Defy (Brothers of Ink and Steel Book 3)

by Allie Juliette Mousseau

  “You know they’ll want to kill you now,” I warn.

  “Let them come, I don’t give a fuck,” he states happily. “I love a good fight.”

  I’d like to laugh at his light humor, but I can’t even crack a grin. The thought of them catching us makes me shudder.

  “Did they hurt you? Did they . . .?” There’s caution in his question, like maybe he wants to know but doesn’t want the answer all at the same time.

  I suck in a deep breath. “No. I’m actually—physically—okay. I thought I was going to get a lot worse. They hardly talked to me at all. The only one who really did was a man named Pedro—I think he had a mental disability. They used him to feed me and fetch my waste. He obviously didn’t like what they were doing with me.”

  “Keeping you hostage, you mean?”

  “That’s what I thought at first. I was . . . surprised they weren’t beating me or . . . raping me.” I switch my position on the boat seat uncomfortably. “They spoke in Spanish mainly and figured I didn’t. I never let them in on the fact that I understood everything they said.”

  “That was smart of you. What did they say?”

  “They were keeping me unharmed so they could ship me off to a . . .”—I crush my eyes closed at the idea of their horrible plan—“buyer. One of my guards hit me, but another one stopped him. Said someone in Mexico City was going to pay big money for me. They said something about the money helping Eduardo Miguel pay back a debt and make nice with some other leader.”

  “That would be Cruz. El Carnicero.”

  “Yes, that was the name they used,” I confirm. “Maybe Drew stole drugs from Eduardo Miguel, who owed them, or the money for them, to El Carnicero. I saw him—Eduardo Miguel—shoot Drew. Just . . . point blank. It’s the worst thing anyone could ever watch.”

  He stays silent for a moment before continuing. “I’m sorry you’ve gone through this.”

  I nod a little. “I didn’t really even know Drew. We had English Lit together, that was it. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was just going to a party on campus, but I was late so I took a shortcut down the alley.”

  “You were alone?”

  “Stupid, I know.”

  “Yeah, that was stupid. Don’t ever do that again.”

  I scowl at him, but he’s right, so the insult fades quickly.

  “When you were freeing me, I thought you were one of Eduardo Miguel’s men getting me ready to go to the buyer.”

  “That would make sense,” he says. “It was understandable for you to fight me.”

  “When I heard the commotion upstairs, I figured the police were there to rescue me and that you were taking me to hide me. But it was a mess. I couldn’t figure anything out. I never saw any of their faces either, since they kept me blindfolded the entire time.”

  “But you recognized my voice.”

  “I did.”

  “When did you start to trust me?”

  “Who says I trust you?”

  He tilts his head in my direction.

  “You probably built a little trust when you went all Steve Irwin.”

  Ryder laughs.

  Before too long, the boat gets pulled into the Neches River’s current. And that’s a good thing for more reasons than I can count—in fact, I feel elated! We’re really getting away from them! Away from Eduardo Miguel and every evil thing that was going to happen.

  I can’t help but gaze back at Ryder gratefully. He saved me.

  He catches my look. I smile a bit and he smiles back.

  Holy God, does he have to be so gorgeous? He’s covered in mud and alligator slime and sweat, and I have honestly never been more aroused in my entire life. I get it, he saved me. Huge.

  I have to look away because I can tell by his cocksure attitude he’ll see right through me and know exactly what I’m thinking.

  “What happens next? To me?” I try to divert the sexual tension building inside me.

  “I don’t know, Farrington—” he begins.

  “Rachel, please.”

  He allows himself to set the oars at ease over his lap while he considers me. “Witness protection would probably be your best move. At least until after his sentencing. After what Miguel has done, I’m sure the government will have no problem giving him an electrified throne.” His eyebrows press down in thought.

  “What is it?”

  “Authorities suspect it was Cruz who broke Miguel out of the transport—so he could kill him before he could give his testimony to the DEA and FBI. But that obviously is not what happened.”

