by Becky McGraw
“No—let’s just kill her,” Trace said. “That’s a better plan.” Ronnie’s body stiffened and she whimpered behind the gag, pulling at the ropes on her wrists.
“I make the decisions here,” Ray said shortly. “Besides I think I want a little taste of that before we send her to the Cantina.” The man laughed then nodded his chin at Harmon, who was also ogling Ronnie. “Take her to the pen, and get rid of her car.”
“Carlos you get the drugs,” Harmon said.
Trace breathed a sigh of relief, because he knew Carlos wouldn’t give her the heroin. Or at least he didn’t think he would. He would pretend he was giving it to her, and Trace was going to have to make sure she played the part of a druggie, until he could figure out how to get her out of here. If they let him within ten feet of her. He also prayed that Ray continued to let Carlos be the one to drug her. If one of the other men here were put in charge of that, Ronnie was in trouble.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ronnie woke up with a raging headache. Her brain felt fuzzy and pounded like it wanted out of her skull. She had no idea how long she’d been out, but she thought it must’ve been a while. It was dark inside wherever she was so she couldn’t really tell what time of day it was. After that Latino guy drugged her, she didn’t remember anything.
Air wafted through the stale room from somewhere and the hair on her sweaty body stood on end. She opened her eyes and realized she was naked and shackled to the wall in an old wooden building that smelled like an outhouse. A scream gathered in her chest and worked up to her throat, but it wouldn’t move past the rag stuffed in her dry mouth.
Terrified, her eyes moved around the walls where she made out other black iron shackles bolted to the wall all the way around the building. It looked like she was in some kind of medieval dungeon. The only light in the room came from the uneven gaps between boards forming the wall. It must be morning, she thought, gauging the intensity of the light rays. That meant she’d been here at least a day. If the hunger pains in her belly, the soreness in her body, and the numbness in her hands were any indication, that was definitely the case. Wrapping her numb hands around the chains holding the cuffs, Ronnie pulled her feet under her to stand. They slipped on the nasty-looking hay on the floor and she fell back down on her butt. The fact that she was naked and chained couldn’t mean anything good.
Trace Rooks had done this to her. Yesterday, he had encouraged those men to kill her. It looked like they were going to do a lot more than that, before they killed her. Bile shot to her throat, and she prayed she didn’t throw up. Ronnie closed her eyes and took a deep breath through her nose. The putrid smelling air in the building almost finished the job. She swallowed several times and finally got control.
Ronnie now realized she had made the biggest mistake of her life coming here to warn him. Trace Rooks already knew what was going on here. He had definitely gone to the other side, and she was learning that the hard way now. She was a fool, and would probably pay for that with her life.
Laying her head back on her shoulders, Ronnie inspected the metal plate where the shackles originated on the wall above. The plate looked new, and the bolts weren’t rusted. Not good. Even the weathered boards seemed to be sturdy. They looked to be made out of petrified wood or something. Something tickled her ankle, and she glanced down. Another scream stuck in her throat, as a rat scurried away, and she jerked the chains and scrambled to her feet. If she did get out of this alive, Ronnie was going to send Trace Rooks where he belonged. To prison for the rest of his life. And she sure wouldn’t feel an ounce of guilt about doing it.
He was a bad cop. Judge Jennings hadn’t gotten it wrong when he sentenced him. Ronnie was the one who had been a fool for defending him. She had probably done him a favor recommending that plea deal. Any jury would have seen through his innocent act. She was the only one who had been a blind idiot. If they’d gone to court, he would probably have gotten at least ten years for killing his partner, and his involvement in that drug ring.
And she wouldn’t be here right now.
All Ronnie could hope for was if she died here, her Daddy would avenge her death. If he wasn’t on a big case somewhere. If he would even care. Her mother was probably in Paris shopping for a new boyfriend. She’d get the news, buy a new black dress for the funeral, shed a delicate tear then go on with her life. That is just how things worked with her family. She was under no false illusion that any of them cared about her.
