White Hot: A Patrick & Steeves Suspense (11 page)

F
uck
. Dal clenched and unclenched his fists as Diego pulled Emily roughly across the yard. He signaled three cries. Em turned in his direction, shaking her head. Damn, she didn’t want him to go down. He had to go. He couldn’t let that thug kill her.

Diego switched the lights on, flooding the open interior of the barn. They paused for several seconds midway across the floor. Emily was saying something to him. Diego clubbed his enormous fist up against her head and she slumped in his grip. The bastard pulled her forward. Her legs were still moving - she wasn’t unconscious. They disappeared from sight down the left side of the barn.

Fury poured through him. Digging through his piles of supplies, Dal grabbed more ammo, a small flashlight, tucked his gun in his waistband and readied himself to go. He counted to two minutes, three minutes. He flashed back to the torture room they’d found in the barn last week. His chest tightened with fear, he hoped like hell Diego wasn’t taking her there.

Every nerve in his body was wound tight and ready to go. He fought against his instinct, forcing himself to wait. The minute he heard screams, he was going down.

Six minutes later, by his count, Diego strolled out of the barn, turned out the light and headed toward the warehouse. Once Diego ducked inside and out of sight, Dal was going. He scanned the yard, confirmed there was nobody else around. Jack and the other two men were still in the house. Everybody else, including the bodyguards that arrived in the SUVs were in the warehouse.

He stood, staring into the hills to the east, his eyes fixed on the pale new moon. He could go down there and get her out. But if they were caught… They’d be fucked. They’d have them both. The best thing he could do for Em was figure out a way to get her off this ranch altogether.

The phone. He took a deep breath, sat down and tied the small flashlight to his leg to create a pool of light between his thighs. He laid the pieces together on the ground. The wires were severed. Retrieving the duct tape, he tore thin strips from the roll. Once he spliced the wires back together, he wrapped the tape around them and regarded his repair. Not pretty but it could work.

Holding the back and front pieces together, lining up the jagged edges as closely as possible, he wrapped tape around the base until the two pieces held together on their own.

He stood to check over the hill. Still no movement below.

Using his knife, he cleaned the edges of the hole where the antenna would go before he inserted it. It was loose and wiggled, not seating itself in place. Grabbing the duct tape, he wound strips around the bottom until it fit snugly in the hole. It looked like a Franken-phone. All he cared was that it might work.

He pressed the power button, was rewarded with a flicker of light, followed by static. He reached into the air, holding the phone above the hill, hoping for a signal. The hissing grew louder, then abated, as he pivoted in a slow circle. Damn, the telephone number he needed was in his broken cell phone. He stared at the keypad in frustration. In desperation he hit redial. Through the hiss, he heard it start ringing. It rang once, twice. He held his breath. The phone’s light flickered, flashed, then died.

Now what? He needed to get Emily out. No doubt she’d seen worse in combat, but the horrors of that little room kept flashing back to him. Plus, once he got down there, he could get in to the weapon room next to the torture room. More weapons and more ammo would be a very good plan.

He dropped the phone into the bag, peered over the hill toward the warehouse. Time to go. As he started moving down the back of the hill, the door of the house opened, men’s voices floating through the air. Damn. He scrambled back to the top to watch.

Jack and the two men in suits lingered on the porch, laughing and smoking. After some time, Jack led them across the yard toward the warehouse. When they stopped in front of the barn, Dal drew in a sharp breath. They talked for several minutes before continuing on and disappearing through the door of the warehouse.

Lunging into action, Dal sprinted down the hill. Reaching the bottom, he looked out over the yard, only to find Diego and Miguel stationed at the door of the warehouse. He couldn’t risk it. He’d have to wait. Again.

Judging from their body language, Diego and Miguel were not great amigos. No doubt due to some kind of power struggle, both hoping for top spot under Jack. They leaned against the doorway, one to each side like sentinels, arms crossed, Diego smoking and Miguel spitting into the dust.

A round of laughter from inside, and Jack and his bosses stepped back outside. Jack had a few words with Diego and Miguel who disappeared into the building. Some minutes later, men labored through the door, carrying the unmarked boxes that had been stacked in the very back. He recognized them from Emily’s photographs.

The two men in suits stepped to the side to talk while Jack oversaw the loading of the first few boxes. If they were only taking these boxes, what were they doing with the rest of the weapons in the building?

Jack nodded to Miguel, handing off supervision of the loading, and extended his arm toward El Pato and Garcia. Dal watched in dismay as Jack led the men across the yard to the barn, switched on the lights and disappeared inside.

T
he pounding was so
loud it brought Emily to tears. She wished she could cover her ears and silence the pounding, but her hands were tied and secured to the wall. Each bang ricocheted through her head, the endless echoes causing her to wince in pain. She forced her eyes open, but saw nothing in the dark.

Slowly, she became more aware of her surroundings. She was in the torture room. She remembered Diego punching her in the side of the head, the fucking man had hands like anvils. Her vision was unfocused, not that it mattered much, she could barely make out the shape of the poor bastard unconscious on the other side of the room.

