She’d boarded a bus. That was an easy conclusion. Yesterday, Trent had run a check on her finances. He doubted if she’d take what little money she had and fly. Flying also involved identification, and with Carlos’s earlier warnings to dodge airports, that clinched the fact that she’d stuck to land. He could only hope that would also make her an easy find.
Five minutes later, he was in his rental car and heading through San Miguel’s tight streets. It was an arduous process; traffic was backed up because of an accident. He banged the steering wheel in frustration as cars crawled along. Finally, he came to an intersection where he was able to veer off. But that posed a convoluted drive as well before he was finally out of the city and on the highway.
“Why didn’t you listen to me?” he seethed as he smacked the steering wheel yet again.
But he knew why. She looked after everyone, including those charged with looking after her. It was why she’d given him the headache story and then run. By leaving him behind, she probably felt that she was protecting him. Unfortunately, by the law of averages, her luck was running thin.
He needed to find her before it was too late.
Chapter Sixteen
Tara clutched her knapsack. It was all she had in the world. She was alone in this and she had to get used to that fact. She couldn’t put any more lives in jeopardy. Most important, she needed to put distance between herself and the men who were after her. From here on, she couldn’t make friends or get close to anyone and she had to keep on the move—at least for now.
She’d boarded the bus only blocks from where she’d stayed in San Miguel. Unfortunately, the bus was full of locals and as a foreigner, she stood out, making her memorable. As soon as she had a chance, she would have to change her look. Eventually she planned to disappear, either in this country or another. She’d hide until the time came for her to testify. She’d yet to figure out how she’d know when that would be. For now, it was one problem at a time.
Her thoughts were broken by the antics of a small boy ahead of her. He peeked over the seat and pointed his finger at her like he had a toy gun. She gave him a smile as the woman beside him whispered to him and he turned and sat back down. She was still smiling as she scanned the bus. She couldn’t afford to be complacent; it was just her and she needed to make sure she was safe.
Across the aisle, two women were sitting together and chatting in Spanish. Her high school grasp of the language allowed her to catch only simple phrases and the occasional word. She looked away as the boy peeked over the seat again and smiled at her. A few rows up, someone was humming under their breath. She looked out the window. She wasn’t sure where she was going or where she would be safe. Was anywhere safe? Would they find her no matter what she did or where she went?
Buck up, she told herself. You’re tougher than this. You can keep yourself safe for as long as necessary. Whether you have to go farther south or no matter what you have to do, you can do it.
But could she?
She’d run from a gunman. She’d been terrified. Unlike Trent, who had chased an armed man unarmed. He was a hero and she was running from him. But she couldn’t endanger him or others. She needed to get away. But she couldn’t fool herself, she was no hero. Not like Trent.
She thought of him in ways she hadn’t in a long time. Except it was no longer the love of a girl but...
She frowned. She couldn’t think of him like that. She couldn’t consider what might have been. And yet it was impossible not to. He’d matured into a man who could make any woman look twice. Beautiful blue eyes and full lips with a square jaw that seemed to speak of determination. He had classic good looks; even as a youth, he’d had a killer physique, but now he seemed even more physically imposing. Combine that with a gentleness that could morph quickly into tough guy, and he was magnetic.
“Stop it,” she whispered to herself. Stop thinking about him as if he were part of your life. It’s over. It was over a long time ago.
She looked out the window as the bus pulled into a service station on the edges of a village. It was a push to call the place a village; it was really no more than a cluster of shanty houses. A couple got off and two men got on. They wore faded jeans and bland beige-and-white T-shirts without even a logo to brighten them. The T-shirts hung too big on both of them. Despite the temperature, one had a faded tan jacket slung over his shoulder. It was as if he was hiding something, and yet that thought didn’t ring any warnings. It wasn’t like anyone on this bus was dressed to the nines or hitting any fashion trends.
She half smiled at the thought as she watched the two men sit down in the seat behind the driver. Another five minutes passed. Tara pulled out the atlas. The bus was heading to Guadalajara. Trent would never think that she had gone there. It was the opposite direction of where she should go if she didn’t want to go back to the States for that was where the crime had happened and that was where the criminals still were. They wanted her dead and despite the fact that it seemed no safer here, at least it was farther from the place where she’d witnessed the robbery and from where her home had been violated as they’d looked for her. Besides being in another country, Guadalajara was at least big enough and touristy enough that it might be a perfect place to disappear into. It was only temporary. A place where she could come up with a more solid plan than the current one.
Her thoughts were broken by men’s angry voices. The words were incomprehensible, but so harsh that they sent a shiver through her.
She looked up. At the front, one of the two men who had recently got on the bus was standing. He had a gun aimed at the driver. The second man had a gun waving left and then right, taking in all of them.
Tara froze—stunned. A woman screamed. For a minute, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing, couldn’t digest it. She almost forgot to breathe before her mind kicked back into gear. Was it her who they were after?
