Burning the Past (Southern Heat Book 3)

by Jamie Garrett

  At first, she heard nothing. No sound of a pursuer, but no sounds of the night, either. What did that mean? Had she startled the night creatures into silence? After several seconds, her chest heaving, struggling with her effort to breathe quietly, she heard a bullfrog croak a short distance away. As if on cue, crickets chirped. Her knees felt like spaghetti, barely able to hold her up. She had no sense of direction. She peeked around the tree trunk, hoping to see the lights from the cabin, but she saw nothing but inky blackness. Where the hell was Nick? He’d obviously turned off the flashlight.

  He wouldn’t know this area any more than she did, putting him at a disadvantage also. Of course, he did have the advantage: a gun, a flashlight—and obviously, a purpose. To find her. To kidnap her again or to kill her? She didn’t know. There was one thing she did know. If she was captured again, her hopes of escaping would be next to none. She had to get out of here!

  Did Nick know where the marshal’s vehicle was parked? It was possible, so that might not be the haven she sought. Thin shafts of moonlight occasionally broke through the canopy overhead, but not enough to guide her on any specific path. All she was able to make out were tree trunks, large bushes, and a dark shadow in the near distance that might be a hill. Other than that, everything around her was swathed in darkness.

  She stepped away from the tree, thinking to somehow circle around back toward the cabin. At least that way she might be able to get to the road, possibly flag down a passerby, although even that was doubtful. She and Dean hadn’t passed any cars after they left the highway to take the cutoff up to the cabin. It was literally out in the middle of nowhere.

  Focused on only one thing—escape—she began to walk, bending slightly, her gaze darting between the ground and the direction she headed. She had to avoid making noise. Don’t step on a branch! Don’t—

  She slammed into something. At first, she thought it was a tree trunk, but it gave a little. Then she felt hands grab her upper arms in a vice-like grip. Her knees nearly gave way when she realized she had run into—

  “Hello, Amy, so nice to see you again.”

  The ringing in her ears precipitated a wave of dizziness. Her knees buckled, but she fought against it, shook her head, and cleared her senses. The voice was Nick’s, sending a shiver of fear coursing down her spine. But he sounded different. An accent? Her body was frozen from the inside out. She tried to speak, but no sound came out of her moving lips. She stared up at the silhouette blocking her path until something clicked in her brain. Despair, or perhaps her instinct to survive. She lashed out with her foot, catching him in the shin as she reached upward with a balled fist at the same time. She managed to make contact with his chin. She twisted wildly in his grip and managed to loosen his hands from her arms.

  Run!

  She took a step, then another, a choked sob escaping her throat. At this very second, she only thought of escaping. She would rather face the possibility of a bullet in her back than being sold as a sex slave. She couldn’t let it happen.

  A force barreled into her from behind, slamming her down to the ground. Her forehead hit the base of the tree and pain burst in her skull. Her arms were grabbed and twisted behind her back, the grip so tight her fingers turned numb almost instantly.

  “Bitch,” he snarled.

  She was yanked upward, roughly. Her knees nearly buckled again, but he held her up. One hand wrapped firmly around her upper arm while his other hand clasped her jaw. It squeezed so hard it brought tears to her eyes. She felt his hot breath against her mouth.

  “Do that again and you’ll regret it.”

  She already did. She regretted so much. She regretted ever laying eyes on him. She regretted—a fist slammed against her jaw, making her ears ring. Blackness swept around the edges of her vision. She was falling, but instead of hitting dirt, she felt herself being lifted and tossed over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Stunned, she balled her hands into fists and tried to beat against his back, his ass, wherever she could manage. She tried to twist out of his grasp—

  She was flying through the air and landed flat on her back, the breath knocked out of her chest. She lay on the ground, arms flung out to the side as he hunched down over her. Something cold and hard dug into the underside of her jaw. Oh, God.

  “You will stop or I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off right now. Do you understand?”

  She couldn’t even manage a reply before everything went black.

