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Owen didn’t blame her. Jamie’s mother didn’t want her son to have anything to do with Shane, for good reason. He was a convicted killer. He’d only served eight of his ten-year sentence, which had been light to begin with. His brother had gotten off easy because the liquor store clerk had fired at him first—while he was running away with the contents of the cash register. The bullet intended for Shane had nearly hit Owen, who’d been sitting behind the wheel of the getaway car.
“Why are you doing this?” Owen asked, lowering his voice. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”
Shane took a drag of his cigarette, eyes narrow.
“Do you owe them money?”
Shane didn’t answer. It was easy to get drugs in the pen if you had the right connections. Guards brought in the supplies while prisoners racked up debt. The AB was deeply involved in the underground narcotics trade.
“You could have gone to the police,” Owen said.
Shane snorted at the suggestion. The Brotherhood might not track down and execute every ex-member, but they didn’t mess around with snitches. If Shane gave incriminating information to the authorities, he’d have to enter a witness protection program.
“Fuck the police,” Shane said. “I’ll do the damned job and get it over with. Then I’ll be free of them.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t have a choice, and neither do you. I told them you’d cooperate.”
Owen refused to consider it. He had too much to lose. He wanted to make something of himself. Shane was asking him to throw his future away. “Not a chance. The last time we collaborated, I went away for three years.”
Shane tossed his cigarette in the fire. The conversation hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped, so he switched tactics. Shoving Owen facedown on the ground, Shane climbed on top of him. He hooked an arm around Owen’s neck and applied a crushing pressure to his windpipe. Owen was trapped under his weight. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.
Shane continued to choke Owen until his vision went dark. “Tell Dad I said hi,” he muttered, finishing him.
CHAPTER FOUR
PENNY EASED AWAY from Cruz and sat up, her ears straining for the slightest sound.
The men had finally quieted. She’d watched in horror as they’d beaten Owen to a pulp. When the leader had climbed on to his back and choked the life out of him, she hadn’t screamed or broken down in hysterical tears. She hadn’t unzipped the tent opening and rushed to his aid. She’d gone completely numb, her heart shrinking inside her chest.
She couldn’t believe her eyes.
Someone dragged his body away from the fire, out of her line of sight. Then the men gathered in a circle and passed around a bottle. They didn’t seem upset or anxious about the sequence of events. If anything, they were giddy. In the hours that followed, they’d celebrated their success, drinking beer and laughing like hyenas.
Now they were probably sleeping it off inside the other two tents. The guy who’d searched her was still awake, sitting outside. He’d been respectful, but she didn’t fool herself into believing she was safe. Dirk had made several suggestive comments about Penny. What would stop him from trying to attack her?
These men were dangerous criminals.
She doubted her father would follow their instructions. There was no way he could keep this secret from the police. His profile was too high. He’d bring the money and pretend to cooperate. She swallowed hard, imagining a bloody shoot-out.
Even if everything went according to plan, which she doubted, the kidnappers might kill her before the money exchange was completed. They could take her father’s money and kill him. They could kill Cruz.
Her thoughts raced with possible outcomes, none of which involved a happy ending. They’d killed Owen. Hadn’t they?
Her head ached from tension. She refused to accept the fact that he might be dead. Maybe if she saw him up close and touched his cold skin, she could acknowledge it. Until then, she had to push the awful possibility from her mind.
She thought back to the dance she’d shared with Owen at his friend Sam’s wedding. It was months before he became her bodyguard. Her sister Leslie had been helping Cruz eat a piece of cake at a nearby table. Penny and Owen had had a rare moment to themselves. But when the song was over, they’d broken apart.
Tears of regret spilled down her cheeks. If only she could go back in time and not let go. She should have hugged him closer, confessed that she wanted him. Instead, she’d withdrawn, waiting for him to make a move. He hadn’t.
For too many years, she’d been passive and acquiescent, pleasing her parents. After surviving the earthquake and seeing so much devastation, she’d been overjoyed to be reunited with her family. She’d needed their love, comfort and security. Keeping Cruz safe was her main focus, and her father’s house was very safe.
But her father wasn’t going to rescue her tonight. Neither was Owen. She had to save herself—and her son. If she didn’t try to escape, and they hurt Cruz, she’d never forgive herself. She had to act fast, while the leader and his cronies were inebriated.
Outside the tent, the guard made quiet crunching sounds. Slow, deliberate, infrequent. After a long pause, he started again.
Penny’s stomach lurched. She’d been too nervous to eat before going on stage, and now she felt sick. She was also desperately thirsty, and her bladder was full. They hadn’t been given any food or water, or allowed a bathroom break.
Cruz shifted beside her. “Mommy?”
“Be quiet.”
“I have to potty.”
Damn.
He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Where are we?”
