Changing Tides

by Veronica Mixon

  Call Nathan.

  An image of my phone sliding off the seat of Susie’s truck flashed in my mind. Oh, God, please still be on the floor of the truck.

  I staggered down the stairs, opened the truck, and swept my fingers under the front seat. My fingers touched plastic and my chest cavity oozed with relief. I palmed my lifeline and punched redial.

  “Kate. Where are you?” Nathan’s desperate tone skipped a quick chill up my spine.

  “Go to Mom’s house—”

  “I’m on the causeway.”

  My head swam, and I grabbed the truck door. “No, go to Mom’s.”

  “Is that where Owen is?”

  Trepidation squeezed my chest. “Guards.” The drumming of an oil-rig pounded in my head. Slam. Slam. Slam. Words skittered across my brain and disappeared as if caught under the rigs hammer.

  “Kate, are you there? Where’s Cedar?”

  I latched onto the solidity of Nathan’s voice. “Gone. Three guards.” My stomach rolled. I gagged on scotch. Spat. “Mom and Owen are at her Whitaker house. Cedar has three guards. One at each door. Go.” My eyes skimmed the flat tires, and I searched the street. A blue sedan crept down the road. “I’ll meet you.”

  “Stay where you are. Don’t—”

  I disconnected and lumbered down the driveway waving my hands over my head.

  The car pulled to a stop. The driver met me at the end of the drive. “Ma’am, are you okay?” He was young, not long out of high school, and wore a brown shirt with a security patch on the sleeve.

  I clutched his hand. “Please, help me.”

  He walked me toward his vehicle. “You need to sit.”

  “No. I need to go to Whitaker Street.” I pulled him to his open car door.

  “What’s your name?” He turned, glanced down Cedar’s drive. “Are you visiting Mr. Haynes?”

  A wave of dizziness hit, and I gripped the doorframe. “I’m Katelyn Landers. Please. Drive me. Downtown.”

  He eased me onto the seat.

  “My son. Whitaker Street.” I tried articulating details, but the muscles in my tongue battled with the brain-muddling drug Cedar dumped in my scotch.

  He squatted in front of me. “I can’t leave the neighborhood.” His mouth molded his words slow and distinctive as if I were a crying child or an escaped mental patient. He was gentle and kind, and he had no intention of driving me anywhere.

  I glanced at the keys dangling in his ignition and pointed to Cedar’s house. “There’s an injured man.”

  “What happened?” His gaze turned to Cedar’s house. “Is it Mr. Haynes? Did a tree fall?”

  “He’s hurt. Please. Check on him.”

  “Stay here.” He jogged down the drive.

  I swung my legs in, and closed the car door. Shifting into drive, I headed for Whitaker Street.

  ****

  I parked on the far side of the Forsyth Park and fell in step with a group of tourists, crossed Bolton Street, and slid behind an old oak tree with limbs touching Mom’s side balcony. In my teens, the branches made a perfect ladder for sneaking in and out after curfew. I plastered my back against the bark.

  A hand clamped over my mouth. “What do you think you’re doing?” Erica’s voice rumbled in my ear. She eased her grip on my face and slid around the tree. “Go and stay in the park until this is over.” She hugged a basket of white and yellow daisies to her chest. Three smiley-face balloons waved cheerfully in the air.

  “Cedar has three goons guarding Mom and Owen. One at each first-floor entrance.” I pointed to the balcony. “They won’t worry about the second floor. I can get inside.”

  “You’re not trained.” Impatience simmered through her skin as clearly as the exasperation filtering her voice. “You’re not going inside.”

  “Owen will be petrified when he sees men with guns. I can keep him calm.”

  She held my gaze, a cop’s stare—assessing, suspicious, wary. “No, Kate.”

  I balled my hands into fists. “I’m his mother.” I sidestepped, determined to get inside…not about to let Erica get in my way.

  She yanked my arm. “Don’t risk this op. We’re a trained rescue team. We’ll get Owen out safe.”

  “I’m going in.” My calm voice betrayed my racing heart. My only experience with rescue operations was from TV. Bullets flew and people died. I had to get to Owen and protect him.

