Unafraid

by Allie Harrison

  But he didn’t move fast enough as the son of a bitch held up the gun in his hand. John had just enough time to register blood dripped from a wound on Smith’s wrist before he fired three times in quick succession.

  Then his next thought was. Oh, God, the prick shot me again. He shot all of us.

  The next thing he knew, he was on his back, looking up at the sky with hot pain vibrating through the back of his head like a tiny man was running a jack hammer in it.

  Something soft was under his right hand. His heart thudding painfully in his chest, bile burning his throat and the breeze touching him like cold, sharp nails, he realized what he touched was Abby’s hair. The pavement was warm against his back, but the fall breeze was suddenly cold as it brushed over him.

  His chest hurt, and he had no doubt a few of his ribs were broken. The breath he tried to suck in felt like an ice pick in his lungs.

  Bob Smith muttered something that came to him through a tunnel and was oddly drowned out by birds chirping. “Sorry I don’t have time to stick around while you all are in the park selling coffee when there’s no one here, but I need to borrow your truck. And I’m really sorry I had to shoot that pretty coffee lady. I would have liked to spend a few quality hours with her.”

  John didn’t move and was vaguely aware of Bob stepping over him. Then he looked up and met the gaze of the bastard who had shot him previously too, right through his own kitchen window in front of his son, Charlie.

  Bob Smith was the devil walking the earth, and if he could manage to get his gun out quickly enough, he’d shoot Bob’s grin off his face.

  Smith must have read his mind, because he raised the gun he held and pointed it at John where John was able to look right down the barrel.

  The surge of coldness was like a tidal wave washing over him. He wasn’t afraid of death, never had been, and had been in more tight places where death loomed around the corner for him to even count. But he didn’t want to leave Charlie, his son, not when the loss of Charlie’s mother was still fresh. He didn’t want to leave Abby now that she’d shown him how to live again.

  Smith pulled the trigger and John jerked in reaction a heartbeat before he realized there was no bullet. The trigger merely clicked against the empty chamber.

  Seizing the opportunity, John tried to move, reaching for his holstered weapon.

  Smith moved, too, jumping into the coffee truck, behind the wheel as John breathed past the obvious injured ribs and pulled out his weapon.

  The sound of the door slamming rang through the pain in his head louder than the shots had. Then rocks flew with the peeling tires a heartbeat before the truck sped away. John rolled to his side just in time to avoid the squealing tires as Bob rushed forward before pulling a U-turn and taking the truck down the street as fast as it could maneuver.

  John leaned on his elbow on the ground, lying in the most uncomfortable position, and fired off a shot. He would have managed to blow out a tire had Smith not swerved at the last moment and taken the truck around the corner and out of the park. And at such a speed, John thought the truck might skid to its side.

  No luck with that.

  Then it was out of sight.

  “Abby!” John let his gun drop to the pavement as he slid his body closer to her. Pulling her and turning her to face him at the same, he took her in, looking for injury, his heart feeling like it might explode in his chest. There was no blood on the white blouse she wore, only dirt and small bits of gravel from the street. He ripped the blouse open revealing the vest Monty had given her.

  “Thank God!”

  The slug Smith had fired at her was embedded and visible, but obviously it and the impact of her landing on the pavement knocked the wind out of her. Her eyes opened in the same instant and she gasped, drawing in air with a moan of pain.

  He had no doubt she would have attempted to jump up had he not had his hand on her shoulder. “No, stay still. Relax and breathe.”

  “Oh…that hurts.”

  “Fuck, ain’t that the truth,” Monty rolled closer too.

  “At least nobody’s bleeding, thank God,” John noted.

  “Given how it feels just to breathe, I feel like I should be.” Abby’s voice was small and breathless.

  “Me, too. And the bastard took the truck, otherwise we would have had some ice we could put on our sore ribs.”

  Tex, George, and Orrey came crashing out of the woods behind him. Tex looked around wildly, obviously searching for that prick Smith.

  Orrey had his gun drawn and was ready as always. John was glad there was no park traffic.

  Just as he thought that, Al and Louis came careening into the park in a huge black Cadillac Escalade, turned the corner on two wheels, and skidded to a stop not far away. They jumped out just in time to hear George demanding, “What the fuck? Are you guys all right?”

  John was helping Abby to her feet, but both of them were shaky. Tex offered Monty a hand and tugged him to his feet. “I think all of us learned to practice on the side of caution when it comes to Bob Smith. We have to go after him. He took off in the coffee truck.”

  Tex laughed out loud. Then, “Sorry, Boss. It just sounded funny, the thought of him speeding away in a coffee truck. Who woulda thought it?”

  Holding on to Abby, who was a trooper and looking less shocked than she had after serving Brubaker coffee, they moved toward the Caddie. “I have to admit, it sounds funny. But it’s no laughing matter.” He helped Abby into the vehicle. “How was Brubaker’s team?”

