Wicked Ever After

by Shayla Black

  “Okay, her phone is still on the grid. Her last location is somewhere on Highway 353. What’s out there?”

  “It’s the road to the lake…and not much else.” It made no sense, but One-Mile still floored it in that direction.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Hit refresh. See if the phone is still moving and in which direction.”

  “Yeah.”

  One-Mile heard him tapping a key and waited. “You haven’t overheard her dad say anything about receiving a ransom, have you?”

  “No. Earlier, he was talking to someone on the phone about meeting you. He didn’t sound excited.”

  Why would the preacher be? From her father’s perspective, he had ruined, impregnated, and jeopardized the man’s daughter. Fuck, even if he got Brea back, he’d be lucky if Preacher Bell ever spoke to him. And One-Mile didn’t blame him one bit.

  But that wouldn’t stop him. Nothing—not this kidnapper, not her father, not her best friend or the whole damn town—was going to keep him from making Brea his.

  Except death.

  “Shit.”

  One-Mile snapped back to the conversation. “What?”

  “Either your girl is heading into an area without cell signal or the location services just got turned off. I’m now getting an old location. But I got enough of an update to see that they’re going east.”

  His heart stopped. His stomach plummeted. The one surefire way he had to help her was gone. “Fuck. Now get the hell out of there. And thanks.”

  “Are you sure? Is her dad expecting her home? Will he call the police if she doesn’t show?”

  He was and he might. “Good point.”

  “Want me to fill him in?”

  One-Mile weighed the pros and cons, then decided he didn’t have much choice. “Yeah. Thanks again. He’s got a heart condition. Try to keep him calm.”

  “Sure. I don’t know you well, man. But you’re doing every fucking thing you can.”

  He just hoped it was enough. “Call me if he becomes a problem.”

  Jock Strap just laughed. “The FBI taught me how to sidestep direct questions and difficult conversations. You do you. I got this.”

  “Thanks again. I owe you.”

  “Knowing me, I’ll need it someday.”

  They hung up, then he called Matt. “What you got?”

  One-Mile gave him the location update. “Know where that is?”

  “Vaguely. I’ll figure it out. Headed that way now.”

  Maybe they could run this kidnapper down. He had to hope so.

  He rang the colonel again next.

  “I’m in touch with the police,” Caleb said. “They’re going to issue a BOLO in the next few minutes. They’ll get cruisers looking. Traffic cams are a no-go without a warrant.”

  “Thanks.” Then he updated Caleb on the location of Brea’s phone. Thankfully the man knew exactly where the road was. “I’ll pass that on. I also know a guy who runs a swamp tour out there. Crazier than a rat, but observant and suspicious. I’ll ask him to poke around.”

  They ended the call as the last of the sun disappeared below the horizon. Now that he couldn’t do anything but drive and hope for the best, more worry crept in. He tried to tell himself that even if Brea wasn’t armed, she wasn’t stupid. She knew self-defense. She knew to look for weaknesses and escape paths.

  But he couldn’t deny that she’d also never had to put that knowledge to real-life use. People often panicked. And there was no way she could get too physical with a kidnapper. Besides being petite and peaceful, she was nearly six months pregnant.

  A trek down the road from its origin to its end didn’t net anything concrete. Next, he’d start trying some of the ramshackle buildings he’d seen off the side of the road. If that didn’t give him any results, he’d investigate the narrow two-lane roads that shot off of 353. Yeah, the abductor might have taken the road to its end and turned onto 314, but hell, that mostly led to nowhere.

  One-Mile hoped he was making the right decisions. It wasn’t just his life or his future hanging in the balance. So many people would suffer if he failed Brea. Cutter, her father, all of Sunset…and their son, who might never know life. He swallowed grief and guilt down and vowed to keep searching. But as seven p.m. became eight, then nine and ten, he stopped looking at the clock. His phone wasn’t ringing, goddamn it. And he hated to assume the worst, but his hope began to dim. And as the time inched toward two a.m. and he was forced to stop for gas, he hung his head in the front seat of his Jeep and cried.

