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Jake gritted his back teeth and swallowed his retort. If the surly jerk didn’t want his help…screw him.
He’d turned to leave when the pounding he’d assumed was the bass from the speakers sounded from the rear of the Caddy. From the trunk. He stopped and listened, turned back toward the driver.
Was that scream part of the music or…
His senses ramping into high alert, Jake edged toward the rear of the vehicle, reaching behind him for his pistol. The guy could be a drug smuggler. A human-smuggling coyote. Or about a half-dozen other options that sprang to mind. Jake divided his gaze between the man and the interior of the car as he did a fast check for weapons, for hiding passengers, for contraband as he crept backward to check the trunk. “Buddy, why don’t you step out of the car and—”
Jake’s adrenaline spiked.
An orange jumpsuit had been stuffed halfway under the backseat.
The escaped prisoner lunged from the car, whipping a gun out from under the pink pullover.
Instantly Jake raised his own weapon and squeezed off a shot. Spinning, he dived behind the protective cover of the Caddy’s rear bumper. The inmate—Edward Brady, the radio had called him—returned fire. Brady’s rounds deflated a back tire and pinged off the heavy steel fender.
Hearing the scuffle of feet, Jake peered around the back of the Cadillac. Brady was running toward Jake’s truck.
“Oh, hell no, you’re not takin’ my truck,” he growled. Jake leveled his pistol, aiming for the guy’s leg rather than a kill shot. He’d leave the cretin alive for the local authorities to deal with. He fired once, and the inmate fell to the ground, clutching his left leg. Staying behind the protection of the Caddy, Jake crept to the passenger door, reached inside to turn off the blaring music, then eased forward to the front fender. “Toss your gun toward me now, or I’ll shoot your other leg!”
Brady returned a scathing epithet and fired twice toward the Caddy.
Jake scowled his irritation but kept his focus on subduing Brady. He narrowed his eyes on the weapon Brady had. It looked like a .40 Smith & Wesson M&P. Pretty typical police sidearm. Sixteen rounds in a standard magazine. Call it eighteen rounds, in case he was wrong about the model of pistol, and it was a 9 mm instead. Jake made a few calculations—two shots to kill the police officers in his getaway, four shots fired at him just now. Brady could have as many as a dozen rounds left. Brady needed to surrender the gun or spend those remaining rounds.
“Toss me the gun!” Jake repeated.
Brady answered with two more shots toward the Cadillac. Jake fired near Brady once to encourage returned shots. The escaped inmate didn’t disappoint. Five more shots.
By lifting his hat into Brady’s view, Jake drew three more rounds. Jake monitored the injured convict from behind the Cadillac, waiting for more shots.
Instead the gunman struggled to his feet and headed toward Jake’s truck again.
Muttering a curse under his breath, Jake darted after Brady, overtaking him easily and knocking him to the pavement. With a punch to the jaw, Jake disoriented Brady enough to wrest the police sidearm from the escapee, which he quickly stashed at the small of his back. Then twisting the man’s arms up behind his back, Jake dragged Brady to his feet and shoved him back toward the Caddy. “Had to do it the hard way, didn’t you?”
Brady glared at him and bit out another curse that would make a sailor blush.
In the glove compartment, Jake found a roll of duct tape—probably the same one the owner of the car had used liberally on the vinyl seats—and he helped himself to a strip for Brady’s filthy mouth. Next Jake bound the inmate’s ankles and wrists, leaving Brady’s arms in front of him so that he could self-administer pressure to his bleeding leg. After dumping the inmate on the backseat, Jake ripped a larger hole in the jeans around the man’s gunshot wound and gave the injury a cursory inspection. The gash was deep but was still a flesh wound. No broken bones or major blood vessels damaged. The thug would live to be a burden to society.
Jake yanked off the man’s sock and pressed it against the wound. “Hold still while I tape that up to stanch the bleeding.”
Brady glared at him the entire time as he pulled the duct tape around the man’s leg, creating a makeshift bandage. Nothing fancy, but good enough to stop the bleeding until the authorities arrived. “Keep pressure on that to slow the bleeding.”
With his prisoner subdued, Jake took the Cadillac’s keys from the ignition and moved toward the trunk to investigate the thumping noises he’s heard earlier. Leveling his weapon with one hand, he keyed open the trunk and cautiously raised the lid.
Chapter 2
Tremors racked Chelsea, a combination of the cold, her fear and the surging adrenaline in her veins. She curled in a tight ball, trying to stay warm and keep her panic at bay. She’d never been claustrophobic, but being locked in the Cadillac’s trunk was making her rethink that position.
Fumbling blindly, she’d tried to open the trunk from the inside to no avail, and her attempts to punch out a taillight and flag a passing car had been equally futile. Ethyl was a tank, and no amount of awkward kicking or beating on the walls of the trunk had made any difference.
And then she’d heard a car approach. Slow. Stop. But as soon as she’d cried for help, her captor had cranked the radio loud enough that the car shook.