  “What are you thinking?”

  “Who.”

  “Who are you thinking about?”

  “You.” He looks straight into my eyes and holds them as he says this, sending a streak of lightning through my core. “If it wasn’t Cruz who broke him out, who did? Has Miguel’s influence expanded to where he’s higher on the food chain than authorities suspect?”

  “But why are you thinking about me?”

  “Because depending on how deep Miguel’s roots and reach are, he may not be captured by authorities again, and that would leave you in serious danger.” He’s wearing that same expression he had when he asked if I was okay after the gator. “The men in the house you thought were police coming to rescue you were actually rival gang members attacking Miguel’s estate.”

  “Gangs? You mean Cruz’s men?”

  “I’m not sure if some were Cruz’s men, but most were flying gang colors.”

  “So, like a turf war is going on?”

  He shoots me a look.

  “I read a lot.”

  “Yeah, like a turf war,” he answers pensively, like he’s arranging mental puzzle pieces that just aren’t fitting together.

  “So there’s more than one group of bad guys who wants Miguel dead?”

  “That’s my theory at the moment.”

  “Well then, that’s good for me,” I say, brighter. “Someone could get to him before the authorities or the trial, making all of this go away.”

  He doesn’t look convinced.

  Chapter Seven

  Ryder

  The sun rises as we find a safe place to dock close to Port Arthur.

  I give Farrington a hand out of the boat. She grips my wrist firmly and, I notice, with a new level of confidence. She’s beginning to trust me—that fact wedges itself inside of me. It matters to me, even if I can’t explain why.

  This girl is getting under my skin. Even though she nearly got us killed—several times— fighting me through our entire escape, I utterly respect her for it. In her mind, I was one of them, and there was no way in hell she was going to be a helpless victim. I like that. She did everything in her power to kick my ass. If she could’ve, she would’ve. Then—even when she was confused about her situation and what was going on, doubtful of who I was and what my true intentions were, and utterly terrified—she was smart, kept her head and thought about it. Sexiest thing I ever saw is when she jumped right into the goddamn fray to smack that alligator with the oar in an effort to protect me. That was so undeniably, unbelievably, fucking hot!

  Now, here she is, putting her trust in me. I won’t disappoint her.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I tell her.

  She shrugs. “Maybe.”

  “Farrington.” I grip her shoulders so she has to look at me. “I’m not going to let them hurt you.”

  She wants to believe me, but she’s been through too much. She notices the blood I’m getting on the shoulder of what was probably a very pretty yellow summer dress that’s now ripped and ruined.

  “Jesus, I’m sorry.” I let go of her fast. “I’m bleeding all over you.”

  “It’s alright.” She lifts her hand and sets it delicately on the curve of my jaw. “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be alive. You saved me.”

  Her eyes are a soft cinnamon brown with an inner ring the color of warm, golden honey. They pull me in and hold me. I’m sure they contain an entire universe,
a universe I want to explore.

  “We need to get you to a hospital. You’re going to need stitches.”

  I take her hand from my face and hold it between both of mine. “We need to get you away from this place.”

  “The hospital would be safe.”

  “Would it?” I say quickly, remembering the waitress’s fated words. Mason owns this city. “We need a car. Now.”

  I don’t let go of her hand as I walk us quickly and cautiously away from the docks. I have to get her the hell out of here.

  “The dogs smell through an olfactory gland and can track your scent using dead skin cells. They won’t stop until they find you. But there are a few things we can do to fuck them up and throw them—at least temporarily—off your trail.”

  “You think that they can still smell me, even after all of the distance we just put in?”

  “The handlers only need to deduce which ways you could’ve gone and then bring the dogs; they’ll pick your scent back up in no time,” I explain as I pull her along the wharf.