The possibility hit in a tsunami of fright. The atlas slid to the floor. She froze, her right hand clutching a piece of leather that dangled from the worn seat as if it were a lifeline.
As the seconds passed and no one looked at her and as one gunman continued to focus on the driver, his older partner smirked at them all. It was becoming clear that this might not be about her. That was somewhat of a relief as the bus slowed and stopped at the side of the road. There was a cacophony of voices as passengers panicked. Her assumption was proving itself; there was no search of the bus. It was like they didn’t care who the passengers were.
Then what was this about? Her mind ran through the options. A simple robbery? Her heart leaped in panic. No matter what their motive, there was nothing simple about this. They were all in danger. They could all die.
“What do you want?” a man’s voice asked.
Tara didn’t know if it was the driver who spoke or one of the few men who were on the bus. She was too far back and couldn’t get a clear view. What she could see between the heads of the other passengers was a man who might be in his forties, was shorter than the other and seemed to be leading the assault.
“Shut up!” he shouted in Spanish as he pointed his gun. He waved it across the rows, threatening them all in general.
Tara froze. The weapon mesmerized her. The man was holding a semiautomatic Beretta. A similar gun, of all the guns in his vast collection, had been a favorite of her grandfather’s.
The thought was fleeting in the midst of this drama. She dragged her eyes away from the gun and for a second it seemed that hard eyes looked right at her. Then a woman stood and blocked Tara’s view. Half the bus was standing now and there was quiet chaos. It was impossible to see much.
She caught a glimpse of the other man, aiming at the driver. He was in his twenties, holding what her grandfather called a straight-shooting poor man’s gun. It was a battered, sawed-off shotgun. The weapon fitted his sullen swarthy face, his dark attitude. He turned, the jacket was gone, and in the gap of
panicked passengers, their eyes met. His were full of distrust and hate and sent a chill through Tara. And then, just like that, her view was gone. He was hidden by the other passengers.
Tara hoped this would all end peacefully. Ahead there was the literal threat of death. Her hands were clenched so hard that her knuckles were white.
“Don’t move,” one of the men shouted in Spanish. “No one move,” he repeated as he brandished his weapon.
Tara sucked back a panicked breath, and her fingernails dug into her palms. For a minute she forgot to breathe. The nightmare had just gone from bad to worse.
* * *
TRENT GLANCED AT the receiver. She was steadily moving away from San Miguel. And then everything stopped.
Perhaps her bus had stopped to pick up passengers.
Minutes passed. He was twenty miles away now and still she hadn’t moved.
At ten miles, she was still in the same position. If he’d been right about the bus, it would have left a big center and would be stopping to pick up passengers. Each stop would be roadside and a matter of minutes, at least so he assumed, if the bus wanted to keep on schedule. But the pace in the rural areas could be slow.
Still, he was concerned. Maybe she wasn’t on a bus at all. If that was the case, he was at a loss as to what was going on.
Five miles, no movement. Had she dropped her knapsack for some reason? The thought of that sent chills through him, for that meant deeper trouble.
His foot rode heavier on the gas pedal, picking up speed, feeling the urgency. Finally, he was there, and he had a visual.
A local bus was pulled over at the side of the road with not a town or village in sight. Add to that, it was angled with its nose partway in the ditch, as if the driver had been under the influence of something or someone, and that all spelled definite trouble. He drove by as if there was nothing suspicious. But that thought was quickly killed when he saw the shadow of a man at the front of the bus and then clearly, the gun in his hand.
His fingers tightened on the wheel as he kept driving. He only pulled over when the road made a slight curve and hid him from sight of those on the bus.
What the hell, he thought as he got quietly out of the car. His mind spun through the possibilities and prepared to be faced with the worst-case scenario, whatever that might be. He wished to hell that he had his Beretta 92 at his side or, for that matter, any of the dozens of guns in his collection. Instead, the only weapon he had was himself. It would have to be enough.
Chapter Seventeen
Tara’s fright was spinning into anger. At this point, she wasn’t sure which emotion to go with. She hated what was happening. And she hated the fact that she could do nothing about it. She glared from her seat. But no one could see her and it would be foolish to draw attention to herself. There were too many lives at stake. The bus had been half-empty when it left San Miguel. Now almost every seat was full. There was a woman with a baby and a toddler in the seat in front of her, and an elderly couple a few seats up—and now this.
The two gunmen were still closer to the front as they roared their commands. Dressed in clothes meant to blend in, the only thing that stood out now were the guns each of them held.
She glanced to her left and up a row. The baby had been wailing since the first gunshot had taken out the front window.
Now one man was going row by row, taking what valuables each passenger had. The other stood with a gun still aimed at the driver. The message was clear: one act of resistance, and the driver would die. There was nothing they could do without jeopardizing his life.
A woman gave a little cry as the man tried to rip a ring off her finger.
“¡Cállate a todos!” the older man roared, his thin face seeming even harder, the wrinkles even more pronounced.
