by V. B. Tenery
Perhaps he hadn’t totally lost his soul. A lone spark of humanity still burned.
Traffic thinned after ten o’clock as he trekked farther south. Halfway to Port Isabel, his stomach began to rumble. In Austin he risked pulling into the drive-through of a McDonald’s to get a sandwich and some caffeine into his system. The sedative he’d administered was working. The women hadn’t made a sound since he’d left Twin Falls.
It was still a long four hour drive from Austin to Port Isabel so he filled his gas tank, picked up a six-pack of Coke and a candy bar, then took the south exit toward home. After hours of mulling over his problems, he reached a decision that would solve his dilemma with the captives.
His contingency plans hadn’t included bringing anyone back. The only option left was to proceed to the Gulf where he’d docked his boat. From there, he’d cross to his home on the Mexican side and to safety.
He turned the satellite radio to country music. The station played a series of classics, Garth Brooks, Brooks and Dunn, and Faith Hill. The mournful music put him in a black funk, and he switched to jazz.
The night sky glittered with a billion stars. Just him and the truckers on the road to appreciate the view. Under different circumstances he would have enjoyed the drive. But tonight, the desolation brought back memories of Afghanistan, minus the mountains. He’d served two perilous tours there. Airdropped in and marched to various missions through rugged terrain fit only for mountain goats.
He’d stood on the ground as a helicopter carrying six of his team was shot down by an uneducated fanatic who barely knew which end of the missile to point. A man unworthy to breathe the same air as the men he’d killed. That had been the turning point for Chance. It had caused him to ask what life was all about when good men died for no reason. The ops team had been the only thing he ever believed in. His brothers. When they vanished so did his reason to live.
Raised by his paternal grandmother after his father committed suicide and his mother overdosed on heroin. Granny Crawford was a good woman, too strict, but good hearted and kind. The only person besides his ops team who had ever loved him.
She had managed to keep him out of jail and enrolled in high school. He joined the Marines the day after graduation. She died while he was on his last tour in Afghanistan. He didn’t even get the opportunity to say “thank you” for her loving care.
He shook off the old memories and regrets as he reached the coast and drove along the shoreline past magnificent yachts and small fishing barges sitting side by side, until he reached the dock where his boat, the Last Chance, was anchored. His boat’s name suddenly seemed ominous—a warning of the path he’d chosen.
The two bays on either side of his own were empty as he’d hoped. His gaze scanned the dock. No one was around and he quickly transferred the unconscious women onboard.
Minutes later he pushed the throttle to full speed and roared out to sea. Foreboding gripped him as though the devil himself followed in hot pursuit.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Twin Falls Police Station
Twin Falls, Texas
The alarm had gone out when the two women failed to return home from shopping. First, Sara’s aunt, Maddie Jamison, had called, then Ian Hamilton.
Soon after, the highway patrol found Sara’s abandoned car at a stop sign about five miles from her home. Purchases still in the backseat. The dread began at that precise moment.
Matt’s coffee turned to acid in his stomach. A knot of fear began to grow in his chest, dense and heavy as stone.
Only once before had he felt so frightened and helpless. That had been when he was forced to stand by and watch Mary struggle with the cancer that finally killed her. Why hadn’t he considered Sara might be in danger? He knew better than anyone the crazies that roamed the streets in most cities. Why hadn’t he taken precautions to protect her?
He’d lost Mary. Three years had passed, and he’d only just come to grips with her loss. Please God, he couldn’t lose Sara too.
Could he go through that pain again? No. He wouldn’t even consider the possibility. First, he had to get control of his emotions. That was the only way he could help Sara and Emily. If it wasn’t already too late.
Apprehension kept him on his feet most of the evening, wearing a hole in the carpet in front of his desk.
Local news stations had run program interruptions all evening with pictures of both women and Sara’s abandoned automobile, asking for witnesses to come forward.
He’d put extra people on the tip hotline, but calls were slow coming in, and none of the leads checked out.