  27

  Dean

  Dean sat impatiently in the chair in Agent Hemmings’ temporary “office” while arrangements were being made to transfer Amy to the Marshal’s Service and into the Witness Protection Program. He had already told Dean that it might take up to a week, maybe more, to have a fully prepared background, documents, and location set up for her.

  While he certainly didn’t want to see Amy leave, he chafed at the delay. Every day she stayed in this area, the greater the chance Nick or the bastards working with him had of finding her.

  He’d left the cabin several hours ago. Dusk had transitioned to darkness. He missed her already. He wished that he could call her, but he didn’t. He’d been warned by Hemmings to restrict contact with her, as he preferred she only use a phone for emergencies to reduce the risk of being tracked. Besides that, it would only make it more difficult—for him at least—to let her go, to disappear forever.

  He scowled, resisting the urge to slam his fist down on the desk. Fucking Nick Summers. How had he managed to track Amy down? Dean and Agent Hemmings had briefly discussed the possibility of someone in law enforcement being involved, but the agent discounted it. Everyone in the know about Amy’s case—and Sloane’s—had been carefully vetted. Even so, information between the departments was compartmentalized. The Marshal’s Service only knew she was to be protected. The Monroe Police Department was minimally involved, and individuals associated with the GBI, the State Patrol, and the FBI were on a need-to-know basis in regard to specific details about Amy’s case.

  The same applied to Sloane’s involvement, and her history with Sakkas. Of course, Dean had told Hemmings about the text message he had received on the way up to the cabin, and about Amy mentioning that the only way Nick Summers could’ve heard about Sloane was through Sakkas or a member of his sex-trafficking ring. The agent had immediately notified Quantico. Then he sent a couple of agents from his home base in Savannah up to the prison in Delaware, where the Greek antiques and sex-trafficking dealer was serving time in a super-max prison complex.

  The Croatian connection was still uncertain, but after doing some digging, Hemmings had revealed that he did find a possible link between Sakkas and his antique business and travels to eastern European countries like Croatia and the Ukraine before he had been caught and jailed.

  Dean sat in the chair in front of Hemmings’ desk, nervously tapping his foot as he listened to the agent’s one-sided phone conversation. Did he have news? Had Nick been captured? Perhaps Amy wouldn’t need to go into WITSEC after all.

  “I’ll call you back.”

  Hemmings hung up the phone and leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

  “You do know that your involvement in this case is extremely limited and that you shouldn’t even be here. That I shouldn’t even be talking to you. To put it quite bluntly, Dean, nothing in this case directly involves you.”

  Dean almost laughed, but the chuckle that started in his chest caused him to wince before it got any further. He pointed to his bruised face and the stitches in his forehead. “I beg to differ. Someone attacked me, and I have a feeling it was that bastard, Nick. Tell me how I’m not involved.”

  Hemmings frowned. “You know what I mean.” He sighed and shook his head. “If you two were married, you could be moved together. As it is . . .” he offered a slight shrug. “I’m sorry, Dean, but it has to be this way.”

  Dean knew it; he just didn’t want to accept it. After he dropped Amy off at the cabin and the marshal had arrived, he had said
that he would talk to Hemmings. The two were supposed to head up there soon. When he returned with him, would it be the last time he saw her? The thought triggered a wave of . . . of what? Regret? Sadness? Frustration? All of the above. He had just come to terms with his feelings toward Amy, and now she would be gone. Damn, he wanted her to be his forever. But that was impossible.

  After he’d returned to town, alone and sitting in the parking lot of the Monroe Police Department headquarters no less, he had reassembled his phone. He had planned to go buy a couple more burner phones, one for himself and one for Amy, thinking that at the very least they would be able to text message. Foolish and wishful thinking. He knew that such an action might very well compromise her safety.

  He still wasn’t sure how Nick, or whoever had sent that message, had gotten his phone number, but he was in such a foul mood, he didn’t give a flying fuck. After being jumped behind the motel, he was prepared to face the bastard again. Let’s see how brave he could be if they were face to face.