The exchange of gunfire had been terrifying and deafening. Whoever had stopped to offer his help had been armed—not such a big surprise. This was Texas after all. But not knowing who’d won the battle, if the escaped convict had killed again, had her strung tight. Tears stung her eyes knowing help was so close…and still so far.
A rattle came from the trunk lock, and she tensed. Oh, please, God, let it be someone to rescue her and not that maniac killer!
The lid lifted, and daylight poured into the pitch-dark of the trunk. she shuddered as a stiff icy wind swept into the well of the trunk, blasting her bare skin.
“Ah, hell,” a deep voice muttered.
Her pulse scampered, and she squinted to make out the face of the man standing over her.
The gun in his hand registered first, then his size—tall, broad-shouldered, and his fleece-lined ranch coat made him appear impressively muscle-bound. Plenty big enough to overpower her if he was working with the convict.
A black cowboy hat and backlighting from the sky obscured his face in shadow, adding to her apprehension.
“Are you hurt?” he asked, stashing the gun out of sight and undoing the buttons of his coat.
“N-no.” When he reached for her, she shrank back warily. Her dishabille caused nervous skitters to dance along her nerves, left her feeling vulnerable. Awkward. Cold as hell.
And where was the convict? She cast an anxious glance around them, down the side of the car, searching. Was he dead? Waiting to pounce when she climbed out of the trunk?
She jolted when her rescuer grasped her elbow.
“Hey, I’m not gonna hurt you.” The cowboy leaned farther into the trunk. “Let me help you out of there, and you can have my coat.”
His coat… She almost whimpered in gratitude, anticipating the warmth. Heat from his fingers burrowed to her core as he steadied her and helped her rise to her knees. When she caught her first good glimpse of his square jaw and stubble-dusted cheeks, her stomach swooped. Oh, Texas! He was a freaking Adonis. Greek god–gorgeous with golden blond hair, cowboy boots and ranch-honed muscles. He lifted her out of the trunk, and when he set her down and her knees buckled with muscle cramps, cold and fatigue, she knew she couldn’t dismiss old-fashioned swooning for at least some of her legs’ weakness. He draped the coat around her shoulders, and the sexy combined scents of pine, leather and man surrounded her. She had to be dreaming… .
Relief surged through her. Rescue!
“You can sit in my truck and get warm while I deal with Brady and call the cops.” He stepped past her and reached up to close the trunk lid. Keeping a kind blue-eyed gaze on her, he slammed the trunk lid closed.
She nodded her understanding. “Th-thank you.”
A movement in the backseat of the car drew her attention. the convict glared at her through the shattered rear window, and a chill raced through her. As she held the inmate’s malevolent leer, he raised his tape-bound hands. Clutching the stun gun.
He aimed.
Terror shot through her, and she screamed, “Look out!”
Too late.
She heard the hiss and crackle of the electric current. She watched helplessly as the cowboy stiffened, his face contorting in pain. His body jerked and writhed as the convict continued to feed a disabling electric current through the twin probes piercing her rescuer’s neck.
“Stop! You’ll kill him!” Tears of horror, fear and sympathy puddled in her eyes. She rushed toward the cowboy, desperate to do something to help. But…if she touched him, would she receive the debilitating shock, too?
Overwhelmed by the current coursing through him, the cowboy’s legs crumpled. As he slumped to the ground, his head hit the back fender, then thumped hard on the pavement.
Chelsea gasped and staggered toward the cowboy’s prone form. He lay eerily still.
Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod. Please don’t let him be dead!
When the crackling noise stopped, Chelsea plucked the prongs from the cowboy’s neck and felt for a pulse. She released a shaky sigh when she palpated a steady throb.
Hearing scuffles from the car, she rose warily to peer into the backseat. The convict pulled The tape from his mouth, wincing and growling obscenities, then set to work gnawing at the tape on his hands with his teeth.
Fresh prickles of fear spun through Chelsea. The inmate would be free soon, and she had no doubt he’d be set on vengeance. She needed a way to protect herself. Think!
She glanced around. The cowboy’s truck sat about one hundred feet down the road. If she made a dash for it, could she get there before the inmate shot her? Unlikely. And what about the cowboy? She couldn’t steal his truck and abandon him. Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her adrenaline-charged brain enough to make quick, logical decisions. With another glance over the trunk, through the shot-out window, she watched the inmate rip tape from his wrists, then bend down, presumably to work on freeing his feet.
Her gaze darted to the broken glass. Gunfire…
The cowboy had been holding a gun when he opened the trunk!
Dropping to her knees beside the cowboy, she shook him. “Where’s your gun? I need your gun!”
Still no response. Either the stun gun or the hit he took to his head had knocked him out.
She heard Ethyl’s back door squeak open. The inmate was coming… .
With frantic hands, Chelsea patted down the cowboy. Chest, waist, hips…dear God, the man was solid muscle. Finding nothing, she grabbed an arm and tugged, struggling to turn him over. Groped behind him…
“Nice try, girlie.”
Gasping, Chelsea jerked her gaze up.
The convict hovered over her, a gloating expression twisting his face.