“We’re camping.”
Cruz had always wanted to go on a camping trip. Her father had taken them boating at Pyramid Lake once. Her son had been enthralled by the sight of tents and picnic tables on the lakeshore. This probably wasn’t what he’d pictured, however. He had no pillow and only a blanket as a cushion. “I’m thirsty for water.”
At least he wasn’t hungry. Yet.
She unzipped the front of the tent and looked out at the guard. “Can we have a drink of water?”
He handed her a canteen, his eyes shifting in the dark.
A glance around as she accepted the offering revealed nothing but inanimate shapes in the moonlight. “Thank you,” she said, helping Cruz get a drink. After she slaked her own thirst, her bladder screamed for relief. “We have to go to the bathroom.”
“One at a time,” the man said.
She urged Cruz outside, telling him to go right there, by the tent. He came back when he was done and curled up on the blanket, too drowsy to question the strangeness of this experience. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. More tears sprang into her eyes, but she blinked them away, exhaling.
She could do this. She could think of a way to trick the guard. She could find a weapon. If she had to, she’d attack him with her bare hands. Owen had taught her some self-defense techniques.
Owen.
Heart clenching painfully, she stepped out of the tent. The sand was cool and gritty beneath her bare feet. She didn’t want to push her luck by straying too far, but she wouldn’t squat down in front of the guard. He kept his eye on her as she balled the fabric of her skirt in her fist and crouched in the shadows by the canyon wall, next to a crumbling rock pile.
Rocks made good weapons.
It was difficult to pee and search for a blunt object at the same time. Her pulse raced with anxiety as her trembling fingertips touched a chunk of clay. It broke apart on contact. She tried again, reaching farther. The next rock she encountered was solid, about the size of a baseball. She held it in a tight grip as she rose, adjusting her clothing.
Now she needed a way to surprise him. If he saw her coming at him with a rock, he could shout out a warning or duck.
The rest of the men had to have been asleep in the tents, because she couldn’t see them. As she walked forward, she pretended to step on a sharp object. Gasping in pain, she crumpled into a pathetic little heap on the ground.
“What is it?” the guard asked.
“I cut my foot.”
He approached to take a look, kneeling beside her. Her skirt rode high on her thighs as she extended her foot, whimpering. When he bent his head to inspect the injury, she walloped him. Her first strike was weak, partly because she didn’t really want to do it, but also because winding up would have caught his attention. The short swing and glancing blow failed to incapacitate him.
He touched his temple, dumbfounded.
Cringing, she hit him again. And again. The third one did the trick. He slumped forward on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs.
Oh, God. Now she would die of suffocation underneath him. Saying a quick prayer, she asked for forgiveness. Then let go of the rock, which was wet with blood, and shoved him aside. He made an odd groaning noise that she hoped wasn’t his last breath. Pulse pounding in her ears, she tugged off his boots and put them on her own feet. They were slip-on style, reaching just past her ankles, and only a size too large.
She hurried toward the tent, afraid he’d regain consciousness and start shouting. His canteen was sitting by the crate, along with the vest he’d been wearing earlier. Grabbing both, she stuck her head inside the flap. Cruz blinked at her in confusion. “Silencio,” she hissed. “Vente, ya! Apúrate.”
He knew she meant business when she issued sharp orders in Spanish. Her family had a lot of Mexican pride, but Penny and her sisters were typical second-generation immigrants. They spoke English almost exclusively.
He scrambled out and grasped her hand, voicing no complaints as she yanked him along. She rushed past the SUV, searching for a set of ignition keys. She couldn’t knock on the tent flaps, asking for him. She didn’t see a cell phone lying around.
They had to leave on foot. Trying not to panic, she fled with Cruz, circling around the side of the canyon until they were out of sight. Faced with another immediate dilemma, she paused, taking a ragged breath. She didn’t know which way to go. Following the tire tracks back to the road seemed like a reasonable option, but she doubted they would reach civilization before the kidnappers found them. The opposite direction was just as risky. Getting lost in the desert might be a fate worse than death.
Even so, she headed away from the tracks, dragging Cruz across the moonlit landscape. The terrain was difficult to navigate, full of loose pebbles and shifting sand. They ran until the camp was far behind them, and Cruz begged to stop.
“Where’s Owen?” he asked, winded.
“I don’t know.”
“Are we lost?”
She couldn’t lie again. “Those were bad men. They wanted to hurt us. We have to get far away and hide.”
He started to cry, which wasn’t unexpected. This situation didn’t sit well with her, either. She hadn’t wanted to leave Owen with those bastards, dead or alive. She was afraid to take her son into the deep desert. The ill-fitting boots were already bothering her.
“Drink,” she said, passing him the canteen. “Don’t let it spill.”
