Badlands (Hqn)

by Jill Sorenson

  Her last thought was Cruz.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  OWEN COULDN’T BUDGE the trailer.

  It took every ounce of strength he possessed to lift one end out of the water and drag it a couple of feet. He couldn’t go anywhere with a large metal object attached to his arm. If he wanted to get free, he had to break the handcuffs.

  He searched the beach for members of his security team and law enforcement officers, but the shoreline was deserted. There was nothing out here, not even a stray dog. Although yelling might bring help, he stayed quiet. Penny and her father would be safer if the exchange wasn’t interrupted. Shane’s motto was live fast, die young. He’d welcome a shoot-out with the authorities. Cop killers were heroes behind bars.

  Owen found a chunk of concrete among the shells and bones on the beach. He gripped the edge of the trailer with his cuffed hand, pulling the steel chain taut over the metal bar. Then he struck the chain, trying to bust it. The concrete broke apart instead, scraping the skin on the inside of his wrist.

  Making a sound of frustration, he tossed the crumbled pieces aside. He needed something stronger than steel to damage the handcuff chain. He looked around, as if that kind of material would be washed up on the beach. The trailer offered one option. The hoist hook was made of hard chrome, a metal alloy. It could damage steel.

  He slid the handcuff down the metal bar until his free hand reached the hoist. It was bolted down, but the nuts hadn’t been tightened in years. One side was loose. He freed the hook from the mount and felt its weight in his hand. Inside a sock, it would make a powerful bludgeoning tool.

  Holding the hook by its hinged end, he repositioned the handcuff chain over the edge of the metal trailer bar. Then he struck it again and again, hammering away like a blacksmith. After an extended effort and lots of sweat, the chain fell apart.

  Victory.

  The cuff still encircled his wrist, but his hands were free. Smiling grimly, he shoved the hook into his pocket. Now what? He couldn’t steal a boat and go after them. The Salton Sea was the largest lake in California, with a surface area of almost four hundred square miles. His chances of finding them were slim and none. He trudged along the shore, reluctant to seek assistance from locals or make contact with the police. The exchange should only take a few minutes. Where were they?

  Filled with anxiety, he went in search of the Jeep. As soon as Shane got the money, he’d dump the powerboat on the shore and take off. Owen could intercept him there and make sure the exchange had occurred safely.

  He found the Jeep parked behind a particleboard shack near an old playground. Metal poles for swings stood empty. A rusted metal slide was half-buried in the sand. There were stray chairs and pieces of recreation equipment, some impossible to identify. While he crouched by the slide and waited for Shane to show, a sound caught his attention.

  It was a sharp cry, quickly muffled.

  He gazed into the distance, zeroing in on a black truck that was almost completely concealed by a ripped canvas billboard advertising Lots For Sale. A faded image of Salton Sea’s heyday, more than thirty years ago, peeled away at one corner. It depicted women in colorful bikinis, men fishing and children frolicking. Owen had never seen that brief period of prosperity, which had come and gone like the desert wind.

  A newer-model truck didn’t belong here. Tourists visited Bombay Beach to bird-watch or gawk at the devastation, but Owen didn’t think the vehicle belonged to a day-tripper from L.A. The truck was hidden near the Jeep on purpose. He’d bet the inhabitant was doing the same thing he was: waiting for Shane.

  Owen ducked down a little more, wondering if the person in the truck had seen him. Then two faint thumps rang out across the sea, like the banging of a drum. His stomach roiled as he realized it was Shane’s 9 mm. Although his brother must have been miles away, the conditions here were unusual. There was almost no breeze today. The water was flat and calm, free of other boats and noise disturbances.

  Disregarding the black truck for now, he stood and ran toward the shore, pulse pounding. Shane couldn’t have shot Penny. He refused to believe that his brother was so evil and emotionally detached that he’d kill an innocent, defenseless woman.

  When the powerboat came into view, Owen’s stomach dropped. Shane was behind the wheel. He drove it right into the beach, almost flipping the boat over in a spectacular crash. He hopped out with a military-style canvas rucksack and hit the ground running.

