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The little girl shook her head. Fear froze her.
Sierra stumbled to her feet, racing toward the van. “Come on, Chloe!”
The van screeched to a halt. Mallory and Chloe tumbled backward.
“Go, Sierra!” Mallory yelled. “Run.”
Sierra kept coming. She had to help them, but the two men jumped from the van, their feet hitting the highway. They slammed the door closed. Mallory and Chloe were trapped.
If Sierra went back, they’d all be caught. A gunshot exploded into the night. A bullet struck near her feet, then a hot burn pierced her thigh. She had no choice. She zigzagged down the highway, away from her best friend, praying her movements would offer Mallory another chance to escape.
Veering to the side of the road, she dived into a patch of tall grass. Headlights flashed. A semi sounded its horn at the van blocking the road. The big truck slowed.
The van took off with a squeal of tires, its mud-covered license plate useless.
Sierra fought against the pain and stumbled back to the asphalt. She ran to the edge of the road yelling, praying the trucker would see her. He drove past. She sank to her knees, blood covering her right leg.
A hiss of brakes sounded, and the semi pulled over.
She looked up as a man ran toward her.
“Mallory. Chloe,” she whispered. And passed out.
* * *
MERTZON, TEXAS, WASN’T on the way to anywhere. Just the way Rafe Vargas liked it. He pulled his truck past the town’s three restaurants. Each window had gone dark, a large Closed sign blinking the news. Sunday night. He should’ve known better than to think he’d find a restaurant open.
Rafe’s stomach rumbled. After a day of training to keep his combat moves sharp, he’d been hankering for a greasy burger with onion rings. Nothing better at a small-town diner. Oh, well. Not as if he wasn’t used to disappointment. He turned off toward the Mertzon Inn, a small hole-in-the-wall motel. He appreciated the location several blocks off Highway 67. Out of the way, not obvious.
He’d situated himself a couple hours from Carder, Texas, the headquarters for CTC. He liked working for Covert Technology Confidential. He liked helping people in trouble who had nowhere else to turn. He liked using the deadly skills Uncle Sam had drilled into him for the right reasons. But he also appreciated staying far enough away from headquarters that he didn’t have to socialize much. Besides, lately many of his colleagues had found their soul mates. They were too damn content and satisfied. Not that he wasn’t happy for them...and envious. But he didn’t need the reminder of what might have been.
Of course there happened to be another reason to locate himself a good distance from an airport, be it CTC’s private strip or a commercial facility. Rafe couldn’t fly to Denver on a whim.
To see her, the biggest mistake of his life.
Sierra was not someone he should be thinking about. Not now. Not ever.
Rafe parked the car across from the motel, scanning the lot’s perimeter. He’d stayed alive this long by being cautious, not doing the expected. This was his last night in Mertzon. He was getting too comfortable. Too recognizable. He’d move on tomorrow. Find another town, another motel. Another temporary home.
His first stop, to verify that the small slip of paper he’d inserted into the doorjamb earlier in the day hadn’t been moved.
He probably could’ve used some of CTC’s electronic toys, but sometimes low tech did the job better. And safer. No one could jam a paper’s nonexistent, electronic signal.
His gaze slid above the Do Not Disturb sign. Still there. Good. He rounded the building. The motel’s small office had hung out the Closed sign and locked the door. Evening church. Being in Mertzon was like going back in time fifty years. Rafe didn’t mind. Fewer people; fewer questions.
Once he’d completed his surveillance, and satisfied he hadn’t been located, he unlocked his small room and snagged a can of Texas-style chili out of a paper bag sitting in the corner. His movements smooth with practice, he disengaged a can opener from his utility knife and punctured the top, then headed back outside. He rested his dinner on the truck’s engine to heat up. Not exactly gourmet, but filling enough on an unusually warm January night.
Rafe pulled out a longneck bottle of beer from his ever-ready cooler and waited for his dinner to heat. He had this particular meal down to a science. At least he wasn’t living on protein bars. Or worse.
The curtain fluttered in the window of the room next to his. Rafe set down the beer and tensed, his hand easing toward his weapon. He’d stayed alive by never making any assumptions.
Seconds later the door cracked open, and a small head peeked through the opening.
Rafe relaxed and settled back against the truck. “Hi, Charlie.”
The seven-year-old boy looked down the row of doors one way, then the other, before tiptoeing out of the room, his eyes wide, staring at the chili bubbling on the engine.
“Whatcha doing, Mr. Vargas?”