A knock at his open office door made Matt look up.
An elderly man with a head full of snow-white hair lifted his gaze to Matt’s. The band of his navy slacks was above his waistline, but they were clean and pressed as was his plaid shirt. He wore sandals and white socks. “May I come in? The desk sergeant sent me back, said you hadn’t left yet. I’m here about the car they’ve been showing on TV. My name is Darcy Stein.” His mouth turned up in one corner. “My mother was a Jane Austin fan with a Jewish husband.”
Matt shook off his black mood and came back into the present. “Come in, Mr. Stein.”
The old man moved forward with a spry gait and shook Matt’s hand.
Matt pointed him to a chair. “What can you tell me?”
Darcy Stein took a seat and crossed his legs. “This afternoon, I was on my way home from a doctor’s appointment—”
“What time was that?”
“Around five-twenty, five twenty-five. Anyway, I came up to the stop-sign, and a man was closing the back of his SUV. He waved at me, and I figured he was helping whoever had car trouble in the tan Suburban.”
“What did the man look like?”
Darcy rubbed a finger across the cleft in his chin. “About as tall as you, build about the same. Dark hair, and he wore some of those fancy new sunglasses. Always favored the Rayban Pilot sunglasses myself. Manly, those were.”
“What kind of car was he driving?”
The old man smiled. “A brand-new Land Rover, black with all the bells and whistles. I looked at one just like it last week at a local showroom.”
“You’re certain about the color and make, Mr. Stein? It’s very important.”
“Call me Darcy. Positive. You see, Chief, some men play golf, fish, or travel. Me, I like cars. Since my wife passed away, I spend a lot of time in showrooms. Local dealers know me. Know I’m not there to buy—just to look. But I do send them a customer or two from time to time, so they don’t hassle me. They just say, ‘Hi Darcy’ and go on about their business.”
Matt smiled in spite of himself. “Didn’t happen to get the license number did you?”
“Nope, didn’t think it would be important. The automobile wore Texas plates. I can give you the last letters.”
“How is it that you remember the last letters, and not the rest?”
He smiled. “The last letters, on the tag, were WJS, my wife’s initials. Willie June Stein.”
Matt took the old man’s hand in both of his. “Darcy, if this helps me find those two women, I may just have you named citizen of the year and give you a parade down Main Street.”
After the old man left, Matt punched in Miles Davis’ number and filled him in on the information Mr. Stein had provided.
“I’m on it,” Davis said.
Chance Crawford’s Home
Gulf Coast, Mexico
The sun’s warmth on her face roused Sara from a stupor. She eased her eyes open, ignoring the terrible taste in her mouth. Cobwebs filtered her vision, making it difficult to focus. Where was she? Nothing in her blurred vision seemed familiar. A vague picture began to form.
A stop sign.
The accident.
A bolt of fear shot through her, and she jerked to a sitting position, physical discomfort forgotten. Her hands and feet were free. Someone, probably Oakley Man, had covered her with a blanket. Sounds of waves splashing and the squawk of s
eagulls drifted through the barred windows.
The room was large, sheet rocked but unpainted, floors terra cotta tile but without grout. A work in progress.
Emily.
Her gaze found her friend about four feet away in a bed like her own.
Slipping on her boots, Sara hurried to the cot and knelt on the cold tile. She pressed her fingers to the pulse at the base of the young girl’s throat. The beat was steady and strong. She patted Emily’s cheek and whispered, “Em, wake up. Please wake up.”
The girl’s eyelashes fluttered, and she peeked through slits. “S-Sara, what happened? Where are we?”
Before Sara could answer, the door opened and Oakley Man filled the portal. He smiled. “Good, you ladies are awake. Breakfast is ready. I hope you’re hungry.”
Sara and Emily exchanged a glance. Was the man insane? This wasn’t the Paris Hilton, and they weren’t his guests.