  Erica looked up at the balcony, then pulled me behind the tree. “Thermal imaging shows one person in the library, another near the front door, and one’s on the move in the hall. It looks like Owen and Roslyn are upstairs.”

  I offered up what I knew. “Cedar had a video. Mom and Owen are in her bedroom.” I pointed at the balcony. “Three doors down from my old room.”

  Erica scrunched her mouth as if chewing on ways to get rid of me. Finally, her lips pressed together. “Christ.” She shoved her hand through her cropped hair. She bent over, yanked her back-up pistol out of her ankle strap and handed a revolver to me. “You make it inside without getting shot, head to Roslyn's room, and hide everyone. We’ll clear the downstairs and come to you. We all move out together.”

  I nodded and didn’t say anything to give her a reason to change her mind.

  She held up the flower basket. “Fake delivery. Move in when the doorbell rings.” Startling me, Erica grabbed my hand and squeezed, her eyes holding worry and twenty years of friendship. “Whatever this was, your mom was in on it. Don’t forget that.” She disappeared around the tree.

  The balcony had a set of sliding doors that led to my old bedroom. They’d be locked, but I knew a simultaneous jiggle and push would release the latch.

  The lowest oak limb was eight feet up. I caught the branch on my first jump, lay vertical, and inched my way forward. I pulled myself to standing and cleared the railing, praying for Owen to stay safe. I wiggled and pulled the door. Nothing. Not now. Not this close.

  Push, shake, and pull. I leaned against the door frame, jiggled the catch, and yanked. The lock gave way, and the door skated soundlessly across the tracks.

  The doorbell rang. Erica’s fake delivery.

  I stepped into my old bedroom with Erica’s revolver leading the way. The quiet hum of the air conditioning sounded turbocharged but paled in comparison to my jackhammering heart. I crept toward the bathroom that would bring me one room closer to Mom’s suite.

  I pushed open the door. A creak stopped me midstep. I pressed against the wall. An icy prickle slid up my neck. Owen was only ten feet away.

  I inched forward.

  No sound.

  The shower curtain rustled. A fist headed for my face.

  I didn’t duck.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  On another day, in another place, the fist might’ve hurt. But today, the blow had zero impact. No more than a sand gnat’s annoying sting. Beyond pain, beyond caring, this low-down bastard had my son.

  Erica’s eighth-grade, how-to-knock-a-bully-on-their-ass tips kicked in. Whoever connected first, won. Erica’s mantra—the one she’d drummed into me at thirteen-years-old—move into the punch, tilt, and make your opponent’s next hit veer off course. Then I kneed the guy in the balls. Men might be stronger, but girls fight dirtier—another Erica acumen.

  His hands covered his crotch, and he folded over like the limp dick he was. The guy was short, lean, and barely over the age of twenty. I had three inches and twenty pounds on him.

  I crashed Erica’s revolver into the right side of his head. A sickening thud.

  One of his hands abandoned his balls and grabbed his ear. I smashed the gun into the left side of his face.

  Blood spurted. His knees buckled, and he sprawled on the tile floor.

  I bashed another blow into his skull.

  Satisfied, he wouldn’t be getting up, I crossed into the next room and cracked the door.

  A man’s voice I didn’t recognize floated up the stairway. Must be another guard.

  I pressed against the wall and passed the
landing.

  A clunk, then the sound of glass crashing. Mom’s antique Murano bowl.

  My heart seized.

  I fast-tracked to Mom’s room, slipped inside, and quickly scanned her suite, verified Mom and Owen were alone.

  Owen leaned over the gaming table in the sitting area focused on a chessboard. He had one foot on the floor and his knee braced in the chair.

  Mom sat across from him with her hand set to move her pawn.

  I placed a finger against my lips.

  She released the chess piece, mimicked my finger to the lips, and pointed at me.

  Owen turned, and his entire face lit. He flew into my arms and seared a thousand and one fissures in my heart.

  I reveled in the warmth of his body, wrapped my arms around him, kissed his face, and drank in his little boy smell. It was if someone had opened a window and let the air in again. I could breathe. I leaned him back and forced an oversized smile. “Aunt Erica’s here. We’re playing a game. We have to be really quiet, hide, and only come out when she gives the password. If we win, she’ll spring for ice cream. You want to play?”

  “Sure.” He laughed, and my heart exploded with love.