  Owen took the hoist hook out of his pocket and held it in his fist as his brother approached.

  Shane slowed to a stop. He looked more surprised than guilty. “You crafty son of a bitch. I should have known you’d get out of the cuffs.”

  Owen’s vision went dark with fury. “Did you kill them?”

  “No,” Shane said, recoiling at the accusation. “Hell, no.”

  “I heard the shots.”

  “I shot through the bottom of Dad’s boat,” he said, impatient. “As long as they can swim, they’ll be fine.”

  Owen grabbed Shane by the front of the shirt with his free hand. He gripped the hook until his knuckles went white, tempted to smash his brother’s face in. “You left them out there, miles from shore, in a sinking boat?”

  “Calm the fuck down,” he said. “They have life jackets.”

  He tore his gaze away from Shane and examined the crashed powerboat, his blood pumping with adrenaline. There was no way he could get it back in the water, but the walkie-talkie might give him their location. The Salton Sea was warm and buoyant and flat. Easy to float in, even without life preservers.

  “I have to get out of here,” Shane said, jerking free of his grasp. “The cops are going to swarm in any minute.”

  “Somebody’s waiting for you by the Jeep.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. They were in a black truck.”

  “Thanks for the heads-up.” Shane took a gun out of his waistband and released the safety before tucking it in again. With grim determination, he continued walking.

  “Is it an enforcer for the AB?”

  Shane didn’t answer.

  “He’ll shoot you on sight.”

  “Not if I shoot him first.”

  “Leave the money with me and run,” Owen said. “It’s your only hope.”

  “Leave the money with you, after what I just went through to get it? Fuck that, brother. Fuck that all the way to Mexico.”

  “Just take your cut, Shane. Take what you can easily carry.”

  “No,” he said, his eyes hard. “I killed a good friend for this. I risked going back to prison. Now I have to live the rest of my life on the wrong side of the border with a measly fifty grand to my name?”

  “What about Jamie?”

  His mouth tightened with regret. “He’s better off without me.”

  “You said they’d go after him, you asshole!”

  “Then it’s up to you to keep him safe while I’m gone.”

  Owen wanted to howl in frustration. He hated Shane at that moment, more than he’d ever hated his father. More than he hated the men who’d assaulted him in prison. Driven by the pain of a thousand wrongs, he drew back his fist to strike.

  Shane jerked sideways at the last second. The blow glanced off his bottom lip instead of his cheekbone, splitting it wide. Blood rushed down his chin. Evading the next swing, Shane dumped his rucksack on the beach and put up his dukes, spitting on the sand. “You want to go, motherfucker?”

  “Yeah,” Owen said, “I want to go.”

  Nostrils flared, Shane lowered his shoulder and charged, tackling Owen around the waist. They fell over the old playground slide, arms and legs tangled. When Owen tried to punch Shane in the ear, his brother trapped his wrist and banged his closed fist against the metal ladder. Several of Owen’s knuckles cracked before he dropped the hook, writhing in agony.

  “You had enough?” Shane asked, his grin red.

  “Not yet,” Owen said, head-butting him.

  Shane slumped do
wn the slide, clapping a hand over his brow. “Bastard,” he yelled, blood dripping into his eye.

  Owen jumped on him, straddling his waist. Making a fist with his left hand, he punched his brother over and over again, battering his blood-streaked face. When Owen slowed down, taking a ragged breath, Shane picked up the hook he’d dropped. Owen lifted his arm to block the counterattack, but exhaustion made him clumsy. The weighted punch hit him almost full force, knocking him sideways.

  He cupped his aching jaw, seeing stars.

  Shane declared the fight over. He seemed to consider himself the victor, despite his mangled mug. Gathering the rucksack, he hovered close to Owen, his blue eyes wild and mean. So much like their father’s.

  “I kissed your bitch,” he said, spitting again.

  Owen couldn’t clear the spots from his vision. “What?”

