White Hot: A Patrick & Steeves Suspense (13 page)

E
mily blinked
against the bare overhead bulb as the lights flared on. She strained forward against her restraints, heard footsteps coming in her direction. Two people? Three?

Jack paused in the doorway, his eyes bore into hers. She shirked, an involuntary movement she immediately cursed herself for. Garcia was close on Jack’s heels. They filled the small space, testosterone bouncing off the walls.

There was a shelf with a multitude of tools on the wall in front of her. Jack walked over to it, took his time choosing a heavy metal rod, before he crossed the floor and stood beside her.

She tried to dredge up another smart ass answer to why she was here. Why hadn’t she spent her time waiting doing that - what had she been thinking about? It gave her a small bit of pleasure to frustrate the shit out of Jack.

“Who are you here with?” Jack growled, leaning over her.

“Who?” The question caught her by surprise.

“Yes,” he said. The toe of his boot dug into her shin, she winced. “Who came here with you?”

“Nobody,” she said. “I came alone.”

“To this ranch. In the middle of fucking nowhere. On foot. You came alone?” Jack pulled his arm back, threatening her with the metal rod.

She took a breath, focused on keeping her expression neutral and looked up at him. “I came alone.”

“We don’t have all night,” Garcia spat out. “Get this done or I’ll do it myself.”

Jack knelt on one knee and traced his finger over the patch of dried blood on her leg. Her stomach puckered as he put pressure on the flesh near the scabbed-over wound. “I’ll count to three,” he said.

“One.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Fuck you. I came alone.”

Garcia grunted and glared down at her.

“Two.” A triangle of tension appeared between Jack’s eyes.

She spat at him.

“Three.” He drew his arm back. Before she could react, the bar made solid contact with her thigh, directly on the wound. White hot pain shot up her leg, to her stomach, through her chest, and out her mouth. It took several seconds before she realized the strangled cries ripping at her ears were her own.

The crusted darkened blood broke into tiny pieces, washed down her leg by the bright red hot fluid spilling out of her. Her chest heaved in rhythm with her breathing, quick and jagged. She dug deep, trying to find her center, struggling to control her breath and her crying.

Why hadn’t she listened to Dal? She’d insisted on coming down to the house and for what? She’d learned nothing. Now they had her and their whole mission was at stake. When would she learn?

“Look at me,” Jack said.

She lifted her head. He slapped her face, hard. Then again, harder still. Her lip split, the copper tang of blood teasing her tongue. It had a weird calming effect, grounding her firmly in the present moment. She stepped back into herself.

“I won’t ask again. Who did you come here with?”

“I came alone,” she whispered.

Garcia shouldered Jack out of the way. “I’ll get it out of her.” He stepped forward, running the pad of his thumb against the blade of a very large knife. He knelt in front of her, his cold black eyes drilling into hers. “Now, girlie,” he said, pushing the tip of the blade against her neck, “you and I are going to—”

Footsteps pounded down the hall. Miguel appeared in the doorway, winded.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

“Better come,” Miguel said. “We found Rico.”

T
he phone
. Damn, he’d forgotten all about it. Dal fumbled to turn it off but it was too late. The man in the red shirt was squinting in his direction. He took one step toward him then looked back at the hatch. Light streamed down illuminating the sheen of moisture on the rocky ground. Hearing no movement from above the hatch, Dal set his gear on the ground fumbling to open his bag for the tire iron. But there was no time.

Red Shirt took another step toward him, turning again toward the ladder to the warehouse as if he was deciding to handle it on his own or call for help. If Dal was discovered, Emily could die. He couldn’t risk that. When Red Shirt took one more step toward Dal and reached behind himself, Dal rushed him. He powered through the few yards that separated them, throwing his full body weight into the man as his hand came up with a pistol in it.

As they stumbled backwards, he grasped the man’s wrist and smashed his hand against the uneven stone wall behind them. The gun skittered away. Before he could yell out, Dal smashed his fist into his face. Red Shirt’s face crumpled. He lashed out at Dal, fists flying. His punch caught Dal at the top of his cheekbone, the crack resounding through his head like a lightning bolt of flame.

They circled each other, sparring, throwing punches. Dal landed one above the man’s eyes, on the forehead. If he kept working that spot, he could get it to bleed, compromise the bastard’s vision.