  A calm warmth spread though my chest. “You hide in the closet. Nana and I will stand guard.” I carried him to the door. He slid out of my arms, settled against the back wall, and hid behind Mom’s long formal dresses.

  “I’ll be right outside.” I touched my finger to my lips again. “Remember, not a sound.”

  He pushed aside a burgundy gown and peeked through. “What’s the password?” he whispered.

  I blanked and then latched onto the first thing. “Black Beauty.” His favorite book.

  He covered his mouth and smothered a giggle.

  I snapped a mental picture of his radiant face, then shut the door.

  “What’s happened?” Mom pounced. “Why are you hiding Owen?”

  I dragged her away from the closet so Owen wouldn’t hear. “Erica and Nathan are working to get us out of the house.”

  “Why?”

  “The men guarding you are dangerous.”

  “They’re Cedar’s men. They’re protecting us.”

  “They’re Cabral men. They can’t be trusted.”

  She touched my forearm. “Kate, there’s so much I need to explain. Juan’s nephews have the misguided belief you’re a threat to their inheritance.” Her shoulders dropped and bewilderment settled in the wrinkles around her eyes.

  Tension swam in the air between us like motes of dust.

  “I’m so sorry Juan’s family threatened Owen.” Mom’s voice barely reached a whisper. “They’ve caused you so much pain. Juan promised he’d always protect you, but he died and…”

  “Why would Juan Cabral promise to protect me?” I hunted her face for an explanation.

  She stepped back, her hand gripping a Louis XV commode. She swallowed and drew a short, hard breath. Color drained from her face, her lips thinned. “I…haven’t been honest.” Her eyes filled with tears, but I saw love and worry in them.

  I finally said the words out loud. “Juan Cabral’s my biological father, isn’t he?”

  Tears streamed down her cheeks. “Yes.”

  My heart tumbled, twisted like a rag, and shredded. Cedar’s flippant taunt that he’d stolen from a Cabral, just not the nephews, echoed in my head. I was Juan Cabral’s daughter. My God, my father had been a drug kingpin. My cousins ran the biggest drug cartel in the Southeast. I had a million questions, but set them aside with my shock. Owen’s safety was my priority. “Being here under guard has nothing to do with Juan’s nephews. That’s a concocted story. Cedar’s on the run.”

  Mom frowned, and based on the lines on her forehead, her bafflement was genuine. “What do you mean?”

  “He stole thirty million dollars from Granddad’s offshore accounts. This fake kidnapping plan is a diversion so Cedar can leave the country. Get to the money.”

  Erica slipped through the door. “Owen secure?”

  I wiped my tears with the back of my hand. “We’re good.”

  “I neutralized one guard, and Nathan took care of another. He’s checking the rest of the second floor now.”

  “There are usually three guards,” Mom said.

  “One’s in my old bathroom,” I said. “I took care of him, and he was unconscious when I left him.”

  Erica gave me a thumbs up.

  Nathan came through the door. His hot focused gaze soothed my skittering heart.

  “Willie spotted Skinny Norwich in the park, a half block away,” he said. “Skinny’s carrying and moving with a crowd of tourists in this direction. He could have recruited help and have eyes on the main doors. Our best option is the balcony.”

  Cedar’s warning of Skinny’s revenge flew through my mind. I opened the closet and tugged Owen’s hand. “Come on. We have to go.”

  He pulled back. “Aunt Erica didn’t say the password.”

  I knew Owen. Rules were rules. I stuck my head out of the closet and whispered to Erica. “Say Black Beauty.”

  She turned and without hesitation, said, “Black Beauty.”

  Owen fist-pumped. “We won.” He jumped out, ran to Erica, and grabbed her around the waist. “I want chocolate sprinkles.” He spotted her gun and jerked back.

  I pulled him to my side. “It’s okay. Just part of the game, like in one of your videos.”

  “We’ve positioned a ladder against the wall leading to the balcony.” Nathan motioned us into the hallway.

  I knelt and faced Owen. “We’re going to sneak out of the house and down a ladder. Okay?”

  His gaze cut to Erica. “This isn’t a game, is it?”

  Erica knelt beside me. “You can do this, Champ. You’ll be right between your mom and me.” She waited until he nodded, then stood.

