“Hey, R.J., I left a message for Krista earlier. Call me back when you get this message—I have some information. I’m leaving Blythe now—traffic is going to be hell as soon as I hit the San Gabriel Valley, so don’t expect me before ten.” She almost hung up, then added, “If the shit hits the fan, take care of my Jeep for me. Especially my tunes—the one thing we agree about.” She wasn’t sure the entire message went through, but she needed to get back on the road and talking while in the Jeep on the freeway was impossible. She plugged her phone into the charger and thought again about the key. Specifically, about hiding the key.
Scarlet and R.J. didn’t like the same music. She was rock, he was rhythm. They’d argued about the merits of rock and roll ad nauseam while on a stakeout together a few weeks ago when she was following Alex around. He hated the Eagles. Who in the world hated the Eagles? He hated the Stones. And Kansas. He hated classic rock and hard rock and even alternative rock.
Except, they both had a fondness for the Beatles. Cheesy, maybe, but there you had it.
She flipped through her center compartment and pulled out her White Album CD. She found a piece of electrical tape and taped the key to inside of the case, then pressed hard to force it to close. The damn key would scratch her CD, but it was a small price to pay for keeping it safe. If her little hidey-hole would keep it safe.
Damn, she was being paranoid. She got back on the road and drove west, dreading traffic, but desperate to get to Gabe’s old house. Had Gabe known this day was going to come? Why hide the evidence at his old house? Someone else lived there. Would they even let her look in the garage? Maybe—Krista was good at talking her way into almost anything. She had that girl-next-door, unassuming look…. On the surface, you couldn’t tell she was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. Scarlet needed to meet up with her partner, and together, they would get the evidence. She almost wished she had someone with her now—Interstate 10 was looking really lonely this morning. She passed mostly big rigs as she sped as fast as her Jeep would go toward civilization.
She was freezing. There was no roof on her Jeep, and while the windshield took the brunt of the blast of cold air, it flowed around her. She had on a sweatshirt and ski hat, and turned the heater on full blast. Soon, she got into the zone. It was still dark in front of her, but her rearview mirror showed a lighter blue sky. Dawn. New day. New beginnings and all that jazz. This stretch of I-10 wasn’t too bad, she realized. Gave her time to think.
Time to think about everything Gabe had said. Time to think about Greg Vartarian and what his role might be. Whether he was in charge… or his niece Diana… or if there was someone else. Before she knew it, an hour had passed since she left Blythe and dawn had overtaken her. The sky in front of her was a rich, gorgeous blue; behind her was orange and yellow. She’d never in a million years want to live in the desert, but right now she could see the allure.
Her phone vibrated in her lap. She glanced down. Alex had sent her a text message.
Call me, dammit! I have to talk to you.
She couldn’t call anyone and hear anything while she was cruising at 75 in her topless Jeep. She sent him a brief text message.
Driving. At office by 10.
Alex immediately texted her back.
I need to see you.
What did that mean? Personal? Business? Was he finally going to tell her why he’d lied to her?
She glanced around. There were no cars. She sent a brief message.
Meet at my office. Prepare to tell why you lied to me or don’t bother.
She wanted to see Alex… and she didn’t want to see Alex. She wanted to know why he had lied to her, but she couldn’t imagine what he could say that would have her forgiving him.
A few minutes later, her phone vibrated and her heart skipped a beat. Was it Alex explaining over text? She didn’t know if that would piss her off as much as the actual lying.
She glanced down and saw a response from Alex. She almost didn’t read it, but the brief preview of the message showed the name John. Her brother?
She opened the message.
I’m with John. I can explain everything. Call me ASAP. Please, Scarlet—just call me now.
A sign showed the Cactus City Rest Stop seven miles up the road. Should she call him or wait until she got to town? The angry lover part of her wanted to make him stew, but the cop part of her wanted to know why he was with her brother and what was so urgent.
The cop part won. It usually did. She reached down and sent Alex a message back.