Sharp bursts of pain coursed through her ear, and she realized the pounding was her heart, her blood surging through her. Maybe her eardrum was perforated. She’d had that once when she was twelve, the school nurse had taken her to the hospital when they couldn’t reach her father.

This felt like that. Only a hundred times worse. She took a breath in, held it, then let it go. She needed to calm down, make a plan. Forcing herself to lie still, she tried to drown out the pounding in her head, get past the searing pain in her ear, and listen.

Several minutes passed and she hadn’t heard a thing. Although Diego had left the door open, the room was deep in the back of the barn, perhaps there was nothing to hear.

She strained, then forced herself to remain calm, focusing on her breathing. In time, the sound of her breathing seemed to come from outside of herself. Even out of sync with her lungs. When the man nearby coughed, a pitiful strangled noise, tears sprung to her eyes. She could still hear. Her world wasn’t limited to her own inner sounds.

“Hey,” she called out. “Are you okay?”

The man groaned and tried to shift his body. Emily extended her leg as far as possible, her toe catching the heel of his boot. “Hey,” she said again, tapping against his foot. He didn’t respond.

If she could wake him, perhaps they could escape together. He might have some idea what was supposed to go on here tonight. In the dark, she couldn’t see him clearly - only his silhouette - and she was glad. She flashed back to an image of the last man she’d seen here when she and Dal had found this room on their first trip to the ranch.

Light flooded the room. She squeezed her eyes shut. Jack’s voice came to her - faint but growing stronger. She shifted, tried to pull herself up to a sitting position, but the only leverage she could manage put all the pressure on her thigh. Pulses of pain radiated from the wound, like a sucker punch to the gut. Breathless, she slumped back to the floor.

It sounded like Jack was talking to Garcia and El Pato. His voice had a carnival barker quality as he pointed out the features and qualities of the barn. Emily snuck a look over at the man in the corner. He was lying on his chest, his face turned away from her. He’d barely moved since she’d first seen him.

“And here,” Jack said, opening the door beside the torture room, “is our on-site armory.” His voice was dampened by the wall as he stepped inside, but Emily clearly heard El Pato say “Good set up.” Jack’s voice puffed with pride as he pointed out the different types of weapons and ammunition. Emily prayed he’d be arrogant enough to leave the door open. Give her two minutes in there and she’d be armed enough to cover her ass while she got the hell out of here.

“Now here,” Jack continued, “is our, uh, Interrogation Room.”

Is that what they’re calling it these days? Em bit back a groan. Her gaze slid over the side wall and the shelves before her. Pliers of all shapes and sizes hung on the wall, flanked by several large machetes. A nail gun and drill rested on a shelf. And knives, too many to count - some serrated, some not - the blades winking in the overhead light.

Jack’s frame filled the door. As he stepped into the room, a telephone rang. “
Digame
,” she heard El Pato say. His footsteps rang out as he moved farther down the hall to continue his conversation. “Garcia” he called out, “come.”

Looking disappointed to be left out, Jack stepped into the room. When she looked up at him, he snarled at her. “I can’t believe you were stupid enough to show up here again.”

Something shiny sitting on a chair in the corner caught his eye. Her camera! Diego must have gone through her pockets after he tied her up.

Jack picked it up and turned it on. “What do we have here, Miss Patrick?” He whispered, glancing over his shoulder as he did, but El Pato and Garcia could be heard talking down the hall.

She bit her lip, determined to stay quiet. She wouldn’t give him the fucking satisfaction. If he was going to kill her, he could damn well kill her now.

He turned the camera on, navigated through the photographs, looked down at her somewhat puzzled. Then he found the video and hit play. He seemed stunned to hear his own voice, see himself sitting in the house with his two bosses. “Oh, Emily,” he said quietly, holding the camera up, “this was a really bad idea.”

“So, how’s she doing?” Garcia appeared in the doorway, startling Jack who moved the hand holding the camera down to his thigh and secreted it in his pocket.

“She’s not talking,” Jack said, stepping forward and looming over her. “You’re going to tell us why you’re here,” he growled, grabbing a random tool off the wall and waving it in her face. “It’s just a matter of time.”

“Hang on,” growled Garcia. “Is this the driver of the tractor-trailer?”

Jack turned away from her. “Yeah. Something didn’t seem right about that whole truck overturning in the middle of nowhere. Figured it was some kind of sabotage, maybe one of our competitors. I don’t know this guy, don’t trust him. He’s new.”

Garcia leaned over the man’s unconscious body and sucked in a breath. “I know him.”

G
arcia stared
up at Jack in horror, a hard glint in his eyes. Emily wanted to sink into the floor. Something really bad was about to go down and you didn’t need to be psychic in order to see it.

“Fuck, Jack.” The man shook his head. “Do you know who this is?”

“I—”

“Know who who is?” El Pato stepped into the room, sliding his phone into his inside suit coat pocket and filling the small space with his presence. He glanced at Emily before turning his eyes to the body on the floor.

“Fuck,” he hissed, glaring at Garcia. “Turn him over.”

Garcia did as he was told, being careful to turn him gently and shoving an old rag under his head as a makeshift pillow.

Jack watched in horror.

