Badlands (22 page)

“I’ve lived there.”

“What’s it like?”

“You’ve never been?”

“Just once,” she said, thinking back. When she’d first started dancing, she’d been as wild and careless as Tiffany. She’d gone to Slab City with another girl to entertain a group of bikers at a bonfire. Compared to those guys, the stranger was a gentleman. “I was hired to dance at a motorcycle party. It didn’t go well.”

“Why not?”

“They didn’t want to pay.”

“Which motorcycle club was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“The Slabs are a freak show,” he said, squinting into the distance. “Lots of drugs and trash and mental problems. Old people, young people, life’s rejects. Bike gangs. Not a good place for an unprotected woman.”

“What is?”

He shrugged. “Beverly Hills?”

“I’ll just move there, then. Live like a movie star.”

They exchanged a wry smile at the joke. Then he reached into the glove compartment and took out a handgun, cold as ice. She followed his gaze to the playground, where Owen was standing on the other side of a pile of rubble.

She drew a breath to scream.

The stranger clapped his left hand over her mouth as she cried out. He gave her head a threatening shake, but it was too late. The sound caught Owen’s attention. He glanced toward the weathered billboard they were parked behind.

“Goddamn it,” the stranger said, his fingers digging into her cheek.

Janelle couldn’t open her jaw to bite his palm. His grip was too strong. So she thrashed around in an attempt to dislodge him, growling like an animal and pummeling her bound fists against his forearm. It didn’t work.

Instead of coming forward to investigate the black truck, Owen turned and walked in the opposite direction, as if he hadn’t seen them. The stranger let her go, cursing. Transferring the gun to his left hand, he turned on the ignition.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“I’m following him! He’s going to tip off his brother and screw up everything.”

“Leave him alone,” she said, her voice raw.

Ignoring her, he stepped on the gas and pulled forward, preparing to drive closer to the playground. He had to make a wide turn and double back. When he skirted close to a gravel slope on the passenger side, she grabbed the wheel with both hands and cranked it to the right. They tumbled down the embankment. Her body flew up, and the top of her head hit the vehicle’s frame as it rolled over.

The truck came to rest on its driver’s side. Gravity plastered her against the stranger, whose chest was heaving with fury. She felt dizzy and confused, her thoughts scattered. She’d just wrecked his truck. Would he kill her?

Janelle’s hands were bound, literally. She couldn’t fight this man. She couldn’t stop him from following Owen. The only thing she could do was distract him and buy herself some time. Spitting out her gum, she hooked her arms around his neck and kissed his hard mouth. He tried to resist her advances, but he couldn’t move. When she flicked her tongue over his closed lips, he made a strangled sound in the back of his throat. She applied more pressure, urging his mouth open and sliding her tongue inside.

He tasted like gum and cigarettes, like her but different. Clean and hot and male. Although he didn’t fight, he wasn’t passive, either. Taking control of the kiss, he fisted his hand in her hair and thrust his tongue into
her
mouth. She squirmed against him for effect. And because he was a good kisser.

He ended the contact, panting against her parted lips. “Get off me.”

“I can’t.”

Jaw clenched, he released her hair and fumbled behind his back, maybe tucking the gun into his jeans. With both hands free, he disentangled himself from her embrace. She stayed where she was, her body flush against his. He pressed a button on the console to open the passenger window. Turning her around, he gave her butt a hard shove.

She didn’t cooperate with his efforts. Why should she? As soon as they got outside, the stranger would find Owen and hurt him. She slumped forward like a slug, not attempting to crawl through the window.

“Move your ass,” he said, gripping the seat of her shorts. His thumb slipped under the denim and thrust between her cheeks, perhaps by accident. The rude prodding made her face hot. With nothing but a flimsy strip of fabric to prevent him from pushing inside her body, she felt intensely vulnerable.

Troubled by the reminder of how easily a man could hurt a woman, she inched toward the window and stuck her head out. He adjusted his grip to her hips and forced her through the opening, letting her tumble across the hood. When he climbed after her, his features were twisted into an angry grimace.

His truck wasn’t totaled, but it had sustained considerable damage. He couldn’t use it for a quick, reliable getaway.

“Fuck,” he yelled, raking a hand through his hair.

Fearing for her life, she tried to scramble up the gravel embankment. Men were funny about their trucks. This one might have killed for lesser offenses.