  Enormous cargo ships line Sabine Lake, waiting for their turn under the loading cranes for their freight. A tremor shoots through me at the thought that Farrington could have easily been in one of those shipments with access to anywhere in the world. Port Arthur is nineteen miles to the open ocean, and a hub for interstate and rail travel. How many others has he done this to?

  “If Miguel is still breathing after the gang raid on his estate, you can bet he’s getting his soldiers spread out to hunt you. He’ll alert his contacts within a hundred mile radius to be on the lookout. We need to change your appearance.”

  We’re a real fucking mess, and the dock workers are noticing.

  I lead us into a remote parking lot for the shipyard workers. It takes about three seconds to find a parked vehicle with a window opened an inch for air.

  “Right here.” I stop, slide my fingers into the slit and jack the window back and forth until it falls off its tracking.

  I reach my hand in to unlock it and open the door. “Hurry, get in.”

  For a moment, she hesitates, but then she slips around me and climbs over to the passenger seat.

  Using the filed key in my toolkit, I start the silver Honda Accord and drive us off the lot.

  “You had a key?”

  “It’s filed—a trick of car thieves—you just have to wiggle it right to engage the tumblers. Flat head screwdriver can work too.”

  She nods. “Nice trick.”

  I drive just a few miles over the speed limit so I don’t bring attention to the vehicle.

  “So, you don’t trust going to the hospital?”

  “Not here I don’t. In fact, I wouldn’t trust anywhere in a two hundred mile vicinity of this place.”

  “What about the police?”

  “Fuck no!”

  “Fuck no,” she echoes.

  “Farrington, Miguel owns this entire area. You have to understand that.”

  “Then where are we going? Houston?”

  I laugh.

  “Nice answer.”

  “No we are not going to Houston.”

  “Houston is a freaking huge city—he can’t own that too.”

  I shake my head and click on the radio. I switch channels until I get to a news station.

  “Just wait for it. Everyone is looking for you. Good guys, bad guys. Every woman in the country has seen your fresh young face on the evening news and wants you to come home safe and sound. We have to stay off main highways, where there’ll be search stops.”

  “Doesn’t it make more sense to go to the police—they can’t all be bad,” she emphasizes.

  “They’re not. But it only takes one dirty cop to make a two second call and you’re dead, even in police custody.”

  Farrington watches longingly as we pass the sign showing Houston to the west.

  “Honestly, Farrington, it’s better for everyone if we stay under the radar. A small rural town isn’t going to have the resources to search every car. And that’s good, because I’ve done enough killing today.”

  “You’re confusing, you know that?”

  I’m about to answer with, I’ve heard that, when the local newscaster begins a spiel about federal law enforcement still on the hunt for the fugitive Eduardo Miguel and the search for missing Tulane University student, twenty-two-year-old Rachel Farrington.

  “If you visit our website at WKTX, you’ll be able to see photos of the missing woman and numbers you can call anonymously if you have any information leading to her recovery.”

  “Everyone,” I reiterate.

  A Palm Tree Motel is on our right. It’s a perfect hole in the wall. I pull in.

  “What are you doing?” she asks anxiously.

  “Getting a room.”

  “Why.”

  “Because we need to reorganize, and I don’t want to bleed out.” I park the car towards the back so it won’t be noticed by an observant cop. “Lock the doors and stay in the car. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Jesus, I look like hell, but so does this dive, by-the-hour motel. I figure I should fit right in.

  I saunter up confidently to the clerk. “I need a room.”

  He looks me up and down and decides he doesn’t want to mess with me. “Thirty bucks until noon, another ten every hour after, unless you stay all night, then it’s an even one hundred.”

  I pull the wallet from my inner vest pocket and toss a fifty on the counter. “Keep the change.”

  “Cool.” His eyes light up and he gives me a key card. “Room fifteen. It’s around back.”

  Once we get inside, I tell Farrington, “Lock the door behind me and wedge the chair under the knob. Keep the curtains drawn and stay away from the windows.”

  “Where are you going?” Her voice sounds panicked.