  “She wouldn’t admit to being your girlfriend in front of her father, so I kissed her and pushed her off the boat. She tasted the same as every other Mexican whore I’ve had. I’d move on if I were you.”

  “Fuck you,” Owen groaned, nauseous.

  “She doesn’t love you.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t care?”

  “You’ll never know what I mean, you scumbag. Because you’re incapable of loving someone unconditionally.”

  Shane went silent for a moment as these words sank in. Maybe they hurt. Maybe he was too detached to feel anything.

  The black smudges in his vision faded, and Owen stared up at his brother, his chest constricted with sorrow. Even if Shane wasn’t capable of love or any selfless emotions, Owen believed what Shane had said about protecting him from their father. Shane had become this monster by choice, saving Owen from the same fate.

  “You’re wrong,” Shane choked out, drawing the gun from his waistband. “I can love. I love you, you little shit. I always have.”

  Owen swallowed back tears, unable to respond.

  Shane lifted the 9 mm and pointed it at Owen. “Goodbye.”

  * * *

  JANELLE GNAWED AT THE KNOT on her wrists, trying to loosen it.

  The stranger noticed this and didn’t seem to care, which suggested that he was confident in his rope skills. But she didn’t have anything else to do, so she continued. She was hungry and bored and tired. It felt like an oven inside the cab of the truck, even with the windows cracked. She missed Jamie.

  “Can I call my son?”

  “No.”

  “My knee hurts.”

  “Don’t make me gag you.”

  “I have some gum in my purse.”

  “Will that keep you quiet?”

  She nodded.

  He reached into the back and grabbed her purse, rifling through the contents. The first thing he found was a pair of black-lace panties. Setting them aside, he located her sugar-free bubble gum. He gave her a stick and helped himself to one.

  “Can I get a tissue for my knee?” she asked, pressing her luck.

  He took out the baby wipes she used to remove makeup and scrub man-germs from her skin after lap dances. “This?”

  “Yes.”

  After he handed her a couple of moist wipes, she braced her boots on the dashboard and cleaned the pebbles from the scrape, wincing in discomfort. He replaced her panties in her purse and tossed it in the backseat. She blotted the fresh beads of blood, aware of his eyes on her. Wondering if he felt bad about her injury, she glanced at him. He appeared to be staring at her upper thighs, not her knee.

  “You have more blood,” he said.

  “Where?”

  He made a vague gesture. “The back of your leg.”

  The stun gun he’d used had shot out some sort of electric barb. He’d removed it when he picked her up off the gravel. Her thigh still felt tender there, but she couldn’t reach the spot with her wrists and calves bound so tightly.

  After watching her struggle, he grabbed one of the wipes and did the honors himself. Resting his right hand above her knee, he used his left to scrub the blood away. His touch was rough and quick, as if he wanted to get it over with. When she winced, he lifted his gaze to hers. For that single, unguarded moment, she saw something behind it.

  Not empty, after all.

  Then he looked down and finished cleaning her thigh, a muscle in his jaw taut. Up close, she could smell the same scent from his sweatshirt. Motor oil and male deodorant and cigarettes, mixed with the aspartame of her bubble gum. The hand on her leg felt strong, his palm callused. His tattooed knuckles said S-L-A-B.

  When he discarded the used wipe, she saw the word on his other hand: C-I-T-Y.

  “You’re from the Slabs?” she asked.

  He straightened and made two fists, frowning at his own knuckles as if he’d forgotten what they said. “No one is from the Slabs.”

  “You live there?”

  “I’ve lived there.”

  “What’s it like?”

  “You’ve never been?”

  “Just once,” she said, thinking back. When she’d first started dancing, she’d been as wild and careless as Tiffany. She’d gone to Slab City with another girl to entertain a group of bikers at a bonfire. Compared to those guys, the stranger was a gentleman. “I was hired to dance at a motorcycle party. It didn’t go well.”

  “Why not?”

  “They didn’t want to pay.”

  “Which motorcycle club was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “The Slabs are a freak show,” he said, squinting into the distance. “Lots of drugs and trash and mental problems. Old people, young people, life’s rejects. Bike gangs. Not a good place for an unprotected woman.”