The smile left his face. “I’m afraid I must insist that you join me for breakfast. I’m really an excellent cook. You’ll find wash cloths and tooth-brushes in the bathroom if you would like to freshen up first.”
This was not the time to get on his bad side. She’d had a double major in college, one of which was psychology. She had learned that in captive or hostage situations, victims need to get their captors to see them as a flesh and blood human being, not just a means to an end. Getting a read on this character could be the difference between life and death.
She stood and helped Emily to her feet. “Come on, Em.”
“But, I’m not—.”
Sara gave her a meaningful glance, and the girl stood and followed her into the bathroom.
Toiletry complete, she and Emily left the bedroom. The kitchen and dining room, like the bedroom, had unfinished floors and walls. The furnishings were modern and of good quality, the stainless steel appliances new. Bars covered all the arched windows, and a series of bolts secured the front door. Three to be exact.
“Sara, you take the window seat. Emily, you sit beside her.” They sat as directed and he brought three steaming omelets, toast, and coffee to the table, then sat across from them. “I’ve never had the company of two beautiful women for breakfast before.” He took a bite of eggs and grinned. “My breakfast companions have mostly been Marine buddies in need of a bath and a shave.”
Sara studied his face without the sunglasses. The eyes were gray and calm. He didn’t appear to be insane. Evil to the core, probably, but not mad. “How do you know our names?”
He leaned back and took a sip of coffee. “I retrieved your handbags from the car.”
“And what do we call you?” Sara asked.
He studied the liquid in his cup for a moment. “Just call me Tom. I’ve always been a Tom Selleck fan. Aren’t you curious why you’re here?”
Emily glared at him. “Of course we are. Are you going to tell us?”
“I have no secrets.” He looked Emily directly in the eyes. “Someone wants you dead very badly. A million dollars’ worth, badly. As for Sara, she was just in the wrong place.”
“Who hired you?” Emily asked.
“I’ve never met him and have no idea what his name is. You must have ticked him off royally to have him pay so much to get rid of you.”
“I guess you could say that,” Emily said. “I saw him murder five people. One of whom was my mother.”
Tom sat his chair upright and Sara thought she saw a brief flicker of sorrow in his eyes. “Then you already know who hired me.”
Emily shoved her plate away and shook her head. “I couldn’t identify him. Guess he wants to make sure I never do.”
Tom glanced at their untouched breakfast. “Eat, ladies. Believe me. You’re going to need your strength.”
“Why? If you intend to kill us what does it matter?” Sara asked. “It somehow eases your conscience if we die with a full stomach?”
“Oh, I have no intention of killing you. Although I don’t intend to let the contractor know that.”
He leaned the chair back against the wall. “I’ll collect the mil from the man who hired me, then sell you to the very active white slavery market here in Mexico. They usually prefer blondes, but those low-life’s like something unique. And you two ladies are unique. Even pond-scum will recognize that.”
Terror like a vise tightened around Sara’s throat. When she spoke, disgust filled her voice. “Tell me, Tom, how does a man like you, get to be a man like you?”
He stood, walked to the end of the table, crooked his finger under her chin, lifted it, and leaned in so close their noses almost touched. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, lovely Sara. Better than you have tried.”
She jerked her face away. Good, she was learning where his hot buttons were.
He gave a low chuckle and sat back down. “Of course, if one of you would prefer to remain here, rather than going to the slavers, that would be fine with me. I would let you both stay, but alas I’m a monogamous man.”
Emily gave a disgusted snort. “You really think we would abandon one another, stay here, while the other went to the horror of human trafficking?”
He rose and refilled his coffee cup. “My dear, Emily, there are different levels of horror. And my experience has been that people will do whatever it takes to save their own skin.”
Sara finished half of the omelet and forced Emily to do the same. He was right. If they were going to try to escape, they would need their strength.
They would also need a weapon against this man, unless they could catch him off guard, and somehow she knew that wouldn’t be easy.
She stood and began to gather the dishes.