  “The gas station across the street for supplies. Don’t open that door for anyone but me, and don’t use the phone to call anyone, even your mother. Got it?”

  She nods yes, but her eyes convey a different story. She’s acting brave, but she’s terrified; she’s still not one hundred percent convinced I’m not wrapped up in this somehow and planning to hurt her.

  “Have you ever shot a gun before?” I ask, taking my secondary Glock from the holster.

  “No.” She looks like she wishes she’d had some lessons before now.

  “It’s simple enough.” I inch in as close behind her as a shadow.

  I’d only been wanting to show her how to handle the pistol, but the soft skin of her arm matted with dried mud distracts me. She shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be going through this. She should be back at school, going to class and going on dates. My fingers forget rational behavior as they glide down her forearm to her hand.

  I swallow my emotions hard.

  “Are you right or left handed?”

  “Right.”

  “Okay, this is the safety. Keep it on until you’re sure you need to use it,” I say, placing the pistol in her right palm and arranging her slender fingers into the correct position. I lift it so she can peer down the gun’s barrel, as my other arm wraps around her to adjust her balance arm.

  Christ, her shoulder blades press against my chest and my dick grows fast. I make sure to keep that pistol pulled away from her. “Use your left arm and hand to steady your right. When the gun goes off there will be kickback, so keep a strong grip on it. All you do is point and shoot. Just don’t shoot me.”

  She’s trembling.

  My dick is an asshole with a mind of its own.

  Asshole, I scold it inwardly.

  “I’ll only be gone a few minutes. You won’t need to use it. When I come back I’ll announce myself.”

  “Buddy, you look like hell,” the old man with an unlit cigar between his teeth says from behind the store counter.

  “Hunting trip gone wrong,” I say evenly and circle around the inside of the aisles.

  Dental floss, food and drinks, some tourist’s garb, a map and a couple of bu
rner phones should do it. I load up his counter.

  “I’ll take a bottle of your Everclear,” I say, scanning the alcohol in the locked case behind him.

  “Gonna have a party?” The way he sounds, talking through his teeth and around his cigar, is comical.

  “Something like that.” I smile.

  “Shitfaced in the woods—I miss them days.” He bags my items. “There’s a great spring-fed swimming hole about twenty miles up the road.”

  “Gators?” I ask, keeping it nonchalant.

  “Sometimes.”

  “That’s too often for me.” He laughs, and I thank him and head out.

  I jog across the road and back behind the motel. “It’s me.” I listen to the three locks being released and the sound of the chair scraping over the floor. Good girl, I think to myself.

  The door opens, and Farrington is standing there with her arm dangling by her side, gun in hand, freshly showered and wrapped in a clean, dry towel. My jaw unhinges. Her hair is soaking wet, and beads of water trail and slide, dripping from her smooth, fresh shampoo-scented skin.

  My asshole dick is not my friend as it rises to get a better look. Goddamnit, she’s breathtaking.

  “I saved you some hot water,” she drawls and takes a bag from my arms. “What did you get? I’m starved.”

  There really is no defense against a beautiful woman, Ryder. Might as well understand that now, son, the sooner the better, Chief had told me one night after an argument with Betty.

  “Not knowing your personal tastes, I just grabbed a bunch of stuff—sandwiches, milk, soda, fruit, candy—eat what you want.”

  I don’t have to tell her twice. She rips open the wrapper on the turkey and cheese and stuffs bite after ravenous bite into her mouth.

  I watch her and my heart sinks. “Did they starve you?”

  She winces as if I struck her. “No,” she explains with a mouth full of food. “I did. They got me in the first place by drugging my drink. When I woke up chained, Pedro came in daily with food, but when I got the gist of their plan to send me off, I realized it would be easier for them to get me there if they drugged me again—I mean, it worked so efficiently the first time. I stopped eating their food.” She shrugs. “They brought me unopened cans of nutritional drink—like SlimFast or Ensure or something—I drank those.”