Who knew if her brother Cade would be there. He was probably in some godforsaken place fighting battles that weren’t even his own. Protecting people who should be wiped off of the face of the earth. Ronnie thought he chose that life, so he didn’t have to be around their family. Smart man. But who the hell voluntarily chose being a mercenary as a career? Her father proudly called it paramilitary. Ronnie called it stupid.
After Cade’s stint in the marines, he should have gone to college and come back home. Instead, he went to Africa on some damned secret mission with another group of fools just like him. He hadn’t been home since, but she’d heard he moved on to another mission in Columbia. At this exact minute, Ronnie wouldn’t mind being there with him, or having him here with her. He would know how to get out of this mess.
Yanking on the chains hard, she only managed to cut the bottom of her wrist on the sharp edge of the cuff. That’s good Ronnie, slit your wrists and save these bastards the trouble.
With a huffed breath, she slid back down to sit on the floor. Her arms stretched over her head and went numb again. Something warm trickled down her arm and Ronnie looked up to see she was bleeding. Maybe she’d die from an infection. That would be slow and painful. No more than she deserved for being so ignorant.
Her chin fell to her chest, and she tried to drift away somewhere nice, so she wouldn’t have a heart attack from the panic building inside her chest.
A beach, the one she had gone to last year for her vacation. Tahiti after the year-long Longmire trial wrapped had been the best vacation ever. Her only vacation in years. Ronnie could almost taste the fruity sweetness of the umbrella drink on her tongue. God, she wanted that drink so bad right now. Her mouth felt like it was lined in cotton, and she wondered if her captors planned on leaving her here to die a slow death from dehydration. Or maybe they’d starve her to death. Her stomach rumbled.
If they asked her for a last meal choice, she knew what that would be. Chocolate. A whole fucking bag of it. She would gorge herself on every last piece in that bag, then they could do whatever the hell they wanted to do to her. Well, not anything. She would use the razor-sharp edge of the cuffs binding her wrists to kill herself if they tried that with her.
Some things were worse than death.
Ronnie dozed off, but woke suddenly when the door across the room opened and bright sunlight backlit a tall man carrying a tray of some kind. She sat up straighter hoping he was bringing her food. But she was leery to eat it if it was. They could have drugged it.
The cuffs cut into her wrists, and she held her breath as he approached. He got closer and it was a man she’d never seen before. He didn’t smile, or even look at her. He reached onto the tray and picked up a syringe filled with a sticky-looking yellow liquid then sat the tray on the floor. He stood back up and squirted a little of the liquid out of the end of the long needle.
Ronnie scrambled up to her feet and pressed her back against the rough wooden wall. There was no way she was going to let that man give her that shot without a fight. Every muscle in her body tensed, as she waited for him to stand and face her.
His flat eyes met hers and the evil grin on his face amped up her adrenaline. He took a step forward, and Ronnie cocked back her knee waiting. When he was in range she brought her knee up between his legs. The man sidestepped the blow and delivered one of his own to the side of her head. Ronnie’s head slammed against the wall and her brain pinballed around in her skull. Stars danced behind her eyes, and she fought the blackness trying to take her to oblivion. If she passed out, he would
give her those drugs.
Ronnie screamed into the rag gagging her, and pulled at the chains, ignoring the pain as the cuffs sliced into her skin. The man came at her again, and Ronnie kicked out at him. He stepped back, and another man walked through the doorway. He came closer and she saw it was the boss, Ray or whatever his name was. The look on his face was twice as ominous as the man trying to drug her.
Ronnie knew this was it. There was no way she could fight off two of them chained like she was. Maybe the drugs would make whatever they were going to do to her less disgusting. Maybe she would just pass out and not know what they did. She stopped struggling and shot daggers at them with her eyes.
Stepping forward again, the first man tied a rubber tourniquet on her bicep much tighter than necessary, then popped it and laughed. “Carlos didn’t do his job, boss.”
“I see that,” Ray said darkly. “That’s why I had you come out to check.”
“I’ll take care of it,” Shot Guy said with entirely too much enthusiasm. Almost as much enthusiasm as he showed when he jabbed the needle into her arm and shoved the plunger down. His almost clear gray eyes met hers and his rotten smile wavered before her eyes. Hot fire shot up to her wrist and along her fingers. He snapped the tourniquet loose and stepped back. That fire ricocheted down her arm, across her chest, then she felt it slowly spread throughout her body like molten lava.