Tom reached for the plates. “No need to do that.”
She didn’t let go. “If you don’t mind, I like to stay busy. We’re not your guests. We’re your prisoners.”
He shrugged. “Knock yourself out.”
With practiced ease, she placed the stoneware in the sink and began to rinse the plates. “Where is this place?”
“I wondered when you’d ask that question. You are on the Mexican side of the Gulf.”
“That’s a big area. Where exactly, Tampico, the Yucatan Peninsula?”
“I’m impressed, a geography student. They tell me schools don’t teach that anymore. Actually, it’s a small town that’s not even on the map near Tampico. lest you have some misguided thoughts about escaping, let me refresh your memory. Pirates roam this coast. Outside these walls is a snake pit. God help you if you fall into their hands. They kill indiscriminately. Even the authorities on either side give them a wide berth. Only the Coast Guard has the firepower to bring them down. And ultimately you would wind up with the slavers anyway.”
Emily searched the drawers for a dishcloth to wipe the table. One drawer slid open, and her eyes widened. She glanced over at Sara, then down.
Sara followed her gaze and saw the handle of a revolver sticking out from under the linen. She shook her head slightly, and the girl retrieved a dishtowel, and closed the drawer.
The ringing of a telephone interrupted his dissertation. He caught Sara’s eye. “I would suggest that you ladies be very quiet. If that’s who I think it is, he thinks you’re dead. It would not be to your advantage to let him suspect otherwise.”
His gaze left her, and she inched toward the gun. Would he be distracted long enough for her to retrieve the revolver? More importantly, was it loaded? She had to try anyway.
When he reached for the phone, she backed up to the counter, ran her hand inside the drawer, and slipped the gun into the back waistband of her jeans. No time to see if it was loaded. She’d just have to pray that it was.
He turned, watching her as he spoke into the phone. “The job is done. I dumped the bodies into the Gulf.” There was a short pause. “Why, because if I had killed them in Twin Falls, the police would be looking for me, instead of for them. When do I get the rest of the money?”
He listened then responded. “You can fly into Tampico and drive along the coast to a tow
n called Ciudad Mesa. I’ll text directions to my place. Once you reach the city, it’s less than a twenty-minute drive along the coast.”
When the call ended, he hung up, then dialed another number and carried on a conversation in Spanish with someone named Garza. Sara’s high school Spanish was too rusty for her to understand but she could guess the subject.
Tom replaced the phone on the base and faced them. “Everything is arranged. Tomorrow, I will officially become a millionaire.”
Sara threw the dishtowel on the counter. “This doesn’t bother you, what you’re doing?”
“Why should it? You’re nothing to me.”
“It should bother you because you know what happens to people in the human trafficking trade. In five years we would be dead or hopeless drug addicts.”
He stood and shoved the chair so hard it tipped over. “That’s not my problem.” His gaze bore through her. “Woman, you’re beginning to get on my last nerve.”
“And why is that, Tom? Selling a mother and a young woman beginning to bother you a little?” She eased the gun from the back of her jeans and leveled it at him.
His eyes flickered so slightly she almost missed it, then he grinned. “That gun isn’t loaded, and the firing pin has been broken for months.”
He moved toward her.
She pulled the trigger, and a bullet struck the floor at his feet.
He stopped in mid-stride.
He took another step forward. “Okay, so the gun is loaded. Go ahead, shoot.”
She paused, and he took another step. Pointing the gun at his leg, she pulled the trigger. The hallow click of an empty chamber sounded.
He moved so fast she didn’t have time to react. He grabbed her hand and twisted the gun away. He shoved her back into the counter, the edge striking her spine and sending waves of pain up to her shoulders. “I told you not to play games with me.”
She winced and rubbed her wrist. “I wasn’t playing.”
“You embarrass me. The risks involved in my profession require me to keep a weapon handy at all times. I missed that one. I wasn’t expecting to bring home guests. It won’t happen again.”