Icy fear slithered down her spine. Finally, her fingers closed around the butt of a gun, and she yanked it from the cowboy’s belt. Swinging the weapon toward her kidnapper, Chelsea gritted her teeth. “Stop where you are!” She worked up enough spit in her dry mouth to swallow. “Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot.”
The convict hesitated, eyeing the gun. He had a wad of white cloth taped to a bleeding wound on his leg. “You won’t do it. You could never live with yourself knowing you’d killed another human being.”
Her pulse kicked. Was he right? Could she pull the trigger if she had to? “If you force my hand, I will kill you to save my life—” she nodded toward the unconscious cowboy “—and his.”
The convict’s expression hardened. “Get back in the trunk, girlie, or I’ll fry you like I did John Wayne.”
The frigid wind and her fear brought the sting of tears to her eyes again. She blinked hard, fighting to keep the inmate in focus, her attention glued on him. Shoot him. Just shoot him. It’d be justifiable homicide.
Her hands shook, and her stomach roiled. “Just…t-take his truck and leave us here.”
The inmate’s eyes narrowed, and his brow furrowed as he studied the gun in her hands. “Good idea. But…you’ll still be in the trunk. Just in case you had any ideas about goin’ to the cops.”
He took a step forward, and Chelsea tensed, her finger curling around the trigger. “I said stay back! Don’t touch me.”
“Go ahead,” the convict taunted, “shoot me. I dare you.”
He took another step toward her, and Chelsea squeezed the trigger.
Click.
Her insides clenched at the telltale sound.
With a low rumbling laugh, the inmate closed in on her. “Well, well. Maybe you would shoot. Too bad you’re out of bullets.”
Brady knocked the emptied gun out of the brunette’s hands and nudged the cowboy with his toe. The guy was out cold. Good. He gave the guy a hard kick in the ribs. “Sorry son of a bitch.”
“Don’t!” The brunette moved between him and the cowboy. “Leave him alone! Haven’t you hurt him enough?”
“He shot me!” Brady growled back, pointing to his bleeding leg. “I should put a bullet in his head and be done with him.”
“No!” She draped herself over the cowboy’s body like some modern Pocahontas saving John Smith, and Brady scoffed. The girl had guts, standing up for the cowboy, trying to protect him, but Brady had other plans for the jerk.
“Get out of the way, or I’ll kill the both of you!” He shoved her with his foot, and pain radiated up his leg.
“With what? The gun’s empty.” She raised her chin, visibly shivering in the cold. Or fear. He liked the idea that he scared her.
He leaned toward her, getting in her face. “With my bare hands if I have to. But I hear if you get juiced long enough with one of these babies—” he waved the stun gun “—you’ll go into cardiac arrest.” He leered at her. “Care to try it and see?”
She gasped and pulled away but stayed planted between him and the unconscious cowboy. Firming her jaw, she rallied for another show of chops. “A car could come by anytime. Do you really want to be seen standing here with me nearly naked, you holding that gun thing and him slumped on the ground? We’re bound to cause a passerby to take a second look.”
Brady frowned. She had a point. He had to do something with them and get moving. Before the cowboy woke up. Before a cop spotted him. Before his leg bled out.
Before this sucky day took another piss on him.
He needed to cover his tracks and find a hideout. Fast.
He opened the Caddy’s trunk and faced the girl. “Get up!” he ordered the brunette. “Get his arm. Help me put him in the trunk.”
Limping forward and keeping most of his weight on his good leg, he shoved a hand under the cowboy’s armpit and waited for the girl to comply. When she hesitated, he snarled, “Look, girlie. I’m in pain, and I’m in a hurry. I have exactly no patience left.” He aimed the stun gun at her. “Get him up.”
With wide eyes locked on the stun gun, she grabbed the cowboy’s other arm, and they heaved him up, dragged him to the trunk and draped him over the back of the open well. When he lifted the cowboy’s legs and swung them into the trunk, Brady’s injured leg throbbed, and he dumped the cowboy in the Caddy with an unceremonious shove.
The brunette sent him a disgruntled look. “You bully. Your mother must be so proud of you.”
Brady bristled, then lobbed a glancing blow to her chin. The brunette gasped and clutched her face.
“My mother could care less,” Brady grated.
“Couldn’t care less,” she muttered, picking up the cowboy’s hat and carefully putting it in the trunk beside the unconscious man. “Learn English, jerk.”
Brady’s temper spiked. He grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head toward the trunk. “Get in! Now. Or I’ll give hero boy another jolt.”
“No! Don’t hurt him!” Whimpering in pain as he towed her forward, the brunette climbed in the trunk and tucked herself into a ball beside the cowboy. He released her hair and was about to slam the trunk closed when he saw the woman’s expression change, and she gave a soft gasp.
He followed the direction of her gaze…and saw the second gun tucked at the cowboy’s back.
Her hands lunged for the weapon. Fumbled.
“Don’t!” he warned. He raised the stun gun, shoved it against her shoulder and squeezed the trigger.
