her battle was obvious: her life or the truth.

  “There is nothing,” she said finally, but would not meet their gazes.

  “Goddamn it,” Tony snarled and stood up. “This is on you.” He pointed at her with a shaking hand. “Whatever happens to her—to those boys—it’s on your fucking head.”

  Rosa flinched. In Isabel’s pocket, her phone beeped. She stood.

  “Thank you for seeing us,” she told Rosa quietly.

  Tony turned and stormed from the house, slamming the door behind him. Isabel followed, more subdued, and checked her phone.

  An email from Aequitas, one they’d been waiting for.

  She climbed into the SUV and put a firm hand on Tony’s arm when he went to start the car, halting him.

  “Settle,” she said softly, and when his angry gaze met hers, she squeezed his arm. “It wouldn’t have been admissible anyway.”

  “She fucking knows.”

  His fury was hot and ripe, like a furnace blast against her skin. Isabel only nodded. “Yes. But we are asking her to barter her life for something she has probably talked herself out of believing. No one ever wants to believe, Tony. No one. Only those who’ve suffered believe. They know how easily it happens, everywhere, all the time. But to those it has never touched, it is almost sacrilege to speak of. That’s simply fact.”

  He wanted to argue; Isabel could see it. But he couldn’t. He hadn’t believed, either. So to be angry at Rosa Sanchez was to be angry at himself, and perhaps that’s why he was so enraged. Not at her, but at himself.

  “Fuck,” he said.

  “I have the information on Cruz’s security system at Dead Mountains,” Isabel told him, and deliberately dragged him into the present. With her. “We need to go somewhere I can print it off. Where do you suggest?”
>
  Chapter Twenty-One

  “Take off your pants and sit down.”

  Sam tried hard not to take that command personally, but his body had other ideas. It rose to the occasion as if the woman making the order was naked and smiling instead of holding a first aid kit and scowling at him.

  Because he knew what she tasted like now. And no matter how much he wanted to blame Lucia for that, he knew it was his own goddamn fault.

  “Sam,” Lucia said.

  He turned away and stripped off his sodden shirt, taking his time, willing the sudden, relentless hunger that beat at him to subside.

  He shouldn’t have kissed her. What the fuck was his problem? Soft, plump lips, putting him in his goddamn place, that was his fucking problem. Spicy and sweet and fierce, and he wanted to drown in her. All of that fire licking over him, pulling him into the inferno.

  He wanted to burn.

  Totally fucking fucked.

  “Sam,” Lucia said again, sternly. “Sit down. I am going to look at your leg. You are bleeding again.”

  That was because he’d spent the last hour hiking a mile-wide perimeter around the cabin, making certain it was—for now, at least—secure. The rain helped, heavy, cold, unrelenting. The smoke from the woodstove was barely visible, dispersed by the water and the wind, and the small amount of light cast by the two kerosene lamps they’d found was almost invisible from the outside. He’d hidden the ATV, and the tracks they’d left on their way in had all but disappeared.

  They were finally out of signal range, but that wasn’t enough—Sam wanted them so far into the interior not even Smoky the fucking Bear could find them. Idaho had a hell of a lot of wilderness; they could hide very effectively. But not by camping out next to a well-used trail. Not by staying confined to the areas heavily utilized by people. Tomorrow they were going to have to break their own trail with the ATV, and then, when the rig could go no further, they were going to have to walk.

  So having Lucia patch up his leg was a good idea. Too bad the last thing Sam wanted was her hands on him. And not because he didn’t want them on him. No, because he wanted them all over him.

  And that was a big fucking problem. A distraction that could get them all dead.

  That’s why he’d deliberately put some space between them today. He’d taken the same role he always took with the people he protected: he became the watcher. Hyperaware, vigilant, every sense attuned for any sign of trouble. He didn’t involve himself with them; instead, he worked the perimeter, watching and waiting and working the trenches. He protected from the outside in.

  And he’d gotten a strip torn off his hide for his trouble.

  You are worse than a menstruating woman.

  Goddamn her, he’d almost laughed.

  Instead, he’d kissed her. And he wanted to do it again.

  “Sam,” Lucia repeated, and he could hear her annoyance. “Are you listening to me?”

  God help him. That accent, that temper, that mouth. She tempted him in ways he hadn’t even known it was possible to be tempted. And that could not be. Because he didn’t have the luxury of thinking about anything other than keeping them safe. Because if he gave into the insane, pervasive, growing need she stirred, Dragovitch would get the drop on them, and someone would end up dead. There were no good choices here, only varying degrees of disaster, and it was up to him to mitigate those degrees.

  That was his job. His only fucking job. And he couldn’t forget that just because she made his dick hard and his mouth water and tempted him into thinking about a future.

  Who the fuck do you think you’re kidding?

  “Sam,” she said a fourth time. Snarled, really, so Sam turned and walked toward the scarred wooden table. He halted and stared down at her where she sat in one of the ancient chairs.

  The fire crackled; it was cozy warm in the cabin, and rain pounded against the old tin roof like miniature hammers. Ben and Daisy were in bed; Sam could hear Ben murmuring softly to her. Alexander lay beside them, drawing in a worn three-ring notebook Lucia had found along with the lamps. She stared up at him, holding his gaze stubbornly, color flushing her cheeks as she said, “I want to see that leg.”