  “What is?”

  He shrugged. “Beverly Hills?”

  “I’ll just move there, then. Live like a movie star.”

  They exchanged a wry smile at the joke. Then he reached into the glove compartment and took out a handgun, cold as ice. She followed his gaze to the playground, where Owen was standing on the other side of a pile of rubble.

  She drew a breath to scream.

  The stranger clapped his left hand over her mouth as she cried out. He gave her head a threatening shake, but it was too late. The sound caught Owen’s attention. He glanced toward the weathered billboard they were parked behind.

  “Goddamn it,” the stranger said, his fingers digging into her cheek.

  Janelle couldn’t open her jaw to bite his palm. His grip was too strong. So she thrashed around in an attempt to dislodge him, growling like an animal and pummeling her bound fists against his forearm. It didn’t work.

  Instead of coming forward to investigate the black truck, Owen turned and walked in the opposite direction, as if he hadn’t seen them. The stranger let her go, cursing. Transferring the gun to his left hand, he turned on the ignition.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I’m following him! He’s going to tip off his brother and screw up everything.”

  “Leave him alone,” she said, her voice raw.

  Ignoring her, he stepped on the gas and pulled forward, preparing to drive closer to the playground. He had to make a wide turn and double back. When he skirted close to a gravel slope on the passenger side, she grabbed the wheel with both hands and cranked it to the right. They tumbled down the embankment. Her body flew up, and the top of her head hit the vehicle’s frame as it rolled over.

  The truck came to rest on its driver’s side. Gravity plastered her against the stranger, whose chest was heaving with fury. She felt dizzy and confused, her thoughts scattered. She’d just wrecked his truck. Would he kill her?

  Janelle’s hands were bound, literally. She couldn’t fight this man. She couldn’t stop him from following Owen. The only thing she could do was distract him and buy herself some time. Spitting out her gum, she hooked her arms around his neck and kissed his hard mouth. He tried to resist her advances, but he couldn’t move. When she flicked her tongue over his closed lips, he made a strangled so
und in the back of his throat. She applied more pressure, urging his mouth open and sliding her tongue inside.

  He tasted like gum and cigarettes, like her but different. Clean and hot and male. Although he didn’t fight, he wasn’t passive, either. Taking control of the kiss, he fisted his hand in her hair and thrust his tongue into her mouth. She squirmed against him for effect. And because he was a good kisser.

  He ended the contact, panting against her parted lips. “Get off me.”

  “I can’t.”

  Jaw clenched, he released her hair and fumbled behind his back, maybe tucking the gun into his jeans. With both hands free, he disentangled himself from her embrace. She stayed where she was, her body flush against his. He pressed a button on the console to open the passenger window. Turning her around, he gave her butt a hard shove.

  She didn’t cooperate with his efforts. Why should she? As soon as they got outside, the stranger would find Owen and hurt him. She slumped forward like a slug, not attempting to crawl through the window.

  “Move your ass,” he said, gripping the seat of her shorts. His thumb slipped under the denim and thrust between her cheeks, perhaps by accident. The rude prodding made her face hot. With nothing but a flimsy strip of fabric to prevent him from pushing inside her body, she felt intensely vulnerable.

  Troubled by the reminder of how easily a man could hurt a woman, she inched toward the window and stuck her head out. He adjusted his grip to her hips and forced her through the opening, letting her tumble across the hood. When he climbed after her, his features were twisted into an angry grimace.

  His truck wasn’t totaled, but it had sustained considerable damage. He couldn’t use it for a quick, reliable getaway.

  “Fuck,” he yelled, raking a hand through his hair.

  Fearing for her life, she tried to scramble up the gravel embankment. Men were funny about their trucks. This one might have killed for lesser offenses.

  Instead of shooting her, he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder, facedown. She didn’t cry out for fear that Owen would come to her aid, and she was too disoriented to struggle. Her belly lurched with every step as the stranger walked toward the playground at a brisk pace. By the time they arrived, Owen was gone.