Instead of shooting her, he picked her up and flung her over his shoulder, facedown. She didn’t cry out for fear that Owen would come to her aid, and she was too disoriented to struggle. Her belly lurched with every step as the stranger walked toward the playground at a brisk pace. By the time they arrived, Owen was gone.

The stranger approached the Jeep, giving it a cursory inspection. He took her inside the nearby shack and set her down.

She tried not to faint as the blood rushed back to her head. Before she could regain her equilibrium, he lifted her up again. With her arms raised over her head, he hung her from a lag bolt that was attached to the wooden frame of the structure. She dangled there, a few inches above the ground.

Instead of retreating, he kept his lower half pressed against hers. He seemed torn between wanting to punish her and wanting to go after Owen. His big hands spanned her rib cage. Their hips were aligned, his crotch snug in the cradle of her thighs. Maybe he was more interested in payback than punishment.

Pleasure, even.

His gaze dragged up from her torso, settling on her mouth. “I should have gagged you,” he said hoarsely.

She moistened her lips. “With what?”

Groaning, he buried his face in her throat. His breath was hot and heavy on her neck as he skimmed his hands down her sides. Fisting them in her tank top, he inched it over her bare breasts. Her nipples were tightly puckered, her chest rising and falling with trepidation. Despite her fear, she was aroused.

After taking a long look, he unbuttoned her jean shorts and lowered the zipper. He stripped her shorts and panties down to her knees, exposing her completely.

His nostrils flared as if he could smell her. “This was what I wanted to see at the club.”

She closed her eyes and turned her head to the side. Waiting. For him to just do it, for her body to respond, for her mind to drift.

But when she opened her eyes, he was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

O
WEN
WASN
’
T
GOING
to fight Shane.

The anger left his body the instant his brother pulled the gun. With the sun at his back, Shane loomed over Owen like a dark shadow. A negative space, devoid of humanity. Owen would never forgive his brother for threatening to kill him—and Penny. Shane had been willing to sacrifice Owen for personal gain. He’d put Cruz in danger and disregarded Jamie’s safety. He’d only been thinking of himself.

If his idiot brother wanted to get in a shoot-out with the guy in the black truck, so be it. Owen loved Shane, and he believed that Shane loved him back, in his own way. But Owen couldn’t save Shane from himself.

“It’s your funeral,” Owen said.

The words had barely left his mouth when shots rang out across the playground. Shane’s shoulder jerked, and he squeezed the trigger, as if on reflex. A bullet sank into the sand near Owen’s head, narrowly missing him.

Shane staggered sideways, dazed. He dropped the gun and the rucksack. Then he fell flat on his back.

What the fuck?

Owen scrambled upright, searching the area from a crouched position. He couldn’t see the gunman, but there was a pile of concrete debris between the shack where the Jeep was parked and the playground by the beach. It made a protective fort.

He knelt by Shane, his gut churning. His brother’s face was pale, his eyes dark with pain. There were two small holes in the front of his shirt. One of the bullets appeared to have gone through his shoulder. The other had pierced his upper chest.

“Owen,” he choked, blood seeping from his lips.

He grasped his brother’s right hand. “I’m here,” Owen said, smothering a sob. “I’m here, Shane.”

“Am I shot?”

“Yeah.”

“Is it bad?”

Owen couldn’t find the words to comfort him. The bullet must have damaged his heart or lungs, because the end was incredibly, unfairly quick. He gripped Shane’s hand tighter, as if he could hold him in this world a moment longer by force of will and determination. It didn’t work. His brother exhaled a final breath, his eyes glazing over.

“No,” Owen said, clutching the front of his shirt. Sorrow welled up within him, clogging his throat and nose. “Don’t die,” he ground out, tears sliding down his cheeks. He shook his brother’s slack form, trying to wake him.

Shane’s head listed to the side, lifeless.

Suddenly, Owen was enraged. “I told you to run, you stupid bastard! I told you to leave the money! Why didn’t you listen to me?”

He released the collar of Shane’s shirt, wiping the tears from his eyes. His breath hitched as he realized what he should have said at the end: “I love you, too.”

But now the words fell on deaf ears. Dead ears.