Tara’s high school Spanish told her what he demanded. Shut up! All of you.
She wasn’t planning to say anything. Instead, her teeth were clenched so tight that her jaw hurt. She watched as the smaller man ripped a woman’s bag from her side and rifled through it. He yanked out a wallet and then threw the bag down.
She slid lower in her seat as she watched for an opportunity, something she could do to stop them. But as the pair made their way down the aisle, she began to quiver. She was still the only Caucasian on the bus. The rest were all locals. She stood out and in a situation like this, that wasn’t a good thing. They could pull her out, make her an example.
“Dinero, joyas, dánoslo,” the larger of the two shouted as he waved his gun from side to side. He shouted this at regular intervals, as if they needed any kind of reminder.
Money, jewelry, give it to us, she translated the words in her head. Yeah, she’d like to give it to him all right, Tara thought, her fists clenched. She’d like to use her fist and hit him right in his smirking face.
A middle-aged woman a few seats ahead shifted, perching on her seat. It was like she was ready for action, to somehow jump in and do something about it all. Across the aisle, an older man seemed to be sitting taller, straighter than the others, as if he, too, was ready to jump in when the opportunity presented itself.
Tara hunched down but every muscle was taut, readying herself to do whatever needed to be done to get them out of this. She wasn’t sure what she could do, but if there was an opportunity, she wasn’t going to miss it. And yet something curdled deep in her stomach, knowing since this all began that they could all be looking death in the face. She’d heard stories of such robberies, how criminals got off on their victims’ fear. In those cases, even after getting everything they wanted, they killed.
The thought had barely registered its chilling reality when everything changed.
Chaos was erupting around her. A toddler burst into screeching cries and the baby howled louder. People stood up, blocking her view. Screams seemed to echo through the interior as everything devolved further.
Tara’s heart was in her throat as she feared the worst. She couldn’t see through the crush of people as passengers were out of their seats. The roar of gunfire again almost deafened her. The side window near the front was blown out and glass flew everywhere.
The gunmen screamed orders to sit or die. And most of the passengers sat. She wished they hadn’t. She was still standing when she once again met the dark gaze of one of the gunmen. She froze and then sat as he turned and fired a shot that took out another side window.
It was then that she caught a glimpse of a man she would know anywhere. Her heart tripped and she knew that the robbers had yet to see him, for if they had, they would have done more than take out another window. Apparently taking out the window had been pure theatrics since, from what she could see, it gained them nothing.
Trent.
She’d recognize that hair, that face in any crowd, in any place. He was there and then he was gone. He was outside, coming around the front of the bus. He’d come out of nowhere, maybe out of the ditch, she didn’t know where, but he was like an answer to a prayer.
And he needed help so he wouldn’t be noticed. He needed a diversion.
Tara screamed and ducked down, grabbing the atlas from the floor and rising up to bang it against the glass again and again. She hoped that no one got killed because of this and that the distraction took their attention to the back of the bus long enough for him to do what needed to be done.
“Get down!” she shouted. She screamed it over and over again in English and Spanish until a bullet winged over her head and one of the men shouted for silence.
She was quiet then. She sat on the edge of her seat as her heart pounded. She could see to the front of the bus for her screaming had done one thing: everyone sat or hunkered way down in their seat. For a second, she was frozen in fear, in disbelief and in hope. Her diversion had worked.
Trent was on the bus.
Then he was a blur of motion. One moment, there were two men with guns, and the ne
xt moment, one of them was screaming with his arm twisted behind his back. His gun skidded down the aisle and out of sight. It all happened so fast that the second man didn’t have a chance to move before Trent gave him a lightning-fast kick to the knees and he fell hard with a small shriek of pain.
Tara gasped and put a hand to her mouth.
A woman to her left and a few seats up slid out of her seat and ducked down. A second later she was up, the first man’s gun in both hands.
She saw a flash of movement as the second gunman got up on one good leg. His free hand slammed the woman’s, knocking the gun free. The weapon flew again, landing in the aisle, sliding away.
Trent still had the other man’s arm wrenched behind his back while two male passengers grabbed the second and threw him back to the ground.
Trent pushed the first one forward, throwing him off balance. The woman who had picked up one of the guns and had it knocked from her hands, now had retrieved it and had it aimed at the robber’s head.
Trent moved further into the bus, planting his foot on the second one’s throat. “Move and die,” he snarled. He looked over to where a middle-aged man now held the sawed-off shotgun.
“You’ve got this?” Trent asked him in Spanish and then looked behind him at the woman who had retrieved the other gun.
“Sí,” they both replied.
Another woman stood up. She waved her phone. “The police are on their way,” she said in Spanish.
Two passengers, two guns. And each of them had a gun trained on one of the would-be thieves, who had threatened not only to rob but kill.
Trent strode toward her. “You’re all right?” he asked as the palm of his hand ran the curve of her cheek.
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