Will pull over. Ten min.
Thirty seconds later, she saw the lights in her rearview mirror.
“Shit.” She wasn’t going that fast over the speed limit. Had he seen her texting? Yeah, she shouldn’t be, but it wasn’t like she was having a lengthy conversation. A Corvette had passed her going at least a hundred not even five minutes ago and the driver had his phone glued to his ear! Talk about double standards.
Damn, damn, damn.
The rest stop was only two miles up the road. She turned on her blinker to signal that she was pulling over and slowed to fifty, but it would be safer for both her and the officer to be at the rest stop so she didn’t immediately pull over.
He blared his siren twice.
Jerk.
She pulled over to the shoulder, giving enough room for the officer to stand safely off the road. Must be CHP, they patrolled the interstates. That made it less likely she’d get out of a ticket. She wasn’t in her hometown and the only CHP officers she knew patrolled in Orange or L.A. counties.
But she could try.
She kept her hands on the steering wheel and waited for the officer to approach. Running her tags, probably. They were current. She itched to retrieve her concealed carry permit, but that would be bad—she’d done traffic stops her first two years on the force. She got squeamish if she couldn’t see the driver’s hands. She waited for the officer to approach.
And waited.
What was taking him so long? Several cars passed by, then a long line of big rigs. She glanced into the rearview mirror. Was he waiting for backup? Why?
Her stomach twisted. He was taking too long, and that made her uneasy. She slowly reached for her cell phone, put it in her lap and dialed 911, pressed the speaker button, and put her hand back on the wheel.
“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”
“I was just pulled over by either a CHP patrol car or a sheriff—I think I’m in Riverside County. Interstate 10 about fifteen or twenty miles east of Indio. He’s just sitting in his car, has been for four or five minutes. Can you verify the traffic stop?”
“Your name?”
“Scarlet Moreno. Newport Beach, California, I’m driving a white 2001 Jeep Wrangler with no roof and a black roll bar.”
“I will verify the traffic stop. Stay on the line.”
She looked back in the mirror and saw the cop open the door.
Finally.
“Dispatch,” she said, “it’s Moreno. He’s exited his vehicle and is approaching mine.”
Dispatch had put her on hold. Shit. If this wasn’t a normal traffic stop, would her calling 911 help her or seal her fate?
The officer approached on the driver’s side. Definitely not CHP.
Before he reached her she hit end on her phone. 911 had her number—they could trace her cell phone or call her back. Right now, she wanted twenty cops here, because she didn’t feel safe with this one. If she didn’t stay on the phone, it was likely that dispatch would send someone. But how quickly?
“License, registration, and proof of insurance.”
“Officer—” She glanced at his name badge. “Boyle?”
In addition to the way he approached her vehicle—on the driver’s side—his uniform wasn’t CHP. She looked pointedly at his patch. Riverside County Sheriff. Two stars—he was practically a rookie. They usually didn’t patrol the highway. And dammit, she hadn’t been going that fast!
“Deputy, I’m a licensed private inves
tigator and I used to be on the job. Scarlet Moreno, L.A.P.D. I have a firearm in a holster under my seat, and the permit is in my wallet.”
He had his hand on his gun.
“Step out of the car, please.”
Sure, separate the person from the weapon, but still…
“Ma’am, I need you to step out of your vehicle and keep your hands where I can see them.”
“I need to unbuckle my seat belt,” she said. She wasn’t making any sudden movements with this guy. Mind her P’s and Q’s. Rookies tended to panic.
He stepped to the side and watched her. She slowly pushed on the seat belt and freed herself. Then, she put her hand over her door—she had no side windows on her Wrangler—and opened the door from the outside. Pushed it wide with her foot and slid out.
“Please walk to the rear of your vehicle.”
She complied. This whole thing was surreal. Was there a warrant for her arrest? Had someone working for the Vartarians found out she was meeting with Gabe? Falsified a warrant? Had Gabe ratted her out?
Then why give her the key?
