Seamus hummed to himself as he drove. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Six forty-five. Plenty of time before he had to meet his buyers.
“Continue on Kyote Road for five miles.”
Headlights on the oncoming car flashed him. Cop ahead. He instinctively glanced at his speedometer and eased the weight of his foot off the accelerator. Looking in the rearview mirror, he saw the girl lying in the back seat. She had finally given up trying to squirm out of her bindings. Another oncoming vehicle flashed its lights, too. He lifted his foot completely off the accelerator. He steered the truck to the shoulder, letting it glide to a stop.
Who had been on the other end of that telephone call? His brain said if he drove on and stayed below the speed limit, there was no reason a peeler should stop him. His gut disagreed. Listening to his brain, he eased back onto the road. A mile passed. Then another. No sign of a cop car. Another mile passed. Two more vehicles signaled him with their headlights. The hair on his neck stood up. Something’s not right.
Seamus jerked his truck back onto the shoulder of the road. He turned on his hazard flashers and climbed out. He waved down the next vehicle that came toward him. The SUV with a young woman at the wheel swerved away from him and kept driving. So did the next two vehicles.
Frustration, anger, and a tinge of fear fueling him, Seamus pulled his truck diagonally across both lanes of the road. He tugged a gun from his waistband and stepped into the middle of oncoming traffic, forcing the approaching pickup truck to stop, run off the road, or hit him.
The driver slammed on his brakes, smoke boiling up from the rear wheels. He idled in the middle of the road. Seamus tapped on the driver side window with the barrel of his pistol.
The man reached for his gearshift.
Seamus shook his head, tapped the window harder.
The man lowered his window.
Seamus gestured down the road with his pistol. “What’s going on up there?”
“R-r-road block of some sort. Cops searching all the vehicles.”
Seamus’s gaze darted down the road, then back the way he had come. Heat pricked up his spine. He swallowed hard. “Give me your cell phone. Now.”
Hands shaking, the man held his phone out the window. He snatched the phone, stepped out of the road, and waved the driver around his truck. “Thanks.”
The other driver nodded nervously, scrambling to roll up his window, and drove on, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel from the shoulder of the road in his wake.
Seamus stomped back to his dually and ripped the door open. He climbed in and slammed his fist on the dash, cracking it. Fuck!
He grabbed his phone. Thumbs flew across the keyboard.
—Complications. Abort. Will be in touch. —
He tossed his cell phone onto the truck seat. A shiver of dread raised gooseflesh on his arms as he imagined the potential response to his text.
Turning the truck around, he spun his tires in the loose gravel. Pings of little rocks hitting the chrome running boards filled the air. Dust followed his truck.
Where to now?
****
“Go home. Take a break.” Rhyden’s voice cracked. “I need to check on Sam and Maddie. None of us are doing Bree any good if we don’t take a short break to recharge. Meet you back here, five a.m.?”
Noah checked his watch. Four hours. “Yeah, you’re right.” He stifled a yawn. “It’ll take that long to get a judge to sign the search warrant for the paving company. Damn! I just knew we had them with the roadblocks.”
His partner rubbed his hands across his eyes. “Yeah.” His voice dropped, exhaustion coloring his words. “Me, too.”
****
Noah twisted the doorknob and walked into the house. Shoving away the fear for Bree, the frustration for the lack of answers, the worry that Cat was still angry for his avoidance of the children discussion, and plain old exhaustion, he called out, “Lucy, I’m home.” He slammed the door shut behind him.
No answer from Cat.
Well, it is one in the morning. “Hey, hon, you left the door unlocked—again. How many times do I have to remind you we live in a dangerous world?”
Still no response.
He walked into the living room. Fancy china, complete with a serving platter covered with a silver dome, adorned the table. Wax dripped down flickering white candles to pool on the tabletop. Polished family silver sparkled on linen napkins. A lace table runner graced the mahogany table, but there was no sign of his girl. What did I forget now? I know it’s not our anniversary. He wracked his brain trying to figure out what they could possibly be celebrating. His birthday was in February. Hers was July.