  “All down, Boss, except for Brubaker, who’s bleeding on his knees. I figured Smith only injured him on purpose. Two had pulses. As much as we wanted to stay and help…”

  “Jees-us. We’ve got to get him. That’s how we help, and we’ve got to get our truck back.” John climbed in with Abby. The others all piled in behind them. “Good thing your shop is on the way. I’m dropping you off, along with one of my team, to keep you safe, just to make sure that bastard hasn’t found a way to backtrack.”

  No one argued with John as they sped out of the park.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Bob Smith see-sawed between elation at how great he was and how surprised he was. His head was in the clouds until he felt almost God-like at the fact he was behind the wheel and putting distance between himself and the law. At the same time, he still had trouble believing how easy it had been. While it was true he’d pulled off countless crimes in the past, he’d never escaped from any law enforcement, not that he’d ever really been caught up deep in the web of a security detail like that before.

  So, as he slowed and merged into traffic, he was surprised he didn’t hear sirens closing in on him. He knew he had to ditch the coffee truck. It stood out. He’d known the man with the coffee chick, had seen him somewhere before. But in the confusion and fast action, the idea of where he might have seen him eluded him. And now that he wasn’t burning off adrenaline with his sprint through the woods and his tunnel vision of finding a way out, he could think more abstractly.

  “Fuck…” His wrist was bleeding and burned as if someone had pressed a hot brand poker to it. Had that happened when he’d shot the chain? He couldn’t remember. Not that it mattered. There were so many other heated questions anyway.

  Why was that coffee woman in the park?

  Why was that familiar man with her?

  Who was the carrot top man with them?

  What the hell were they doing in the park?

  The familiar guy had a gun, shot at him. He’d clearly heard that shot as he peeled out of the park. A cop?

  Then his thoughts cleared as if the sun came out in his head. The man on the ground who would surely be sporting a bullet between his eyes if Shackleford’s gun hadn’t been empty—if only he hadn’t used a bullet to take out the chain that linked his hands!—was the same guy who had followed him, the same guy Bob had shot through the window a few weeks ago before he’d been arrested.

  Damn!

  Small world!

&nbs
p; Then: holy shit!

  Why was that guy still on his tail? And who the hell was he?

  Bob’s main—and only, at the moment—plan had been to get to his house where he had money and weapons and information stashed. Then head south.

  He would even take the wife and kiddies if they were there and handy. After all, they had served as cover for the past decade. And he did kind of like them. His wife didn’t really serve him. He really liked the idea he could mold his son to follow in his footsteps.

  So, as he drove, he planned more.

  He could use Shackleford’s phone to call Maggie, who he always called his honey bunny, tell her to go grab the kids, that they were taking a trip. After all, they should get away for a while after the obvious traumatic experience of having the law invade their family lives. He knew just how to talk to her. He knew it wouldn’t take much to convince her they needed sun and beach and sand. He knew his stupid wife better than he knew himself. She’d fall for a promise of primping and nice meals and a sexy swimsuit in a heartbeat.

  Then he thought it best to spring it on her when he saw her. Yes, he’d tell her he’d been released, that the cops had no evidence to make any of the trumped-up charges against him stick. He’d kiss her, stroke her. He knew just how a few promises and a nice backrub could melt her. He was sorry he didn’t have the time to stop and get flowers. She was a sap for those, too. A vacation on the beach south of the border would be the clincher. Of course, he was going to have to ditch the orange clown suit and what was left of the shackles. Hopefully she’d stopped somewhere after taking the kids to school in order to give him time to remove everything and not look like a convict. He had no doubt she was enjoying expensive coffee drinks while he wasn’t around.

  After convincing her, he planned to send her upstairs to grab some clothes for her and the kids for their vacation of a lifetime while he snuck down to what he called his secret place and grabbed the cash and other necessities.

  They could leave together in her car—after he switched the plates, of course, with a few extras he kept hidden in his garage—take the kids from school, and head out on what he called an adventure vacation.

  Oh, yes, that sounded so perfect.

  He loved making plans. If there was one thing Bob Smith could do well, it was plan, as shown by his escape twenty minutes ago. He took the next exit, staying off the freeway, and laughed out loud when he turned on to his own block. He’d considered leaving the truck in a busy parking lot and walking the few blocks to his house, but he still wore the orange jumpsuit. If he took it off and wore his boxers and tee shirt, which the weather was warm enough for, he still wore the broken chain bracelets on his ankles and wrists. He was certain the coffee truck would fit in his garage, and hiding it there was easier than explaining his Department of Corrections attire.

  Closing in on his house, he laughed out loud, seeing his garage door was already open, and Maggie’s car was parked in the driveway, as if she was waiting for him to get home.

  Perfect, he thought as he pulled the truck into the open garage. But hell, it was a bit long, given his work bench taking up space. He wouldn’t able to close the door and hide it. Not that it mattered, he wasn’t going to be there long enough.

  He got out quickly. No one was looking for a coffee truck, at least not yet.

  Damn, it amazed him how things worked out for him.

  He truly did rank right up there with God.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Maggie Smith stood in her kitchen for a long time, simply looking around, thinking, doing her best to probe her husband’s thought process. She’d fallen for everything he’d ever said her. The television, an old model which was a bit big that she’d been given from a friend, sat on the corner of the counter and was on. There was Bob’s mugshot, again. Today, the pretty newscaster was reporting there was another search for bodies in—of all places—Lake Forrest Park. Good God, she’d taken their kids there. They had picnicked there and hiked the woods there and ate sandwiches on a blanket. They had swum at the beach area in the summer.