The drug reached her brain and the room swayed. Ronnie weaved on her feet and Ray Brown stepped forward to grab her and ease her down to the ground. After her butt touched the floor, he jerked her ankles apart to spread her legs. Ronnie’s body went limp, her heart felt like a jackhammer in her chest, as in a daze she watched Ray unbuckling his belt.
Trace leaned around the doorway of the building they called the holding pen to make a quick assessment of the situation. All night long he’d hidden outside and watched the armed man Ray assigned to guard the building, waiting for an opportunity to go inside and try to get Ronnie out of there. He figured if he picked the lock on the shackles, she could make her own getaway, and they would just think she had escaped. But the guard hadn’t moved, or fallen asleep. A few minutes ago the man finally left, so Trace snuck toward the pen, but halfway there, he saw Jay Dawson go inside.
He ran the rest of the way, because he knew what that evil bastard was capable of. Trace had seen what he did to the women they trafficked through there. It looked like he was too late though. Jay had already drugged her, and it looked like Ray was about to rape her. Now, he was going to have to get her off the ranch himself, and probably blow the operation to hell in the process. Trace just hoped Jay hadn’t drugged her too much to ride on his bike out of there.
His heart pounded in his chest, and he fought to get his breath. Running a quarter mile from the field at a full sprint would do that to a man. And so would the knowledge that if he stood here and did nothing he was going to have to watch Ronnie Winters be raped by Ray Brown. Not going to happen.
On the way, Trace confiscated a gun from one of the FBI agents working as a ranch hand. Not voluntarily. Trace had to beat the crap out of him to get it, but he wasn’t going into this situation unarmed. He just hoped nobody found him behind that round bale in the field before he could pull this off.
“Unchain her hands so I can turn her over,” Ray said gruffly.
Trace heard the chains clink and thanked providence he wouldn’t have to pick the lock or hunt for a key once he took the two men out. He waited a second more, held the gun ready, then swung around the corner.
“Move away from her,” Trace ordered aiming at center mass on Ray’s chest as he kept one eyeball trained on Jay Dawson.
Ray and Jay turned toward him and their eyebrows lifted. Ray’s flat black eyes darted to the gun in Trace’s hand. “You hold that gun like a cop, boy,” Ray commented coolly.
Flashes of the night his partner died embedded themselves like darts in his brain. Trace felt beads of cold sweat dot his forehead. Adrenaline shot through his veins to make his heart pound harder. “I’ll use it like one too if you don’t move away from her,” Trace growled. Trace knew the weapon he appropriated from the agent was a small revolver and didn’t have twenty-five feet of range, so he moved within firing range keeping his eyes on both men. Nodding his head, he said gruffly, “Move away from her and turn your back to me.”
Ray and Jay backed up a few steps, but didn’t turn their backs. Jay’s hand went behind his back, and Trace fired hitting him in the shoulder. Jay staggered back and fell into Carlos Ramos. Trace had been so focused on the two of them, he didn’t see Carlos sneaking up behind Jay. Carlos pushed Jay aside, his eyes widened, then he staggered back clutching his chest. “Dios,” he said staring at Trace accusingly as he crumpled to his knees.
The bullet must’ve gone straight through Jay and hit Carlos. Panic constricted Trace’s chest, and he fought to drag in breath. His ears rang, and it seemed like he was moving in slow motion as Ray Brown rushed him.
Trace was so numb inside he couldn’t lift the gun to fire. He threw the revolver across the room, as Ray tackled him to the ground. They rolled a few times, before Trace managed to straddle him. Trace pounded his fist into Ray’s face blindly until he quit moving, then staggered to his feet and over to Ronnie.
If he didn’t get the hell out of here now, he knew the other thugs that worked at the ranch would come through that door in a matter of minutes guns blazing. If that happened, he and Ronnie would both be dead. Trace hefted her limp body and she moaned. He put her arm around the back of his neck, then bent to lift her over his shoulder.