  “What if—” His cell phone rang. Dean pulled it out of his pocket and glanced down at the screen, hoping that it was Amy, but then saw the Caller ID. Sloane.

  He answered the call. “Sloane, I’m at—

  “Dean, something’s happened!”

  He sat upright in the chair, capturing Hemmings’ attention. He quickly put the phone on speaker. “What? What’s happened?”

  “Amy called me.”

  Hemmings groaned as he scowled at Dean. “I told her not to—”

  “Who’s that?” Sloane asked, her voice raised in alarm.

  “It’s Agent Hemmings, from the FBI. What’s happened, Sloane?”

  “Amy called me, to warn me that Nick Summers knew about me, thinking that Sakkas had to be involved somehow. But in the middle of the conversation . . . something happened . . . it sounded like fighting. And then I heard what sounded like a gunshot—”

  Dean stared at Hemmings, who stared back at him and then quickly snatched up his own phone lying on his desk. Dean didn’t pay any attention to what Hemmings was doing as he questioned Sloane.

  “What happened? Did she say?” Dean rushed to ask. “Have you talked to her since then? Is she alright?”

  “I don’t know,” Sloane replied, her voice trembling. “I heard the sound of banging or crashing. And then nothing, just ambient sound, like the call hadn’t been disconnected, but no one was there.”

  “Shit! Where are you now?”

  “I’m with Meg at Promise House.”

  “Stay there,” he said, glancing to Hemmings. “Can you send a patrol car or something over to Promise House to keep an eye on Meg and Sloane?” Hemmings nodded as Dean continued. “A patrol car or someone from the GBI, or the FBI, hell, someone, is coming over to watch the house. You to stay inside with the doors and windows locked. Got it?”

  “Got it, Dean . . . but please, try to find Amy . . .”

  “I will,” he said, disconnecting the call. He looked at Hemmings, whose face had lost some of its color.

  “I’m not getting any answer from the marshal we sent up there,” he said, looking at Dean.

  “I’m going out there,” Dean said. He stood and turned to leave the room.

  “Dean, you can’t interfere. We’ll take care of this—”

  “And you’ve done a fine fucking job of it so far, haven’t you?” With that he was out the door to Hemmings’ office and then through the police station before anyone could stop him. Pulling the keys from his pocket as he exited, he headed for his truck. What the hell had happened? Was it a mistake? He doubted it, or Sloane would have been able to talk to Amy again or vice versa.

  He climbed into his truck, slamming the door behind him, anger causing his hands to tremble. He had to try two times before he was able to shove the key into the ignition. Dean cranked the key and turned on the lights before he put the truck into reverse, glancing over his shoulder as he pulled out of the space, his heart pounding, his jaw clenched tightly. As he pulled out of the parking lot of the police department, he glanced down at the dashboard. Shit! He needed gas. The tank showed nearly empty.

  “Fuck!” He didn’t have time for this!

  Had Hemmings already sent someone up to the cabin to check? Was he going himself? Maybe he should’ve stuck around the police station to learn of Hemmings’ plans. Dean shook his head. They would’ve kept him there, he was sure of it. He was a civilian and they wouldn’t want him interfering with the case, damaging evidence, causing evidence, who the hell cared?

  He didn’t care who had jurisdiction and who didn’t. At this point, Amy needed help, and he’d be damned if he would be sitting on his ass while—

  Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, striving for calm. He had to think, and think clearly. He couldn’t go off half cocked, which would not only make him off his game, but would trigger carelessness. What had happened up there at the cabin? Would he arrive to find Amy dead? Maybe he was getting ahead of himself. Maybe the marshal had fired at and shot someone. But if that had been the case, wouldn’t Hemmings have been able to get ahold of him?