  How could he?

  She started in the garage. The light was burned out, and she couldn’t see as well as she liked, so she opened the big door to let the morning sunshine pour in. This entire thing with Bob froze her soul, and she needed all the warmth she could get.

  He didn’t have a sledgehammer, and she didn’t want to waste the time going over to her dad’s to get one. But Bob did have a regular hammer, not that he used it very often. He was by far no handyman. It took her a few moments to find it.

  When she did, she headed back into the house where she spent the next hour feeling walls, studying rooms, and searching cabinets looking for any little hidden space where Bob might hide stacks of money like those he’d put in the drawer in his office that she had seen when the FBI raided it.

  By the time she discovered it, she hadn’t had to bust a single hole in a wall despite the hammer she carried.

  And it was not anything like she expected.

  A hidden safe would not have surprised her. An open space between floor or wall joists was what she really expected to see. In the end, she hadn’t had to bust anything up with the hammer.

  The small door under the cabinets in the area that Bob called his man-cave work area—where she couldn’t remember him doing anything at all but storing things he promised to someday fix—caused her breath to catch.

  And when she opened it and discovered there was a ladder that led down to a small room beneath the basement floor, she thought she might toss up the breakfast she’d eaten. How handy Bob was to leave a flashlight on his small worktable nearby. The room was perhaps only six by six, just big enough for a toilet and a cot, like a jail cell. Sweet heavens…

  She stared at it and tried to breathe.

  Had he kidnapped someone and kept him or her down here while his children slept in their beds upstairs?

  She’d been married to him a little more than twelve years. And they bought this house together. When could he have had this built?

  Maggie thought back to the only time she had not been in the house. Aside from when the kids were born, in which she’d only been in the hospital two days and not near long enough to dig a hole through the basement floor and build a room. Three years ago, he’d said he got a bonus, that they could afford an extra long vacation. He’d set up a huge trip to Disney World, complete with a six-day stay in a hotel right in the middle of the park followed by a five day cruise and finished by three more days at other nearby theme parks. At the last minute, he’d said he needed to stay behind, that he couldn’t leave the job he needed to finish. He’d promised to meet them there. And he had, two days later. They really had the vacation of a lifetime. Then when they’d come back from the cruise, he’d gotten a call that he was needed at home for a special project.

  So, he had left them and they’d had a wonderful time without him. Then they followed him home.

  Two entire weeks she and the kids were away from the house.

  Could he get the job done in that time?

  He could for the right price.

  Jenna Blackwell’s mother would have a field day knowing about the room. Her concern about her daughter when Bob had been charged with rape would be a walk in the park compared to learning Bob had built a cell beneath their basement.

  For a moment, the room spun, her vision blurred. She had to breathe heavily several times to keep from throwing up and the only thing in her stomach was the expensive coffee she’d splurged on her way home from taking the kids to school. God, she didn’t need to taste it a second time, and it would be a waste of money.

  There, on a wall shelf beside the ladder, were two duffel bags.

  She had to climb down in order to reach them.

  Oh, hell, could she even step down there into that space?

  To get her hands on Bob’s money?

  Yes, she fucking could.

  She moved to lean down and grasp the first rung of the ladder. “
Wait.” She spoke the word out loud and then felt stupid. She could never let anyone know she’d discovered this room. And she certainly couldn’t leave her fingerprints on the ladder or the handle of the small door. She pulled her tee shirt over her head and used it to shield her hands before she took hold of the top rung of the ladder.

  All the while, she held her breath so as not to smell the remnants of whoever Bob may have kept down there, to keep from smelling any lingering stench of sex he may have forced on some poor, innocent victim, she scrambled down the ladder, using expert care to touch nothing. How the Feds missed this in their search, she could never guess. She grabbed the two bags and slipped the strap of each one over each of her shoulders.

  They were heavy, and it took some effort to drag herself and them back up the ladder.

  Where she let the breath she was holding out in a loud huff.

  She unzipped one slowly as if a live snake might jump out, then she gasped.

  It was filled with stacks of money. Stacks of hundred dollar bills and fifties.

  More money than she could even dream up.

  Suddenly, her fear of him and for him, her fear of what people may think about her family, as well as her hope this was a mistake, flew out of her mind like a bird escaping a cage. There was no fear, no loathing, no disbelief. There was only rage, pure heart-pounding, blood-boiling rage.

  How dare he do this to her?

  He dare he even try?

  Yet, he hadn’t tried. He had successfully duped her for almost thirteen years, pretending to be a loving, caring family man, working hard, living from paycheck to paycheck, trying to make ends meet. He must have been secretly laughing behind her back the time she’d told him she was afraid of having the electricity turned off because she couldn’t pay the entire bill. He’d told her just to pay what she could. She’d looked like a fool—a poor fool—begging the woman in the power company, promising she’d pay the rest the following week. And she had paid.