“Fixing dinner. The diner’s closed.”
“Yeah, I know. Mama had to close up, then she went to clean the mayor’s house. She won’t be home until late.” The boy’s stomach growled.
“Wait here, Charlie,” Rafe said. He paused, raking his gaze up and down the kid in speculation. “Don’t go near the engine. It’s hot.”
Rafe strode back into the dingy motel room, with its Spartan furnishings. Digging into his supplies, he grabbed two spoons and a bowl.
The boy stood on his tiptoes peering at the chili, balanced precariously near the engine.
“Charlie,” Rafe’s voice warned, quiet so as not to startle the kid, but firm. “What did I tell you?”
He grimaced and scooted back. “I didn’t know you could cook like this. When we lived in our car last summer, we ate cold stuff.” He wrinkled his nose. “Cold peas don’t taste good. They’re mushy.”
“Better than being hungry.” Rafe snagged the chili with a napkin and poured half the meal into the bowl before handing it to Charlie.
“I guess,” the boy said, stirring the meal. He couldn’t quite take his eyes away from Rafe’s face. “Why do you wear a patch?”
The words sped from his mouth as if he’d been warned not to ask the question but couldn’t help himself.
Rafe blew on the chili and swallowed a bite. “Well, I got used to wearing it on the pirate ship...”
Charlie’s eyes grew wide with shock. “Really?”
Rafe adjusted the eye covering. “Nah. I was in the war. I got hurt, and it messed up my eye. It’s taking a long time to heal.” That was the fairy-tale version, of course. Fifteen men had died during the operation that had damaged his eye. It might never heal completely, but Rafe considered himself lucky to make it out alive.
“Are you a hero?” Charlie asked.
“No.”
“Oh.” The boy stared down at his dinner.
Rafe had disappointed the kid, but what could he say? The truth was much too complicated, so Rafe settled for another bite of dinner. The mild heat didn’t give him the kick he liked. He tapped in some Tabasco Habanero Sauce. Another bite. Now that was more like it. He glanced over at Charlie’s rapt expression. “Want some?”
Charlie grinned and held out his bowl.
Rafe hesitated. “You sure?”
“Yeah.”
Rafe dropped a smidgen onto the chili nestled in the boy’s spoon. Charlie swallowed a big bite. Immediately he started coughing. His ears turned red; his eyes widened. Rafe bit his inner cheek to hide a rare grin. He patted Charlie on the back and handed him a cold bottle of water from the cooler.
The kid chugged it down. “I don’t like that stuff,” he squeaked, shoving the chili at Rafe.
“I think you got the worst of it.” Rafe ignored the boy’s outstretched hand. “It’s safe. I promise.”
With a suspicious gaze into the bowl, Charlie stuck out his tongue, swiping the meat and beans for a tentative taste. “It’s okay.”
“Eat up.”
“Thanks, Mr. Vargas.” Charlie downed half the bowl, then stared at the remainder. “I’ll save the rest for Mama. Her boss wouldn’t let her bring leftovers home tonight.”
“Tell you what, Charlie. You finish your dinner. I’ve got enough for your mom.”
The little boy grinned and ran back to his room. Charlie was a good kid. Rafe sighed. He just prayed the next few years gave Charlie and his mom a few breaks. Rafe knew from firsthand experience how easy it could be to go down the wrong path.
Charlie returned with a chocolate snack cake. “Today is January 31. I’m seven today, and Mama bought me a couple of cupcakes.” He tore one in two and handed it to Rafe. “This is for you.”
“Thank you, Charlie.” Rafe didn’t know if he’d be able to choke down the cake, but Charlie’s proud expression decided for him. “So, do you go for the frosting or the filling first?”
“Cake first.” Charlie bit at the bottom of the dessert.
“I’m a filling man,” Rafe said.
A few bites later the dessert was gone. “Your birthday, huh?” Rafe turned to his SUV and reached into the glove box. He pulled out a yo-yo and turned back to Charlie. “Happy birthday.”
The boy reached out his hand and touched the toy with tentative fingers. “It’s mine?”
“Someone gave me one when I was a little older than you.” Rafe wedged his finger into the slipknot and executed a couple of throw downs. He went into a Sleeper, then Rock the Baby. “Now you try.”
Rafe coached Charlie for a half an hour. A car rattled into the motel parking lot. Charlie looked over and bit his lip. “It’s Mama. I’m not s’posed to leave the room.”
A tired-looking woman exited the clunker vehicle. “Charlie Ripkin, exactly what do you think you’re doing?”