A man in jeans and a gray T-shirt crept across the playground, armed with a Colt 1911. This was the owner of the black truck. He was also a crack shot. Only an expert could have taken Shane down with two bullets at a hundred yards.

Owen picked up Shane’s 9 mm and stood over his brother’s body.

The man edged closer, holding up a hand to communicate calm. Owen figured he wasn’t going to fire again unless he was fired at. A cop or an undercover agent would show his credentials. When the guy didn’t do that, Owen had a tough decision to make: trade shots with a dangerous criminal who was better armed and a better marksman than he was, or let him waltz away with two million dollars.

“I don’t want to shoot you,” the man said.

“Then get the fuck out of here.”

“I’m taking the money.”

“You killed my brother,” Owen said darkly.

“I saved you,” the man replied. “Now step aside.”

Owen considered this explanation. To an outsider, it might have looked like Shane was preparing to execute him. Even so, this man hadn’t done Owen any favors. He’d acted in his own best interests, not out of concern for others. He was a paid thug for the Aryan Brotherhood or the Freedom Party, and probably a racist psychopath. The world would be a safer place without a piece of shit like him in it.

A dull banging sound echoed from the shack beyond the playground, like someone trying to kick through a door.

Owen froze, remembering the scream he’d heard minutes before. “Who’s that?”

“It’s Janelle,” the man said, his expression inscrutable.

“Did you hurt her?”

After a pause, he said, “She’s fine. I’ll take the money and leave. No one will bother you or anyone in your brother’s family.”

The implied threat, of course, was that harm would come to Jamie and Janelle if he didn’t cooperate. Owen ejected the clip from the 9 mm and removed the bullet from the chamber before tossing it aside.

“I need his keys,” the man said.

Owen knelt to search Shane’s pockets. When he found the keys to the Jeep, he threw them near the rucksack. The man edged forward, picking up the keys. Grabbing the bag with one hand, he started to drag it away.

Numb with grief, Owen studied the man’s appearance. He was white, with blue eyes and black hair, early thirties, around six-two. The tattooed knuckles and spiderweb elbow looked jailhouse. His scarred boots, bulky shoulders and weathered skin suggested that he worked hard labor, maybe at an oil rig or at a local construction site.

The banging inside the shack stopped. Then the front wall of the structure fell apart, bringing Janelle along for the ride. She cried out, her body slamming against the sheet of loose plywood. Owen expected the whole building to collapse on top of her, but somehow the rest of the shack stayed upright.

His blood went cold as he noticed her state of undress. Her top was pushed up, her shorts around her knees. She was bound with rope.

The roughneck swore under his breath, flushing.

Owen had lost his mind a little when he’d watched Dirk strike Cruz across the face. He couldn’t have stopped himself from retaliating then, and he had no control over his actions now. “Motherfucker,” he growled, charging Janelle’s attacker with his shoulder lowered and tackling him to the ground.

On some level, he was aware that his opponent held all of the advantages. Owen had a set of broken knuckles, a bruised body and a wrecked soul. This thug had twenty extra pounds of muscle and a semiautomatic.

The other man didn’t shoot him. He didn’t have to. Dropping the gun and the rucksack, he fought Owen with his bare hands.

And he won. Easily.

Although Owen managed to land a few punches, one that would result in a black eye, the bigger man was the clear victor. He pummeled Owen’s torso, socked him in the mouth and bloodied his upper lip. By the time he was done, Owen felt as if he’d gone bull riding and hadn’t lasted eight seconds.

“Do you know what happened to Roach?” the man asked, his fist hovering.

“Roach?”

“Tall guy, dark hair.”

An ugly, vindictive part of Owen hoped the two men were related. “I killed him,” he said, still reeling from the blows.

“You killed him,” he repeated in disbelief.

“Did I stutter?”

“Where?”

“On the trail by Five Palms.”

The man hesitated before rising, as if he wanted to make sure Owen stayed down. An ominous click sounded behind him.

“Stand up,” Janelle said, pointing the Colt at his head.

Hands lifted high, he stood.

“Take your damned money and go,” she said, her teeth clenched. She’d adjusted her clothing and worked her bindings loose. The remains of the rope she’d been tied with hung from her wrists.

The man picked up the rucksack, putting it on his back.

“The debt’s paid, right?” Janelle asked.