  Brea’s shoulders ached from her hands being zip-tied behind her back for hours. She shifted on the hard metal chair in the abandoned repair shop and studied the woman who had abducted her. Clara, she called herself when she muttered out loud. She clearly hadn’t thought this plan through. Brea suspected the woman’s grief had overwhelmed her mental state, because she’d been acting frantic and half-crazy for hours.

  Clara’s bony fingers gripped Brea’s phone. She wished she could snatch it back, at least long enough to tell everyone where she was and that she was all right. She hated to think about Pierce and Daddy both worried sick. Instead, the woman clutched the device in her hand and paced.

  “I simply have to call that cabrón and lure him in. His number is here.” She held up Brea’s cell. “Why am I waiting?”

  Seemingly to find her courage.

  Brea was trying to hang on to hers. The good news was, Clara Montilla appeared to be working alone. She’d seen no hint of accomplices or heavies or anyone else who wished her harm. Apparently the cartel wasn’t helping with this rash plan, nor did she act like she was accustomed to committing violence. Brea clung to those small comforts.

  “All I have to do is ring him and tell him I have his puta,” Clara went on. “He will come. Then I will shoot him, and my brother will be avenged.”

  That thought terrified Brea, but she refused to let that happen without a fight. “It won’t be that easy.”

  The woman whirled on her. “You think I do not know that? Your man has slaughtered many for the sake of his government, his paycheck, and his pride.” She spit on the ground at Brea’s feet. “He is a macho pig.”

  And her brother had been an angel? Brea glared but kept her sarcasm to herself.

  “He is also dangerous,” Clara went on. “I know this.”

  Brea played on Clara’s obvious fears. “And Pierce won’t go down without a fight I’m not sure you’re ready for.”

  Clara’s lip quivered. Her fear morphed into terror, but she tried to play it off. “The gun is the great equalizer. I can fell any man with the pull of a trigger.”

  Brea couldn’t refute her except to make one point. “Pierce can kill you from a mile away.”

  “Not in the dark. Now shut up! And do not speak again.”

  Brea was afraid to push the woman any further, so she tried another tactic. “Could I have more water, please?”

  Something guilty flashed across Clara’s face. “You have but to ask. I do not wish you or your baby harm.”

  The woman assured Brea of that often, even as she rampaged about getting her revenge. And no matter how many times Brea had argued that ending Pierce’s life wouldn’t bring her brother back, Clara didn’t want to hear it.

  After the woman set her phone on the nearby counter—so close yet so far away—then lifted the bottle to her lips, Brea took a few sips. When she was finished, Clara set the bottle aside.

  They couldn’t go on all night this way. She had to do something.

  “I also need to use the bathroom.”

  Clara let out a sigh of irritation. “Fine, but do not try to be clever.” She fumbled in her purse for her gun and pointed it in her direction. “I would rather not shoot you, but I will.”

  Brea nodded. So the woman had said before. Clara was unstable enough to pull the trigger. Her emotions were a roller coaster—fear gave way to tears, then fits of anger, which morphed back into fear. Grief had made her behavior erratic
and unstable. As the hours went on and the woman grew weary, she seemed more unhinged. Brea feared Emilo’s sister would lose her ability to think rationally and shoot her in panic.

  It was now or never.

  “I understand.”

  Clara approached with an industrial-size box cutter and the zip-tie holding her wrists behind the back of the chair suddenly gave way. Brea’s shoulders screamed as she rolled them and rose to her feet. The woman escorted her to the bathroom with the barrel of her gun poking her spine. Brea tried to ignore it and let herself into the small, dirty space.

  She wasn’t sure where they were exactly. In some sort of repair shop, though seemingly not for cars, close to the lake. There were chains abandoned on the concrete floors, bays where a few scattered tools still sat, darkened lights everywhere, and a rusting trailer or two.

  As Brea took care of business, she was dejected to realize the bathroom had no window. It was a long shot that she could have crawled out, given her growing belly, but it would have been worth a try. She was going to have to find another way out. Clearly, Pierce had no idea where she was or he would already be here.