“Did you fucking do this to him?” El Pato asked, stepping boot to boot with Jack.

“I—”

“Jack didn’t know who he was,” Garcia said.

“Was I talking to you?” Garcia’s face blanched and El Pato turned back to Jack. “Speak, asshole.”

“He’s the truck driver. When the truck overturned, I thought it was sabotage. I was trying to get some information out of him.”

El Pato lashed out, his fist slamming into Jack’s face like a flash of lightning. Jack stumbled back, fell into the wall. Blood burst from his nose, ran down over his lips. His mouth opened and closed like a fish on dry land.

Kneeling onto the dirty floor, El Pato barked, “Get me some water.”

Garcia rushed from the room, glaring over at Jack on his way. Seconds later he returned with two bottles of water and clean rags from the weapons room next door. He wet a rag with water and passed it to his boss, who lovingly patted the other man’s face down.

“My wife is gonna kill me if she hears about this.” He slapped the man’s face lightly. “Emi,” he said, “Emilio, wake up.”

The man’s eyelids fluttered and he peered up into El Pato’s face. “I lost your shipment.”

“It’s not lost,” he said.

“Yeah, but—”

“Quiet. We’ll deal with that later. Are you all right?”

He nodded, turned his head and puked a puddle of bloody mucus onto the floor. El Pato’s face flushed brilliant red. He jumped to his feet.

“Get that fucking asshole away from me,” he said, jutting his chin toward Jack. “And find some men to move Emilio somewhere more comfortable.” He took another swing at Jack, connecting soundly with the top of Jack’s cheek bone. Emily cringed at the crunch of bone. “You touch my brother-in-law again, I’ll fucking kill you.”

He looked around the room in disgust. Emily held her breath as he stepped away into the hall.

“What about the girl?” Garcia asked.

El Pato glanced over his shoulder and focused on her for the first time.

“Kill her.”

D
al had
a clear view of the truck being loaded. The men lumbered out, chests heaving with exertion as they moved the boxes from the back of the warehouse into the hold of the cube van. Recalling the photograph, he figured they were about a quarter loaded. He needed to get to the barn and get Emily out before they were finished loading.

He mapped out a route. Following the shadows, he could take the same route Emily had to take the pictures. He crouched and ran behind the first of the vehicles, kept moving past the next, and the next until there only remained a short distance for him to cross without cover. It fell outside the halo of light from the open doors, the shadow of the truck being loaded casting a darker shadow on the ground.

Still, it was too close for comfort. He estimated ten yards fell between him and the entrance. There were a hell of a lot of men and a lot of activity. If one of them heard him or saw him… It was a risk. He glanced behind him. He could back track and move further away. It would take longer, but probably be safer.

“Diego,” El Pato called. “Send a couple of men over here, there’s a body to move.”

Emily! Dal’s heart leaped into his throat. While all eyes turned toward El Pato, Dal sprinted across the opening and down the side of the building. He raced along the back until he reached the corner closest to the barn. Two men were taking orders from El Pato. As he watched, they moved toward the barn door.

Dal raced behind the back of the barn, up the other side, careful to stay in shadow. From this vantage point, he’d easily be seen from the house. There was too much light for him to see around the corner to the door. Fuck. He had to know what was going on. Judging the distance as best as he could, he moved down along the side of the barn to where he thought they were holding Emily. He put his ear to the wall but could make out only muffled voices. First a man’s, then a woman’s.

Seconds later, more voices as the two men from outside arrived. Some shuffling, more voices, then silence. He was about to creep back up the side of the barn when he heard Emily’s voice again. Thank God. The body they’d moved hadn’t been her. Emotion surged through him. A mix of relief and urgency. She was still alive. He had to figure out a way to get her out.

He headed back toward the barn door. Two men carried another man between them, his arms looped over their shoulders. They shuffled across the yard, disappeared into the house, El Pato on their heels.

Long shadows spilled out of the barn into the yard. Two, possibly three men were standing guard at the door. He was blocked. Reversing direction, he retraced his tracks, coming up behind the barn and stopping short. At the far corner of the back of the warehouse, stood a man taking a piss. Bracing himself against the wall with one arm, he swayed and stumbled as he tried to get the job done.

From his short, stocky silhouette, Dal guessed it to be Rico. A very drunk Rico. Taking advantage of the element of surprise, Dal rushed along the back of the building, knocking Rico to the ground, his dick literally still in his hand.

Dal clamped his hand over Rico’s mouth, his knee digging between his shoulders. Rico thrashed his arms against the ground, trying to leverage himself upward, but Dal was stronger and held him in place. Rico kicked, muffled yells warming Dal’s palm. With his free hand, Dal punched him in the temple and Rico slumped into the ground.

Rolling him over, he pulled the duct tape from his pocket and stuck a length of it across Rico’s mouth. Working quickly and quietly, he removed the man’s belt and used it to secure his feet and hands, hog-tying him and dragging his body closer to the wall, as deep into the shadows as possible. He patted down his shirt pocket. Nothing. Tried his back pockets and hit the jackpot. A cell phone. Sliding away into the night, he walked up into the hills toward the mine, keeping the back of the warehouse between himself and the yard.