Clearing his throat, he nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Just get the hell out of here,” she snarled, her trigger finger trembling. “If you ever come near my son, I’ll shoot you.”

A helicopter hovered at the edge of the horizon, not quite close enough to see them.

After a long look at Janelle, the man jogged toward the Jeep, climbed in and drove away. The dust cloud he left dispersed within seconds.

She lowered the gun, her eyes swimming with tears.

“Are you okay?” Owen asked.

“Yeah,” she said, sniffing. “He didn’t touch me.”

Owen was glad Janelle hadn’t been raped, but troubled by the evidence that she’d been tied up and stripped against her will. He cared about her and Jamie. She’d been mistreated too often, by too many men.

“Is Shane dead?” she asked.

“Yes.”

Her face crumpled with sorrow. “I don’t even know why I’m sad.”

When she knelt down beside Owen, he put his arms around her. Shane had been a destructive force in both of their lives. Together, they mourned the passing of a man they were better off without, but whom they’d loved nonetheless.

Moments later, an explosion in the distance startled them.

Owen released Janelle and struggled to his feet. Together, they made their way toward the shack, which offered a better vantage point. The black truck was resting on its side at the bottom of an embankment, enveloped in flames. Shane’s killer must have set the fire on his way out to destroy evidence.

“My purse,” Janelle said, approaching the truck. There was a ripped, faux-leather shoulder bag sitting next to a pack of cigarettes about ten feet away. She picked up both, glancing at the burning vehicle. The helicopter loomed closer, fanning the flames and whipping her hair around her head.

Owen held up his hands in surrender.

Janelle ignored the police presence, lighting one of the cigarettes. “Do you know what Shane’s cut was supposed to be?”

“Fifty grand.”

“How much was the truck worth?”

“Half that.”

A trio of squad cars appeared at the end of the dirt road, sirens blaring. They’d missed the Jeep by two minutes.

“I hate cops,” she said, taking a nervous drag.

“You don’t have to talk to them.”

She cupped her palm over his scraped cheek. “Thank you for what you did. Tackling him. That was brave.”

“It was stupid.”

“Yes,” she agreed, teary-eyed.

He didn’t get a chance to say the same to her, because a group of officers exited their vehicles, guns drawn. Owen cooperated with every instruction. Janelle wasn’t as quick to follow orders, but they seemed to consider her a victim, rather than a suspect.

While Owen got down on the ground, she was led away by two detectives. She glanced over her shoulder, as if reluctant to lose sight of him. He winced as the officer wrenched his arms behind his back.

Cuffed—again.

“Is Penny okay?” he asked.

Instead of answering, the cop read him his rights.

* * *

P
ENNY
’
S
FATHER
GRABBED
her by the hair and shoved a forearm under her chin, yanking her toward the surface.

She broke through with a sputtering gasp, her eyes burning. As her father struggled to free her hands from the duct tape, she slipped under again, her mouth filling with water. It was so salty she gagged.

Her father left her wrists bound and swam toward the boat with her, grabbing an orange safety vest. He put it around her neck to keep her afloat while he peeled off the duct tape. When her wrists separated, she brought her arms forward, sobbing with relief. Her shoulder muscles felt strained from the uncomfortable position.

Jorge treaded water next to her, concerned. He looked angry, but unharmed.

“Are you hurt?” she asked.

“No. Are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“He shot through the boat.”

The fishing vessel was still there. Shane had taken the powerboat and driven away, leaving them to sink or swim. There was another life jacket floating on the surface. Her father donned it and put his arms around her, stroking her wet hair.

Her eyes filled with tears, which helped to ease the sting of the sea. She was alive. Cruz and her father were alive. But the ordeal wasn’t over yet. They were miles from shore with a useless boat. She wouldn’t feel safe until she was on land, with Owen.

“Where’s Owen?” her father asked.

“Shane left him handcuffed on the shore.”

“He wasn’t...an accomplice?”

“No,” she said, offended on his behalf. Owen had saved her life repeatedly. He’d almost died for her and Cruz. “He helped us escape.”

Her father swore in Spanish. “Did they hurt you?”

“No.” She gave him a brief summary of the kidnapping. Although she emphasized Owen’s efforts to protect her, she didn’t discuss her feelings for him.

“He’ll be well compensated.”

Penny doubted Owen wanted anything from her father. “How’s Cruz?”