He had to worry about the other agents on the ranch now too. Not only had he beaten the hell out of one to get a gun, he’d just shot another. Trace glanced over at Carlos, and he was unconscious. A bright red spot stained the front of his jean shirt, and there was a bullet hole in the center of the stain. Trace had given up on religion a long time ago, but he prayed right then that the agent wouldn’t die.
Nobody would believe he hadn’t intended to kill Carlos any more than they believed he hadn’t intended to kill his partner Sean Collins three years ago. Even Sean’s wife hadn't believed it. Carrie knew Sean was his best friend, but she believed all the so-called evidence they’d planted on him. When Trace got out, he intended to go see her to set the record straight. He just hadn’t worked up the courage to face her yet. And he’d been too busy helping the feds work on this case to take down Leland.
He glanced back at Carlos and wondered if he had a family, kids, like his partner did. Guilt shot through him, but he held onto Ronnie’s legs so her limp body didn’t slide off of his shoulder, and walked through the door into the bright sunlight. After his eyes adjusted, he looked around to make sure nobody was coming, then walked toward the shed where his bike was stashed. He couldn’t let himself think about that right now. He needed to get to his bike and get them the hell away from this ranch.
Miraculously, he made it to the shed without coming across anyone else. He saw several of the ranch hands standing by the big barn up near the house discussing something. Balancing Ronnie’s weight, he opened the shed door and stepped inside the darkness.
He patted her rear end. “Ronnie, wake up.”
She didn’t move, so Trace eased her to the ground and took a deep breath. How the hell was she going to ride a motorcycle if she was unconscious? In the darkness, he searched through the piles of various supplies stacked against the wall. A rope caught his attention, and he walked over to pull it out of the pile. It was long enough to do the job, but he couldn’t take her on the bike naked.
Trace pulled his work shirt off, then lifted her shoulders and draped it around her. He put her bloody hands through the sleeves. Those damned cuffs had cut her badly. He wanted to go back to that holding pen and beat the shit out of Ray Brown again. Abusing women was not something he could tolerate. They’d kept him out of the holding pen when they had the illegal girls in there. Thank god, or he probably would have found a way to let them al
l get away. That wouldn’t have done the feds any good with their case. And it probably would have gotten him killed.
Patting her cheeks again, Trace said a little louder. “Wake up, Red. C’mon, I need you to help me, help you.” He hoped parroting her words back to her would make her mad enough to wake up. Penetrate the drugs he knew were in her system. He felt her forehead and it was clammy. Worry shot through him. He couldn’t take her to the hospital, because they would ask too many questions. Besides, he knew shortly Ray’s men would be out looking for them. He’d bet the first place they’d look would be the hospital.
Trace buttoned up the shirt, then picked her up, pressing her front to his chest. He balanced her again, then looped the rope around her to lash her to him. He tied off the rope, then grabbed her thighs and wrapped her legs around his waist. It was tough, but he managed to throw his leg over his bike, and sit with her straddling him. After he settled her in front of him, he walked the bike out of the shed. At the corner of the barn, he saw several men walking down the gravel drive toward the holding pen and his heart sped up in his chest.
Cranking the bike, he gunned it a couple times, then put his feet on the pegs and the bike shot forward. He wasn’t going to wait until they got to the holding pen and discovered the mess he left in there. It was time to leave, and to do that he would have to pass those men on the road. Armed men. The three men were not FBI agents on assignment there either. They were ex-convicts who would put a bullet in his back without blinking.
Leaning over Ronnie, Trace twisted the throttle wide open. The bike lurched and weaved, but he got control then streaked down the road toward the men. When they saw him coming, they spread out across the road and whipped out their guns to level them at the bike. Trace didn’t slow down, he leaned closer over Ronnie and the bike. Gritting his teeth, he held the throttle wide open in a death grip. When he got within firing range, a bullet pinged off of his exhaust pipe, and another whizzed past his ear. The third guy looked to be having trouble with his weapon. Trace didn’t look too closely, and he didn’t slow down. He whizzed right past them, and they dove to the side of the road. So did the two FBI agents who sauntered out of the biggest barn on the property right into his path.