  Maybe the agent was injured and Amy was taking care of him. But she would’ve called someone, wouldn’t she? No matter how many ways he tried to spin it, he kept coming back to one thought that sent dread surging through his body. Somehow, Nick Summers had once again managed to track down Amy and this time he had finally caught up with her.

  He pulled into a gas station. The first two pumps were out of service and a gasoline pumper truck was taking up the space for the other two as it refilled the tanks underground. Cursing, he gripped the steering wheel tightly in his hand and quickly found another gas station a couple of blocks away. By now his blood pressure was up, anger throbbing in his veins. He had to get up to the cabin and find out what the hell was going on. He had no doubt that Hemmings would be doing the same.

  He pulled up in front of a pump, quickly threw the truck into park, and turned off the engine, leaving the keys in the ignition. Dean moved quickly, stepping to the gas cover, unscrewing the lid, and reaching for the pump handle at the same time. He put the nozzle into the gas receptacle and then pulled his wallet from his back pocket and grabbed his debit card. Crap. His hands were shaking. He took a deep breath, shoved the card in, and then yanked it out.

  He was in the process of sliding his debit card back into his wallet slot and turning to press the handle of a gas nozzle when he heard the sudden rush of steps behind him. Startled, he turned, but not fast enough. Something slammed into the back of his head. He dropped to his hands and knees along the side of his truck, between the front and rear wheels. His head spinning, his ears buzzing, he faintly heard the sound of a car pulling up behind his truck. Headlights shone into his eyes, blinding him.

  Arms grabbed him, lifted him to his feet, and dragged him backward. His foot caught on the gas pump hose, pulling it from the tank, where it fell to the ground with a clatter. He smelled gasoline. Voices sounded, speaking low and hushed. He couldn’t understand what they were saying and then he realized why. They weren’t speaking English.

  Shit!

  He tried to twist from his captor’s grasp, but a forearm wrapped around his neck as his attacker pulled him into the back seat of the waiting car. The door slammed shut. He kicked against it, struggling to free himself. The grip around his neck tightened and he wrapped his fingers around the strong, hairy arm. The arm continued to squeeze. He couldn’t breathe. He kicked against the door, his heel making contact with the window. It shattered.

  Shouting from two or three different voices in the car, he couldn’t tell. The arm tightened still more. Blackness hovered around the edges of his consciousness and then . . . nothing.

  28

  Amy

  Amy hunched on the cold cement floor in the corner of what looked to be an abandoned auto-repair garage. It certainly smelled like it; the lingering scents of oil, rubber, and engine fluids she didn’t recognize were heavy in the air. Her hands were bound in front
of her with duct tape. Another piece had been slapped over her mouth.

  Her heart pounded and her mind spun with questions, fear, and horror. Her head pounded with a headache worse than she had ever experienced, the pain leaving her feeling lightheaded and nauseated.

  It had happened. History had repeated itself, but this time through no fault of her own. Would this nightmare never be over? Or was this it?

  Nick stood a short distance away, his thumbs tucked around the belt loops of his jeans. Grinning down at her. Just as good-looking as he’d always been, but now she only felt sickened by the sight of him. She wanted to throw up but tamped down the urge. If she vomited, she would end up choking, probably aspirating it into her lungs.

  “I knew we’d meet again someday, Amy,” he said. “I had to finish the job. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Where had that accent come from? Heavy, with an extra rolling sound on the vowels.

  She said nothing, breathing heavily, her eyes wide as she stared at him. “Fear” didn’t even begin to describe what she felt at this moment. She was terrified. Utterly and completely. She tried to blink back the warm tears that blurred her vision, turning everything around her into elongated stars. Her heart pounded so hard she felt the pulse throbbing in her neck. Her senses were on hyper alert, her nerves raw as she fought against the nearly overwhelming urge to scream.

  She had escaped once, but how was she going to—

  He took a step closer and she scooted back further into the corner, pulling her knees up in front of her, warily watching his every move. He kept coming but stopped when he was maybe a foot away and then crouched down, arms dangling over his knees as he peered into her face.