  The stricken look on his face when he’d seen her in the window as Clara drove away haunted her. He must be worried. He probably blamed himself. He’d likely do anything and everything to save her.

  Brea hoped it didn’t come to that.

  As she flushed the toilet, her mind raced. She managed to find some hand soap under the sink and washed up. Maybe when she let herself out of the bathroom, Clara would be elsewhere and she would have an opportunity to sneak through the vast darkness of this seemingly abandoned place, then out into the night. Or she could lead the woman on a chase in the grounds around the building, then double back for her phone. Something.

  But when she opened the door, Clara waited there, gun pointed in her face. “Back to your chair.”

  No. She was done with this. Done being this woman’s victim. Done being afraid. Maybe this wouldn’t turn out well, but if she let Clara run the show, nothing would.

  Time to act.

  “All right,” she murmured.

  Clara took a step back to allow her out of the bathroom. Brea pretended to trip, then stumble into the woman. Clara yelped. Brea half expected to feel a bullet penetrate her, and she squeezed her eyes shut. But nothing. Emilo’s sister fell, her backside hitting the concrete with a thud. Brea landed on top of her, reaching for the gun as it fell out of the woman’s hand and skated across the hard cement. She leapt to her feet as quickly as her pregnant belly allowed and reached for the weapon, only a few yards away.

  Suddenly, the woman’s hand closed around her ankle like a vise, and Brea felt herself falling. She managed to catch herself with her hands. Pain radiated up her wrists, all the way past her elbows and to her shoulders, but she managed to keep her weight off her baby bump, roll to her knees, and find her feet again.

  “Bitch.” Clara shoved past her and scrambled on the ground for the gun.

  No way was she going to win that fight now. With her, Clara had been polite, almost gentle. But she wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  So now Brea had to be smarter.

  She ran into the darkest part of the massive building, shoving tools onto the ground and rattling chains. The deafening sounds magnified by the echo in the cavernous room masked her footsteps as she ran to a blessed door she saw on the far wall, unlocked it, and hurtled outside.

  A bullet pinged off the doorframe inches to her left.

  Brea bit her lip to hold in a cry of fear and ducked, scrambling along the side of the building. Run into the adjacent swamp or double back for her phone?

  The creatures in the swamp could be every bit as deadly and unpredictable as Clara. Brea didn’t know where she was or what, if anything else, was around. She needed her cell.

  Creeping through overgrown foliage, she tiptoed her way back to the front of the building and the main office where Clara had been keeping her, praying the phone still sat there. As she reached the entrance, she spotted a rusty tire iron someone had propped against the dilapidated wood and snagged it. That wouldn’t protect her like a gun, but it would provide a last line of defense. She had to keep thinking ahead—and think positive.

  Behind her, she heard Clara’s loud footsteps and her angry grunts. The little beam of the flashlight from her phone gave her away.

  Brea ducked into the office, grabbed her phone from the counter, then disappeared into the body of the warehouse again, hoping that since Clara had just searched there, she wouldn’t double back to scour the place again.

  She unlocked her phone with trembling hands. Her first instinct was to call Pierce or the police—someone. But Clara wasn’t far behind. She’d hear. So Brea searched her settings, turned on her location services, silenced the device, then opened her messages. She dashed one off to Pierce.

  Location turned on. I’m okay. One woman. No accomplices. Emilo’s sister. She’s crazy.

  Seconds later, she received a reply. In the area. On my way. Don’t move. Bringing help.

  Brea breathed a sigh of relief. Pierce was coming. She would be okay. Someone would cart Clara away. Except for Emilo’s sister, everyone would hopefully live happily ever after.

  If she could reach the main road in front and escape this crazy woman, maybe her wishes would come true.

  Brea pocketed her phone and glanced behind to make sure Clara wasn’t following. Nothing. She didn’t know where the woman had gone, but as long as Clara couldn’t find her, Brea didn’t care.

  When she turned and stood to make her way to the main road and to freedom, she rounded the corner—and came face to face with her assailant. Clara’s face was pinched and harsh as she stomped closer. Brea didn’t dare run; she had zero doubt the woman would shoot her.