“Cat? Sweetie? Where are you?” He peered out the window. Her vehicle sat in the driveway, so she had to be somewhere inside the house. Even if she'd gone to bed, she wouldn’t have left candles burning. “Honey?”
The taunting texts from Seamus combined with the unlocked door rose to the surface of his racing mind. His stomach lurched; the muscles in his legs spasmed. Tugging his service weapon from its holster, he methodically swept through the house. Light on his feet, soundless, he slipped from room to room searching for signs of what he wasn’t certain.
He nudged the bedroom door open. A large manila envelope, legal-appearing papers, and photographs lay scattered over the bed and floor. Clothes exploded from the closet. He stepped closer and had to duck to avoid a pair of flying boots. He peeked into the closet. Tucking his gun back into its holster in relief. “Hey, sweetie, what are you doing?”
Cat glared up at him from her position on the closet floor. An open suitcase lay beside her.
Noah dropped to the floor beside her. He put an arm around her shoulders and tried to draw her close. “What’s wrong? Is it your mom?”
She struck out at him, punching and slapping. “Don’t you touch me.”
Noah jerked back, startled by the vehemence of her response. “Baby, I’m sorry I’m late. I didn’t realize I was missing a special dinner.”
Without a word, she stood and stalked from the closet, dragging her suitcase and carrying an armful of clothing.
Dumbfounded, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
She flung the suitcase on the bed and shoved clothing inside it.
“Is this because I didn’t want to talk about starting a family?” Noah turned to exit the closet. After one step, photographs pelted him in the face. He picked one up. Fuck!
He stared at a booking photo, himself at seventeen, complete with the date, his social security number, and his name. His real name. He gathered more photos and documents from the floor. All contained identifying information which did not correspond with the name Noah Morgan. “Where—”
“These were waiting for me on the front porch when I got home from work.” Cat grabbed another handful of paperwork from the bed and flung it at him. “Who the fuck are you?” Before he could answer, she stormed back to the bed. She threw more belongings into the open suitcase. “I’m going home.”
“Sweetie, you are home.”
She stopped, facing the bed, shoulders shaking. “Am I?” Slowly, she turned to face him, betrayal in her eyes. “I thought you were having an affair. All the secret texts, the unexplained late hours.” She whirled away, made a sweeping motion at the incriminating documents. “Now, I don’t know what to think.”
She straightened her spine, squared her shoulders, shoved the last of her clothing into the suitcase. Pain sliced her words. “Now I actually wish it was an affair.”
Noah stepped up behind her. He spun her to face him. She refused to look up. Placing a hand beneath her chin, he gently raised her head until their eyes met.
Before he could say a word, she shrank away from him. She held up a hand. “Don’t. Just don’t.” Brushing past him, she hauled her luggage after her down the hallway.
Stunned, he stood in shocked silence. He crumpled the photographs still clutched in his hand. In the distance, Cat’s car door slammed, the engine fired up, and
the wheels spun out on the concrete driveway.
“Fuck!”
Blind rage swept through him as he stormed through the house, knocking over chairs, kicking over the trash can, punching holes in the walls. If I tell them, I can maybe save Bree, maybe. But I will lose everything else—Cat, my job, Rhy, Sam, Maddie…my life. Hell, I’ve already lost Cat. Can I save Bree? Is it worth the risk?
Noah made it to the dining room. Is it worth it? Did I really just ask myself that? What the fuck? Who am I? Bree’s life depends on me.
With one sweep of his arm, he flung the china, silver and the now-defunct candles to the floor. What am I going to do? Why did I think I could have a life? Why did I think I deserved a life? His cousin’s taunting chant echoed in his head. Broken toy, broken toy, broken toy. The pressure increased.
Seamus. Noah’s teeth clenched. This was all because of Seamus. Rage spiraled, growing and festering, consuming his very soul. His heart raced in an ever-tightening chest. It pounded like a jackhammer crushing concrete. His hands fisted, opening and closing. I can’t continue like this. Something has to give. Fear slithered in, adding to the volatile emotional mix.
He dropped to his knees in the middle of the destruction. Great heaving sobs tore from his chest.