What if they’d followed her? They would have had to have been good…. She would have noticed a tail all the way from Newport Beach. Maybe they had put a tracking device on her car. That was exactly their M.O.—that’s how Armor Plus tracked Jason Jones after they framed him for murder.
Was Gabe safe? She was angry with him—beyond angry—but she didn’t want him to die. Or his family. If Sherry or the kids were in immediate danger, Gabe would do or say anything to save them.
God, please no.
The officer retrieved her gun from under her seat.
“Boyle, if I was speeding, give me a ticket. I’m cool. Seriously. I was speeding.” Five miles over the speed limit in the middle of the effing desert, but yeah, she was speeding.
He didn’t say anything. He pretended to search her Jeep. Just looked around, didn’t touch, didn’t check the center console where she’d stashed her purse with her wallet and gun permit, or the glove compartment box where she stored her extra clip and insurance papers for the car.
“I have a permit for that Glock.”
Still, he said nothing.
“Officer, I have an appointment—can you please write the ticket?” She didn’t like how he wasn’t speaking to her, he had an eye on her, but he seemed to be waiting for something.
The bad feeling she had got ten times worse.
A semi-truck passed her, increasing her chill. It might be southern California, but the mornings were damn cold, especially in the desert, and she was standing here in jeans and a sweatshirt.
An SUV passed, slowed, and skidded to a stop right in front of her car.
Boyle had been waiting for something—he’d been waiting for whoever was driving that SUV.
“Boyle, you don’t want to do this. I can protect you. Please—”
He glanced at her, an odd expression on his face. Worry? Fear? Surprise that she’d figured it out? Sort of figured it out… all she knew was that she was in danger.
Both the driver and passenger doors on the SUV opened, and while she wanted to confront these people and demand to know what was going on, self-preservation kicked in.
She ran toward the idling police car, thanking God and the rookie deputy for leaving the keys in the ignition.
Stupid move, Sherlock.
She almost made it. Then pain hit her in the back and for a split second she thought she’d been shot. She tried to grab the door handle of the sedan, but her body was frozen, completely rigid. She fell over like a board and hit her head. She could barely feel the pavement.
She hadn’t been shot. She’d been tasered.
Turn it off! Turn it off!
She’d been tasered once before, during a training drill, for ten seconds on the lowest setting. It had, literally, stunned her, but other than a red welt on her back, she was fine a few minutes later.
But the shock kept coming. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t crawl, she couldn’t think.
Enough! Enough!
She thought she was screaming, but she didn’t hear anything.
When the volts stopped, the relief was instantaneous but short lived. She frantically tried to catch her breath. She pulled herself up on all fours, then collapsed as her arms felt like rubber. Her vision was blurred. Her head dripped blood onto the pavement.
Hands pulled her up.
“Shit, Boyle!”
“Get her in the truck. Now!”
“Stop,” she muttered. She thought she spoke out loud. She shook her head to clear it and something blocked her eye. She tried to wipe it away and it was wet.
Blood.
“Move it!”
One man on each side grabbed her under her arms and half carried, half dragged her to the SUV. She couldn’t tell if cars were passing them, and if they were, why didn’t anyone help?
Because they see the police car. They think someone is already helping…
She was picked up off the ground and roughly pushed into the back of the SUV, then her hands were zip-tied behind her.
“I know you, Moreno,” the voice said. “No way in hell am I letting you escape like last time.”
Last time.
She’d been grabbed—under the watchful eye of the feds—three months ago when she was trying to clear Jason’s name. It was that case more than anything that had propelled her forward on her personal Vartarian investigation. But all those guys had been arrested, right? Those not arrested were dead. What’d they do, send each other love letters from prison about who they nearly killed?
Mercer was dead. Craig Franklin was still in jail, last she’d heard. So was Sykes and Thomas Laurens. But why was she surprised? She knew this was organization was huge. She knew she was going up against a fucking criminal machine.
The Vartarians are behind this.