The man kicked out at him, the steel toe of his cowboy boot digging into his shin. Dal grunted before remembering the hatch and people above. He danced backwards, taunted the man with punches he let fall short, leading him further into the tunnel away from the hatch. Red Shirt followed. The dark dropped around them like a shroud.

Dal threw more punches to the man’s forehead breaking the skin. Blood trickled down into his left eye. He snarled and lunged for Dal’s face, clawing at his eyes. Dal surprised him with a right hook, slamming his chin upwards. The man’s teeth smashed together. Blood spurted from his lip.

Red Shirt lost it, propelled forward by sheer rage. Threw his weight into Dal. They tumbled together across the uneven floor. Red Shirt dug at Dal’s eyes. The bastard’s thumb hooked his eye socket and pushed uncomfortably against his eyeball. Searing pain shot through his head. Dal bucked his hips, arched his back. Flung the bastard off. He scrambled to his feet.

They circled each other, shuffling over the slick uneven ground. Dal brushed at his eye, the lid already swollen, warm fluid glued the lashes together. Red Shirt rushed him from his blind side. Got him in a strangle hold. They rolled and wrestled from one side of the tunnel to the other, grunting with exertion, struggling for purchase against the slimy rocks.

Out of the corner of Dal’s good eye, he caught a flash on the ground. Red Shirt’s gun. If he could get to it…

Red Shirt kneed him in the groin. His stomach clenched, he felt dizzy, light-headed. A vision of Emily swam in front of his eyes. If he didn’t make it out of this… He couldn’t let her down.

Red Shirt’s hands dug into his neck. Dal scratched at his face, aiming for his eyes. He couldn’t breathe. His vision faded, the world fading to black around him. A thought floated through his head. It would come down to him or the other guy. And hanging in the balance is Em, sweet Em who he’d barely had any time with.

Dal’s limbs felt like concrete, Red Shirt’s face close to his mumbling curses in Spanish, the pressure on his neck relentless. He’d never killed a man. His whole life had been dedicated to saving lives, not taking them. But Emily …

Forcing his head upward, he cracked his forehead into Red Shirt’s nose. The element of surprise worked. His opponent loosened his grip long enough for Dal to push him to the side. He rolled over, stretched his hand toward the gun. Red Shirt pummeled his shoulders, his head, his fingers clawing at Dal’s neck. But it was too late. Dal’s hand closed around the cold metal of the gun. He rolled back to him, jammed the barrel in his stomach. Prayed the shot wouldn’t be heard. And pulled the trigger.

The muted shot ricocheted through Dal’s brain. Red Shirt’s weight slumped against him, warm blood blossoming against Dal’s stomach. He looked into Red Shirt’s face, the man’s unseeing eyes stared back. Dead.

Still pumped with adrenalin, Dal rolled out from under the dead weight, turned his head and wretched into the ground.

T
he hatch leading
into the warehouse was several feet above his head. So why did it feel like several miles? Light from above shone into the space. He couldn’t help himself. He turned his head to the end of the tunnel where the man he’d just killed lay heaped on the ground.

The man he’d just killed. The words boomed through his head like an announcement in a gladiator ring. But it had come down to that. Kill or be killed. He sucked in a breath. He had to put it behind him for now. His mission, his only focus, had to be on saving Emily.

He stepped as close as he dared to the patch of light, straining to hear the slightest noise but was greeted with silence. Taking the rungs one at a time, he poked his head cautiously out of the hatch. All the men were outside, gathered around in a large circle. Jack yelled, waved his hands and the men dispersed in all directions. Lying on the ground, still bound, still unconscious, was Rico. Jack left him for Miguel to deal with, turned on his heel and took off across the yard to the barn.

Damn, now they knew Emily wasn’t alone. And they were looking for him. Returning below, he grabbed his supplies and climbed back up. He slipped along the back of the boxes, working as quickly as possible. He tucked several bottles from one end to the other, then trailed gasoline along the floor to join each one, like a crazy string of Christmas lights.

Taking a chance, he slipped up the center aisle, splashing gas on the sides of the boxes, leaving a trail of gasoline on his way back, his eyes on the door and activity outside. He struck a match, lit the material at the end of two of the bottles, lit the trail of gasoline on the floor, then threw the bottles down the center aisle where they ignited in a large splash of gasoline and caught the trail, creating a flash fire that filled the aisle.