****
Clouds of blue-gray cigarette smoke swirled beneath neon lights. Tinny music blared from the man-sized speakers surrounding the disc jockey. Noah shoved through the crowd of people to reach the bar. He tapped two fingers on the scarred wooden bar top. Everywhere he turned, couples leaned against each other, swaying to the slow country music. Pain squeezed his chest. He looked away.
The bartender, a dingy white towel draped over one narrow shoulder, leaned forward. Pungent breath slapped Noah in the face. “What’s your poison?”
He laid a twenty-dollar bill on the sticky bar. “Irish whiskey, straight up.”
A water-spotted glass tumbler appeared. Golden liquid from a dark, emerald bottle splashed into it. Noah slid the twenty forward and nodded his thanks to the bartender. He picked up the glass, rolling the liquid inside it, watching it cling to the sides before slipping back to the bottom of the tumbler. He closed his eyes and lifted the drink to his lips.
The odor jarred his memory. Images of his father’s scarred fists, bleeding knuckles, danced behind his closed eyelids. What am I doing? I’m not him. I didn’t run two thousand miles to become him. I moved to Texas because I thought I’d be safe. When I looked at that map, I thought I’d found the perfect place, as far south as I could get and not leave the country. No one would ever think to look for me here. Not that I figured they’d ever look for me. Why look for a broken toy?
Setting the untouched drink back on the bar, he turned and walked away.
“Hey, bud,” the bartender asked, “what about your drink?”
Noah glanced back over his shoulder as he headed to the exit. “Thanks, but no thanks.”
He stepped out the door into the night. Moonlight shone down on him. Brisk night air brushed his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Well, looky here,” an alcohol-soaked voice with a heavy Hispanic accent slurred from the darkness. “Not so tough without your gun and buddies, now are you, Mr. Ranger Man?”
Noah whirled.
A figure stepped from the shadowed edge of the parking lot. A dragon tattoo circled his neck. Noah recognized him as the thug from court last Thursday. Was that only a week ago?
The man bounced the end of a hickory ax handle repeatedly off the palm of his left hand. He made a come-hither gesture with the wooden handle. A silhouetted stepped out of the shadows. Followed by another, and another, and another…
Six gang bangers surrounded him, all sporting macho, in-your-face attitudes. They spread out, circling like a pack of coyotes. Each held a weapon—a club, a knife, a chain.
Well, this isn’t going to end well. He reached for his holster. His fingers brushed empty air. Right. Bar. No gun. Well, hell.
He spun to face the leader. He rolled his shoulders and his neck, loosening up tight muscles. His vertebrae cracked. This is gonna hurt. He widened his stance and opened his arms. “We gonna do this thing or what?”
The leader swung his bat.
Noah dodged.
The leader swung again, this time connecting with his head.
Noah’s bell rang. His balance disappeared. So much so he didn’t see the punch coming from the second thug. Or the third.
He stumbled. Fell to one knee.
Thug number four swung a boot at his jaw. Noah grabbed the boot and twisted, jerking the thug off his feet, slamming his head to the pavement. The thug didn’t move.
Noah scrambled back to his feet, his ears still ringing. He wobbled from side to side. Finding his footing, he stepped into the leader’s personal space. He led with an uppercut to the jaw, slamming the man’s teeth together with a sharp crack. He followed with a solid punch to the underbelly, one that vibrated all the way through the spine. A left hook finished the job.
The remaining gang members jumped into the fray. Fists, knees, feet flew. Noah went down, overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Metal thudded against flesh. Blood spattered.
With Noah pinned on the ground, sucking air, the leader staggered back to his feet and waved everyone else away. A feral grin crossed his face. He pulled a small, matte-black pistol from his waistband. Squatting next to Noah, the gang member leaned forward. “Your cuz says to say hi…and bye.” Grin widening, he stood and pointed the barrel of the gun right between Noah’s eyes.
Squeezing his eyes shut, he inhaled deeply before opening them and locking his gaze with that of the gang leader. Sirens split the air. Red-and-blue lights flashed in the distance, minutes away from swarming into the parking lot. Minutes Noah could not afford to wait. The bangers scattered, leaving him alone with their leader.