“Look, Mama. Mr. Vargas gave me a birthday present.”
She ruffled her son’s hair. “Thank Mr. Vargas. You have to go to bed. School tomorrow.”
Charlie walked over. “Thank you for the yo-yo. Can we play again tomorrow?”
“I don’t know if I’ll be around tomorrow, but you keep practicing. Here are some extra strings.” Rafe tucked a hundred-dollar bill into the packet and placed it in Charlie’s hand. “You might want to change the string before you play with it again.”
The boy’s grin widened. “Thanks, Mr. Vargas. This is the best birthday ever.” Charlie gave Rafe a huge hug and disappeared into the motel room.
“I hope he didn’t bother you, Mr. Vargas,” Elena Ripkin said in an exhausted voice. She pushed her ash-colored hair away from her face.
Rafe took his card and wrote a phone number on the back. “I have a friend looking for help. It pays well. Give him a call. Use my name.” He handed her a CTC card with his boss’s name and number.
Elena’s hand trembled when she clutched the bit of card stock. “Why? You don’t even know me.”
“I know enough,” Rafe said. And he did. The background check had revealed a woman whose husband had been killed in an oil field accident. Within months, she and Charlie had been evicted from their apartment. They’d lost everything.
A lot like Rafe’s family. And their story had not had a happy ending.
If he could give Charlie some hope...maybe he wouldn’t end up like Rafe’s brother, Michael. Dead at seventeen on the streets of Houston, executed by a rival gang.
* * *
THE WIND SHOOK the rickety trailer. Mallory huddled in the corner of the small bedroom’s makeshift cot, wrapping her arms around her daughter. Her heart still raced. Somehow she had to save them, but the trailer’s window had been boarded up and the door locked from the outside. Mallory’s fingers were bleeding from working at the thick planks of their prison. She let out a frustrated sigh. There was no escape.
At least the cowboy had untied them, even if Judson had cursed while the younger man removed the binding. It gave them a shot. She rubbed her wrists. The rope burns would heal. If they got out of here alive.
Mallory had no idea where they were. Far from San Antonio, though. They’d been locked in that van for hours, driving intermittently, occasionally stopping for Judson to make a phone call.
Whoever their kidnapper had contacted, it hadn’t put him in a good mood.
“Mommy,” Chloe whimpered, burrowing deeper into her mother’s arms. “I want to go home. I want my kitty. Princess Buttercup will get scared if I’m not there.”
With a gentle motion, Mallory hugged Chloe closer and kissed her head. “Hush, Button. Everything will be fine.”
The door opened, and Judson stepped into the bedroom cradling a sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm. “It’s not nice to lie to children.”
Mallory pressed Chloe up against her, praying she could keep her daughter safe. “She’s only a little girl. Please, let her go.”
“That’s the boss’s decision. He wants to see you. Alone.”
Mallory hesitated.
The man pointed his weapon toward Chloe. “I won’t ask again.”
Mallory kissed Chloe’s forehead, then shifted to get up, but Chloe clutched at her arm, her tiny fingers digging into Mallory’s skin in panicked desperation. “Mommy. Don’t leave me. I’m sorry I didn’t jump.”
Chloe’s face was streaked with tears. Mallory’s heart breaking, she stroked her daughter’s cheek, wiping away the dampness. She stood and fought to smile down at her daughter. “It’s okay. Be brave. No matter what happens. I love you, Button. Always remember that.”
Chloe whimpered, clinging to her mother.
Prying her daughter’s fingers off her arm, and with one last kiss on Chloe’s cheek, Mallory straightened and stepped away from the bed. “I’m ready.”
Her captor smiled, his eyes cold and dead. “I doubt that. But if you tell the boss what he wants to know, he might be lenient.”
She took one last look at Chloe, sent up a prayer and followed her captor through the narrow hallway into a living room. She glanced through the crack between the curtains at the front of the trailer. Night had fallen, but a bright spotlight illuminated the chaotic yard, strewed with trash and unidentifiable junk alongside several rusted-out car bodies. The place appeared abandoned, with a sea of darkness as far as the eye could see. No sign of civilization. No clue as to where they were.
A police car pulled up. The passenger-side window lowered.
“Judson. Get out here,” a voice called.
“Damn,” the guy muttered. He nodded at the man at her side, his weapon resting in the crook of his arm. “Watch her.”
Judson walked down the stairs. With tentative steps he approached the car. What kind of monster made a man who would kidnap a child that nervous?