  Nathan’s Smith and Wesson led the way. We crept from Mom’s suite and walked follow-the-leader style down the carpeted hall, Nathan, then Mom, me, Owen, and Erica. We made it past the open staircase and into my old bedroom.

  Nathan maneuvered around the desk, slid past the bed, and opened the sliding glass doors leading to the balcony. “When I give the okay, bring Owen out, and I’ll take him down the ladder.” He stepped outside.

  I hugged Owen close and rubbed a calming hand down his back. Then I heard a squeak. I turned just as the bathroom door swung open.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  I pushed Owen behind me, blocked him with my body.

  Erica thrust me, Owen, and Mom toward the balcony. “Get Owen to the ladder.” She ran around the bed and faced-off with a human wall.

  Nathan rushed back into the bedroom, pushed Mom and Owen into a crouch, swiveled, and reached for me.

  I stepped toward Erica.

  “Kate, get behind me.” Nathan held his finger to his ear. “Move in. Repeat. Move in.”

  “Kate, get down.” Nathan’s demand reverberated off the ceiling.

  The Wall, eyes hot, teeth bared, kept his gun aimed at Erica. “Don’t. Move.”

  “US marshal. Drop your weapon.” Nathan’s commanding voice filled the room.

  Erica remained mute, intent, and focused on her opponent.

  I stared at the Wall’s gun, his arm a mass of corded muscles. He could knock Erica into unconsciousness with one backhanded slap.

  Except…I held the upper hand.

  I straightened my shoulders, pretended my heart still beat at a normal rhythm, and slipped on my authoritative boardroom persona. “I’m Juan Cabral’s daughter. This woman works for me. Drop your weapon.”

  Erica fast-blinked, then used my intro, and said, “Lay your weapon on the floor, and no one gets hurt.”

  “Jake, where the hell are you?” A man yelled. Skinny Norwich staggered into the bedroom waving a pistol, blood dripping from his shoulder. His gaze centered on me and his face twisted. He shook his head like a rabid dog—salvia and bubbles of foam slid down his chin. “You Cabrals.” He shoved his gun toward me. “You�
�re going to pay for Dennis.”

  “Mom!” Owen’s cry sliced my heart.

  Skinny’s gaze flicked in Owen’s direction, and he swung his pistol.

  Every cell in my body leaped.

  “Noooo!”

  I dove, aimed for Skinny’s bloody shoulder.

  A gun blast.

  Then another.

  Skinny toppled.

  I landed, jammed my fist against his wound, and rolled off.

  I scrambled to Owen. My hands flew over his body, patting, sliding, and searching. No blood. I crushed his body to mine. Rocked him, soothed his tears from fear and not injury, thankful the blood on my hands was Skinny’s and not Owen’s.

  Nathan pressed a finger to his earpiece. “Civilian shot. We need an ambulance. I repeat. Civilian shot.”

  “Oh God.” I crushed Owen to my chest, turned and looked at Mom. Her legs were skewed in an unnatural angle, as if she were a rag doll thrown aside without a care. Her sky-blue Chanel blouse discolored. A dark wet stain crept over her breast. Please, God. Don’t do this. I let Owen go, pulled Mom into my lap, and cradled her head. “Hold on, Mom. Look at me. Don’t close your eyes. Look at me. Help’s on the way.”

  Nathan knelt, pressed two fingers against her throat. “She has a pulse.” His eyes met mine. “She stood up to shield Owen. Faced Norwich straight on.”

  Mom’s brilliant cobalt eyes met mine, slowly fading into a dull, lifeless gray. Her body shuddered. “I’m so sorry.” She gasped a short, hard breath, and her body relaxed in my arms.

  “No.” I rocked back and forth. “Don’t give up, Mom. Please. Don’t. Give. Up.”

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Seven Months Later

  A car door slammed, and I set my armload of books on the kitchen table, stepped to the window, and tipped the blind. Nathan had called this morning and asked to stop by, so seeing him striding down the sidewalk carrying his bulging briefcase wasn’t a surprise. But my heart still flipped a couple of somersaults.

  He paused at the door, glanced back toward the street as if surveying the neighborhood, then tapped his knuckles on the doorjamb.