Noah tried to stand. His legs folded beneath himself. Stabbing pain surged through him from his ribs. It hurt to breathe. He crumped onto his back on the ground.
The leader thumbed off the safety. His finger tightened on the trigger.
Noah’s focus locked on the round, black barrel staring him down. Well, it’s in your hands, Lord. His muscles tightened. He thrust his chin up and glared at the gunman. “Well? You waiting for an engraved invitation?”
Anticipation glittered in the thug’s dead eyes. His lips curled up in a cruel smile. He squeezed the trigger.
The flash was blinding. Huge splotches of shadow danced in Noah’s vision, afterimages of the gun’s muzzle flash. The noise, inches from his head, deafened him. The bullet slammed into the ground beside his head. The shooter collapsed on top of him, crushing the breath from his lungs.
A grimy, calloused hand stretched down to help Noah to his feet. “You okay, sir?”
Noah shook his head to clear it. “Trey? Is that you?”
“Yes, sir.” The vagrant gave a slight bow. “Father always said a man must at times be as hard as nails and do what he must—in spite of personal consequences and ought to carry himself in the world as an orange tree would if it could walk up and down in the garden swinging perfumed things.” A sock swung from his right hand.
“What?” Trey’s words confused Noah. He grimaced and tugged on his ear. It didn’t help with his confusion or the ringing from the gunshot. “Never mind. What’s in the sock?”
Trey shook a chunk of black-veined, green granite out of the sock and held it up for Noah to see. “My lucky rock.”
The sirens grew louder. Law enforcement was coming closer. Trey grabbed the ranger by the wrist. “We need to vacate these premises, posthaste.”
Noah scooped the thug’s gun from the dirt. He hiked his jeans up on his hips and shoved the pistol in his waistband, untucking his shirt to cover it.
Chapter Twenty-One
Tap, tap, tap. A finger patted Bree’s cheek. She brushed it away. The small hand returned. “Maddie, go away.” Bree rolled over. She crinkled her nose at the sour smell of the threadbare blanket but pul
led it over her head anyway to block out the stripes of sunlight torturing her eyes.
“Bree?” Sarah whispered. “Where are the Texas Rangers? Are they here yet?”
Texas Rangers? What?
Bree flipped the blanket down and swiped the sleep from her eyes. She sat up, and the room whirled. Memories rushed back. Frantically, she surveyed the room. A group of small children surrounded her. In another corner of the dirty, wooden room sat a cluster of teenagers. She directed her attention to them. “Where are we?”
Vacant eyes met hers briefly before dropping away. A girl with tangled, unwashed brown hair held her palms up and out, shrugging slightly, before returning her gaze to the floor. “Who knows?” she said, her voice cracking on the last syllable. A bruise, fading from green to yellow, graced her cheek.
Bree tried to stand. Her knees buckled, sending her plunging back onto the thin mattress. Wire coils poked her in the backside as she landed. She sat for a moment, catching her breath, her head held in her hands.
A petite, blonde child kneeled beside her. “Is your daddy here yet? Has he found us?”
Bree raised her head, schooling her features and holding in her tears. “Sarah?”
The girl nodded; hope glistened behind her fear. “Is he here yet?”
Choking back a sob, Bree gathered Sarah into her arms. She held her tight. “Not yet, sweetie, but soon. I talked to him. He’s coming. Soon.”
“When? I want to go home. I’m hungry.”
The rancid scent of sour gas floated into the room on a hot breeze. Bree rose and walked to the open window. The window wasn’t actually open, but broken, allowing the fetid air to waft in and out. Bars covering the outside of the window shut down her thoughts of escape.
She surveyed room, taking in the emaciated condition of the others trapped with her. The room itself offered no help. Wooden, dirt-encrusted floors covered with worn twin mattresses, sheetrock walls peppered with holes, surrounded her. A solid steel door with a deadbolt was the only thing from this decade in the place. Wadded-up fast-food wrappers redolent with old grease littered the corners. At least they feed us…maybe.
Broken Toys Page 20