  “Bitch.” She pressed the barrel of the gun to her head and glanced at the tire iron in her hands. “Drop it.”

  A quick mental calculation told Brea that Clara could get a shot off way before she could ever swing the heavy metal bar to strike her. With a sigh, Brea tossed it a few feet away, onto the concrete.

  “What did you do?”

  “N-nothing.” Brea tried to be brave, but her voice shook. Her whole body trembled. Her heart threatened to beat out of her chest.

  Please, please don’t let this be the end.

  “Liar.”

  She had to come up with some version of the truth that would allow Pierce time to get here. “Really. I was trying to find the road to escape, b-but I got turned around. Please. I don’t want to die.” Tears pricked her eyes as she wrapped her hands around her belly. “My baby…”

  Clara’s mouth pinched even more as she wrapped a cruel fist in Brea’s hair. “Come with me.”

  If she did, would she be as good as dead?

  Brea didn’t have the opportunity to make that decision. She heard the hum of a vehicle approaching soft, lights off. It stopped. The door opened.

  Clara turned to her, eyes flaring. “Who did you call, puta?”

  Tell her or lie?

  “Who did you call?” she hissed as she yanked on her hair.

  A cry slipped past Brea’s throat, and the woman clenched the gun tighter, looking ready to explode in fury.

  Using her ponytail, Clara dragged her around the corner of the warehouse and peeked. Brea saw no one, heard nothing, but she sensed Pierce. She felt him in the electricity in the air, in the sudden calm that came over her. He was here; he would keep her safe.

  But who would keep him safe in return?

  Brea clammed up. The woman didn’t want her dead, so hopefully she could buy a little time until Pierce’s backup arrived. She’d managed to put the unstable woman off this long. She could do it a bit longer.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she answered finally. “This won’t end well. Nothing you’re doing will bring Emilo back.”

  Clara whipped around, hate in her eyes. “But I will avenge him. His bitch of a wife got pregnant before she abandoned an
d betrayed him. Then your brutal American sniper ended him ignominiously in some seedy part of town. And no one has done a thing about it. I know what my brother did for a living. I know he was no saint. But he was my brother. And I loved him. Since no one else in his organization intends to seize retribution, I will.”

  “Then what? Even if you succeed in killing Pierce, do you think he doesn’t have friends? Do you think they or the police will let you walk free?”

  Clara turned bleak eyes her way. “I will have turned the gun on myself long before then. I have nothing more to live for.”

  As her terrible words sank in, the woman seemingly reached a decision and gave her hair another savage tug, dragging her to the front of the abandoned building and into the circle of weak yellow light spilling through the front door. Then she slung Brea in front of her and pressed the gun to her temple.

  Brea’s heart revved uncontrollably. Fear made her body tremble and her legs unsteady. God, please don’t let it end like this…

  “Walker!” Clara called into the darkness. “If you want your woman to live, come toward me, toss down your weapons, and surrender.”

  “No!” Brea shouted.

  “Shut up, puta.” The woman yanked viciously on her hair again and pressed the gun so hard against her temple, Brea cried out in pain.

  “Let her go,” Pierce called from the darkness, his voice booming across the feet separating them. Then he walked into the stream of light, gun in hand, still wearing his suit.

  Brea gasped. “Don’t do this.”

  Other than a glance to assess that she was okay, Pierce didn’t acknowledge her. “If you let Brea go, I’ll toss this down and do whatever you want.”

  “You can’t. No!” Brea pleaded. “It’s a trap.”

  “I don’t trust you,” Clara hissed. “You must surrender before I let her go.”

  “If I do, what assurance do I have you’ll actually release her?”

  “If you don’t, what assurance do I have you won’t simply kill me and walk away?”

  He shrugged. “You don’t except that I’m a man of my word.”

  “You are a man who kills,” she hissed. “You have no honor. Until now, I have not killed your woman because I have no strife with her, and I do not like to think of killing children before they are born. But I will. Right now.”