  Sam didn’t move. It was better that he dealt with it himself. He was no medic, but he had plenty of experience in the field. He could do the job. And then she wouldn’t be touching him. He wouldn’t be sitting there in his underwear with her breath washing across his skin while the memory of that kiss hovered between them, giving life to any number of erotic fantasies that could never come true.

  “Do not be obstinate,” she told him. “I will tie you down if necessary.”

  Speaking of fantasies…

  “I’ll help,” Alexander added, his pale gaze sliding to meet Sam’s.

  The kid had done well today. He’d kept his head with that bear—luckily a young black bear and not a mama grizzly—and he’d listened. Followed orders. Considering how difficult he’d been up to this point, Sam figured it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten himself—or Ben—mauled.

  “You’re bullies,” Sam told them, unmoving.

  “Please, Sam,” Lucia replied quietly. “Let me help you.”

  If she’d argued, Sam could have resisted. But the husky sound of his name on her lips, the plea in her gaze, that stubborn, persistent will, and the goddamn knowledge that she would touch him—when he’d just spent the last three minutes explaining to himself why that was a bad idea—won out over his common sense.

  He unzipped his jeans and let them fall. Lucia held his gaze, her chin lifting just a bit, and turned as rosy pink as a fresh Georgia peach. He pulled up the only remaining chair and sat down across from her, his back to the boys, aware that he was growing hard as hell beneath his jockeys.

  She was just going to have to deal.

  “Thank you,” she said. Her gaze flickered to his erection and away; she turned red as a beet. Then she focused on the make-shift patch job on his thigh and frowned. Blood and pus had turned the gauze sodden and black, and the tape he’d used was frayed and curling at the edges. Blood trails swept down the outside of his leg, down his knee, into the vee of his thighs.

  He was a mess.

  “Ay, yai, yai,” she muttered, leaning over the wound to take a better look. She shook her head. “What have you done to yourself?”

  Her hair was loose, a lush mass of curling, chocolate brown tresses with streaks of deep red and pale gold; it swept his thighs, and he stiffened.

  “Relax,” she admonished. “I am not going to hurt you.”

  Fuck. Sweetest goddamn torture ever.

  She pulled away the bandage with gentle, efficient hands. When the jagged, ugly wound beneath was revealed she looked up at him with narrow eyes. “This is a bullet wound.”

  Sam only shrugged.

  “You were shot,” she whispered in outrage. “Who shot you?”

  “He’s dead.”

  Her mouth opened, then closed. She shook her head and began to clean him up with peroxide-soaked cotton balls that were soft as butter and cold as ice. Sam watched her work. He’d been worked on a lot—by field medics, paramedics, doctors, nurses, hell, even a dentist once, in Columbia—and Lucia was good. Her touch was firm but light, her manner professional, her skill natural. Doctoring was a skill just like any other—you either had it or you didn’t.

  Lucia had it.

  “You need stitches,” she told him. “The internal sutures are torn, but they will do. You are healing. However, the outer stitches should be resewn.” She looked up at him. “I have a kit. Will you let me help you?”

  No force on earth could have made him say no. So fucking pathetic. But this was all he could let himself have: her hands on him while she fixed him. It wasn’t enough; he had a bad feeling nothing would be enough. Not after that kiss. But it was legitimate, and he needed the work. Bleeding like a stuck pig wasn’t going to do him any favors. He needed to heal; he needed to be one hundred percent.

  Because Ivan the Terrible sure
as hell wasn’t going to give him a handicap.

  “Be my guest,” he said.

  Lucia nodded and dug into the box beside her. It was an old tackle box she’d pulled from her pack, filled to overflowing with all manner of medical supplies. Gloves, syringes, needles, ointments, bandages, iodine, peroxide. A snake bite kit, a tourniquet, even a small splint. Sam was impressed. At least she was prepared for something.

  A needle was removed, followed by a narrow spool of clear thread. A small pair of scissors, a clamp, another clean bandage. Lucia scooted closer and positioned his leg between hers, holding him still with the supple muscle that lined her thighs. When she squeezed his leg lightly between her own, lightning shot down his spine and his cock jerked. Heat flooded him, and his hands fisted against the compulsion to reach for her. Just pull her into his lap and—

  “What happened?” Alexander asked, suddenly right next to them. Sam swore internally, with vicious precision, and luckily, the boy’s appearance helped deflate the blood flow to his nether regions until he appeared almost normal.

  Almost. Except for the dull, aching throb that gripped him. And the knowledge that, should the boy turn and walk away again, he would be hard as stone in an instant.

  Double fuck.

  “Did that happen in the storm?” the kid continued, watching as Lucia threaded her needle.

  “Sí,” Lucia replied, lying without compunction. But her eyes sought Sam’s, and her cheeks burned bright, and her gaze asked him not to argue.

  He didn’t. That was not a conversation he wanted to have with either of them. He was doing his best to forget what had happened in Baja; he still hadn’t heard jack shit about Fieldstone. He didn’t want to talk about it, relive it, remember. What was before him was enough.

  Here and now.

  Alexander shot Lucia a look; he knew she was lying, too, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he studied Sam’s wound and said, “You still came after us.”

  “Yep.”

  “Didn’t it hurt?”

  “Like hell,” Sam told him.