Someone yelled from outside. He jumped down the shaft, secured the hatch behind him, and listened to the chaos above. Most of the men were off looking for him, a couple of voices yelled for water, yelled for Jack. Gathering his bag, he sprinted down the tunnel, away from the fire, away from the corpse he was responsible for. With the small flashlight shining a narrow path before him, he ran for his life in the direction of the barn.

R
ico had been missing
? A comical image of the pudgy little man popped into Emily’s mind and almost brought a smile to her lips. Her cracked and swollen lips. She ran her tongue gingerly over them, cringing when the edge caught on a jagged, chipped tooth.

She wasn’t ready to die. She had no doubt now that Garcia would kill her. That Jack’s protests and negotiations would fall on deaf ears.

She prayed it would be quick. She’d watched too many of her friends die slow, horrible deaths. If she had to leave this world, let it be fast and without too much pain.

How could she have fucked up again? Being determined to do things on her own had always taken her down the wrong path. And yet, she’d still run down it. She was convinced now that Jill had been manipulating her. But not in the way she’d thought. Jill didn’t tell her she was in charge so she could strike out on her own. She was testing her, testing her ability to work as a team, testing her trust in Dal. And she’d failed. Miserably.

Loud voices in the hall interrupted her thoughts. Jack and Garcia were on their way back and spitting mad, yelling over each other to be heard.

Jack hung back as Garcia moved directly to her, landing a punch against her chin that bounced her head against the wall with a big thud. She blinked, spots swimming before her eyes, and tried to focus.

“Hmph,” he said, leaning down. “We found one of our men tied up out back.” He slid the knife out of the sheath on his belt. “You figure he tied himself up?”

Emily stared up at him. The knife was frightening enough, but the darkness in the man’s eyes struck terror in her soul.

He placed the tip of the knife back at her throat. “Tell us who you came with?”

She held his stare but said nothing. The knife broke the skin under her chin, the blood warm against her neck. “I came alone,” she said.

“Bullshit.” He rocked back on his heels and pulled the knife away. He studied the blade, ran the pad of his thumb over it again, a cruel caress, wicking the blood off the tip of the steel. He pressed his thumb up against her mouth, wiped her blood over her lips, his eyes locked to hers. The copper taste mixed with the salty sweat of his hand filled her mouth.

Before she could blink, he dug the tip of the knife into the wound in her leg. Her breath caught in her throat as pain radiated through her thigh.

“Now, you fucking bitch, how many other people are with you?”

Her stomach surged. The pressure of the knife in the open wound making her nauseous. She wouldn’t give Dal up.

“Your partner is right,” she said, nodding toward Jack. “I’m rich. I’m worth something alive.” Her voice sounded tired, defeated. Good, she wanted him to think he’d won.

“I don’t give a fuck about the money,” he growled.

“But my family will give you anything you want,” she pleaded.

“Tell me who you are with and I’ll consider it,” he said, digging the knife further into the wound.

White hot pain shot through her and she dry heaved.

Jack pushed his boss aside, the knife ripping a gash in her thigh. “She’s going to pass out,” he said. “Let me work on her.” He slapped her on her right cheek. Her head flopped to the side and he landed another slap, this time on the left cheek.

“Just fucking kill her,” Garcia grunted.

She looked up at Jack, his face red. His hands pressed in around her throat, her breath cut off. She tried to count. She’d read somewhere that it took seven to fourteen seconds to strangle someone.

She’d fucked up so bad. She’d never see her father again.

Six. Seven. Eight. Jack’s face swayed before her.

Or Dal. She remembered lying in his arms. Was that really only a few days ago?

Nine. The spots were back in front of her eyes.

She clung to her thoughts of Dal. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so safe, so… at home.

Jack’s name came to her. She didn’t want his name to be the last thing in her mind. The pressure on her neck loosened, a small gasp of air found its way into her lungs. As if from a great distance, she heard somebody yell for Jack, yell
fuego.
Who was
fuego,
she wondered, slipping deeper into darkness.

Jack and Garcia rushed from the room.

They were done with her.

It would all end here.

It was over.

Worse, history was repeating itself and she’d be responsible for Dal’s death, too.

She deserved to die.