While he sat down with the water, she rifled through the vest. She found a pocketknife, a pack of matches, ChapStick and a miniflashlight. All useful items. There was also a medium-sized bag of corn nuts.
She used the knife to cut strips from the bottom of her dress, making it shorter. The length inhibited her movements, and she needed the fabric. She wrapped up her feet and stuffed the excess into the toes of the boots. Much better.
That done, she put on the vest and canteen, adjusting the strap across her chest. Then she knelt, gesturing for Cruz to climb on her back. As soon as he was secure, she resumed jogging. It wasn’t easy. He didn’t weigh much, just forty pounds, and adrenaline fueled her every step, but she didn’t have the strength to go all night like this. She wasn’t a cross-country runner or an experienced hiker. Cruz tightened his arms around her neck, half choking her. She kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see Mad Max.
After a few minutes, she realized that she was following a dry riverbed and leaving discernible footprints. Her trail would be easy to see. Switching directions, she traveled across a series of low hills, dodging the boulders and cactus plants that threatened to trip her up. She continued at a brisk pace, alternating between carrying Cruz and making him walk. They had to cover as much ground as possible before sunrise.
Hours later, the horizon turned pink with approaching dawn, and she slowed to a stop. Defeated, she let Cruz slide off her back. She had nothing left. Her arms felt like spaghetti; her thigh muscles were trembling and her feet were raw.
Cruz couldn’t go another step, either.
She searched their surroundings for a place to rest. Like wounded animals, they needed to crawl into a hole and hide.
The hills in the distance looked promising. Tall mounds rose up toward the sky, their jagged surfaces resembling peaks of meringue. She’d been hoping to find a group of large boulders to duck behind, but perhaps these structures would suffice.
“This way,” she said, grasping his hand. “Just a few more minutes, and we can sit.”
He trudged along gamely, more cooperative than usual. Cruz had endless energy for fun activities, but no patience or endurance whatsoever on long, boring trips. He seemed to understand that this was neither.
Her spirits lifted as they got closer. There appeared to be a hole in the side of the hill, a tunnel of sorts, carved from wind or water erosion. She turned on the flashlight, inspecting the interior. What an amazing stroke of luck.
“It’s a cave,” Cruz said, excited.
“Let’s explore.”
They stepped through the opening, which widened out to a large area before narrowing again. The passage zigzagged along for several hundred feet. Penny had to turn sideways in some areas, and duck in others to avoid bumping her head. When they came to a fork in the path, she veered left, choosing the tighter squeeze. She dropped to her hands and knees, inching forward with the flashlight in her mouth. Cruz crawled behind her. They reached a section she could barely fit through. It opened up to a small room with a skylight.
She didn’t think the men could reach them here. She couldn’t get out, either, because the hole in the roof was tiny. But the little window comforted her, making the hiding place seem less tomblike and claustrophobic.
Penny hated enclosed spaces, for obvious reasons. “Here we are.”
“We can stay?”
She nodded, resting her back against the wall. “We have to be very quiet.”
“Will they come looking for us?”
“Maybe.”
They shared the corn nuts, which weren’t actually nuts, but roasted corn kernels, called elotitos in Mexico. She tried not to drink too much water, though she was thirsty. The canteen might have to last several days.
“Why do they want to hurt us?”
“They want money,” she amended.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do they touch kids?”
“I don’t think so,” she said, disturbed by the question. She’d told him about child molesters out of necessity. He had no fear of strangers, no shyness. One day he’d wandered off in the library when her back was turned. After a frantic search, she’d found him talking to a friendly older man. Later, at home, she’d explained the danger.
She doubted any of the kidnappers were pedophiles, but the threat of rape had felt very real to her. A woman of color surrounded by racist gang members was at high risk. She thought about the way Dirk had manhandled Owen, with threatening postures and suggestive insults. These men weren’t above using sexual violence as intimidation.
She felt another pang of guilt for leaving him. This was all her fault. He wouldn’t have taken this job under normal circumstances. Her father had probably appealed to his sense of chivalry, claiming she required special protection.
If she hadn’t been such a coward and a pushover, none of this would have happened. She should have moved away from home three months ago, when she graduated. Or sooner, before her father announced his candidacy. She hadn’t because her father claimed it wasn’t safe. He’d insisted on enrolling Cruz in a private Catholic preschool for the same reason. After he offered to pay full tuition, how could she refuse?
Her father doted on Cruz, spoiling him with expensive gifts. He was like the son Jorge had always wanted. And Cruz needed a man in his life, so she didn’t complain. If her father had his way, Penny would marry a young conservative—Cuban, perhaps, because there were so few Mexican-American Republicans—and move in next door.
She should have stood firm and been more independent. She should have told her father flat out that she had feelings for Owen.
Now it was too late.