Why the Vartarians had gone after her now, she didn’t know. She’d been getting into their business for months. Everything she’d learned led her right to their doorstep. Why had they determined that she was a threat now? Up until three months ago, she’d barely heard of them. What had she uncovered that got them so scared?
Or Krista. She hadn’t heard from Krista… had they gotten to her partner? They would have to have gone through R.J…. Was he dead? Was that why Alex had been frantic to talk to her? Was Krista hurt? Was that why Scarlet hadn’t been able to reach her? Cold fear washed through her, fear over her impending fate and the fate of those she cared about.
“Hey, Reggie—take her Jeep off the highway, search it thoroughly, leave it. You know what we’re looking for. I’ll send someone to pick you up. Bring anything suspicious with you, except her phone—check it out, then destroy it and leave it in the car.”
“Understood, boss.”
The driver leaned over and sneered at Scarlet. She glared right back at him. She had never seen him before, but he looked exactly like all the other Armor Plus types. Muscles, dark glasses, no ethics.
“Bitch.” He tied a bandana tight around her eyes, then slammed both rear doors.
Thirty seconds later the driver’s door opened, then slammed shut. The driver floored it and she was thrown against the back doors.
She was so screwed.
Chapter Five
Scarlet tried to keep track of time and location, but it was impossible. All she knew was that they had driven on the freeway for a long time and then not on the freeway for a long time. They’d been in traffic on the freeway, then traffic off the freeway. Lots of stops and turns and short bursts of speed.
Why hadn’t they killed her on the road? A drive-by shooting? Drag her a hundred yards into the desert and put a bullet in her head? Leave her body to be eaten by vultures and coyotes?
Her stomach flipped.
Great visual, Moreno.
They were looking for something specific. They either knew she had the key—or that she had information. When the driver told his partner to search her car, he didn’t say specific
ally to look for a key. Just you know what we’re looking for.
They must have known or suspected that Gabe gave her something. They were keeping her alive in case they couldn’t find it.
She’d hung up on 911—would they call back or dispatch a patrol? Had one of the passing drivers thought something was wonky and called it in? How long would it take for a sheriff’s deputy to respond? Would Boyle have an excuse? Would he say it was a prank? He could have written a fake ticket and said she drove off. If her car was dumped down the road, he’d say it was after he ticketed her. Or maybe he’d lie, say he didn’t pull her over, didn’t know what she was talking about. GPS would place him at the location where she’d made the call… but that would presuppose that they would go down that path.
The cops might not…. What reason would they have to follow up? But Alex would. He’d know something was up. And when Scarlet didn’t call him like she said she would, he’d be worried, especially when Scarlet didn’t respond to any calls or texts. Alex would talk to John, and Scarlet’s brother would move heaven and earth to find out what happened to her. He worked Special Operations out of L.A.P.D. headquarters; he had a lot of clout. Eventually they’d find the key or find out the deputy lied or…
But she would still be dead.
She couldn’t count on anyone but herself to get out of this jam.
This is more than a jam, Moreno.
If they didn’t know about the key, the chances were that Gabe hadn’t turned her over to the Vartarians. No one had known she was going to Arizona except for Krista and R.J.—and neither of them would have said anything. But if someone had followed her—or had a tracker on her Jeep—that meant they knew where she had been last night. Why hadn’t they grabbed her at Gabe’s? Because of the photo and notebook he’d stashed somewhere?
It didn’t make any sense. Maybe they didn’t know she had been at Gabe’s… or they believed he wouldn’t tell her anything.
She was hot because she still wore the thick sweatshirt she’d been driving in and the driver had the heat on. Her back itched and burned from where the Taser had hit. Her wrists chaffed. But what really hurt was her head from when she’d fallen to the pavement. Being tasered rarely had any side effects—the voltage truly just stunned a person. But falling? Most of the injuries from a tasered suspect came from how they fell. Concussions. Cracked ribs. Broken arms. Still better than a bullet, but right now she felt like shit.
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