Fearless: Complicated Creatures Part Three

by Lawless, Alexi

  “We don’t get ladies in here too often,” the barkeep told her as he nodded toward the guys, his watery blue eyes apologetic. “Need a glass?” he offered as he slid the bottle in front of her.

  Sam popped the cap off the edge of the bar, shaking her head before taking a pull. The beer was crisp and cold, deliciously pleasant after an hour of driving through the arid Texas heat.

  “Those boys your regulars?” she asked casually.

  “About as regular as folks get around here,” the barman replied with a shrug. “Closest real town’s about twenty minutes away.”

  Sam nodded, sipping her beer as the bartender went to make change. She knew from growing up around here that they were in middle of nowhere, flat prairie lands as far as the eye could see. Most folks didn’t grasp the size of a state like Texas. If you spread the land side-to-side you could make a straight line from Chicago to New York, no problem. Hell, most countries weren’t as large as the Lone Star State.

  But that also meant if something bad happened to you out here, no one was coming to help you. No one would even know.

  She wondered morbidly if her father and brother had been killed instantaneously in the crash or if they’d lain there bleeding out, waiting for a rescue that would never come.

  “Here’s your change.”

  Sam nodded her thanks. Shaking off the thought she glanced at the jukebox. “You got any Johnny Cash on there?”

  The barman shrugged. “Sure do.”

  “You can keep the change if you play me a little something.”

  He nodded amiably. “Fair enough.”

  Sam hobbled to a worn booth in the corner that had been patched over pretty good with duct tape. She sat down facing the front door, keeping the men in her sights. She gave them less than five minutes before those drunk cowboys made their move.

  She got less than one.

  Sam’d only managed to enjoy a couple swallows of beer before one of the roughnecks sidled up to her booth, his eyes bloodshot and his face creased from years spent under an unrelenting sun. The hot, yeasty scent of sour mash and sweat assailed her as he leaned over her.

  “What’s a fine woman like you doing all by your lonesome?” he asked in a bad approximation of charm and good graces. “Looks to me like you could use some company.”

  “I’m all set—thanks,” she replied, leaning away from him.

  He didn’t take no for an answer. The man slid into the booth across from her, his erstwhile friend loping over like a hyena, a sloppy grin on his face as he blocked her in, his hip just grazing her shoulder as he leaned against the side of the booth. The barman either didn’t care or hadn’t noticed as he browsed over the Wurlitzer.

  After weeks of helplessness and struggle, Sam felt the warm tingle of anticipation blooming in her belly. That, coupled with the anger she’d been tamping down since she’d woken up in a hospital bed in Germany, was the first welcome emotion she’d felt in months. She was jonesing for some kind of release—any kind of alleviation of the fury that had been building in her veins. These boys would be as good as any.

  “You boys from around here?” she asked, lip curling.

  The hyena blocking her in leaned forward, sniffing her hair. Sam resisted the urge to drive her elbow through his nose, keeping her eyes on his alpha sitting in front of her as she sipped her beer.

  “Guess you could say that,” the guy in front of her replied. “You look like a city girl, all slicked up like that.”

  “Do I?” she replied noncommittally. She was wearing jeans and an old work shirt, but she knew she didn’t fit around these parts anymore. Hadn’t in years. “I’m just passing through.”

  “You know if you’re gonna drive through this here town, you gotta pay a toll,” he told her.

  Sam lifted a brow. “No kidding?”

  His leer revealed uneven yellow teeth. “Oh yeah.”

  Sam took another long pull of her Shiner Bock as the hyena pressed closer. Based on the semi he was sporting, she had a pretty good idea of the toll they had in mind. Distantly, she heard Johnny Cash start up, singing, “Folsom Prison Blues.” Fitting.

  “Tell you what,” Sam responded amiably. “You boys answer a couple questions for me, and I’ll buy you a round for your troubles.”

  “You buy the next few rounds and we’ll see,” the guy in front of her countered, tossing back his whisky in an open-mouthed gulp.

  Sam looked past the hyena to the bartender.

  “Can I buy a bottle of whatever these boys are having?” she called out.

  The barman looked momentarily surprised, but just shrugged, pulling a bottle from the well. He lumbered over, poured the guys another round.

  “You men ever know a guy named Earl Childress?” she asked, handing the bartender some cash. He accepted the money and stepped back like he’d been scalded, averting his eyes.

  Bingo.

  The drunk asshole sitting across from her blinked once, and Sam could see that the gears weren’t clicking. She couldn’t tell if it was because he was drunk or if he was just stupid. Either way, she’d have to make short work of him and focus on the bartender.

  “Who’s asking?” the hyena asked before a dim light bulb seemed to go off. He looked at his friend sitting across from her. “Hey, wasn’t some guy in here asking about—”

  “Bud, shut it,” his friend interrupted sharply before closing a strong, beefy hand over Sam’s wrist across the table. He may have been hammered out of his gourd, but Sam could tell from his grip that he was still mean as a snake. “If you want that kind of information—it’s gonna cost you more than a bottle of booze, little lady.”

  The heat of her temper rose up like a hot flame. She’d enjoy hurting this one. She’d enjoy it a lot.

  “What’d you have in mind?” she asked.

  He narrowed his boozy gaze at her. “Three hundred dollars.”

  “Better be good information if you’re gonna try to rob me of that much money.”

  “Oh, it’ll be good,” the cowboy promised blearily, licking his lips. “So good I might be expecting a little sugar for my troubles.”

  “Yeah,” the hyena next to her added, pressing closer. “Me too.”

  Sam nodded, like it all seemed reasonable enough. “You’ll have to let me go if you want to get paid though. Can’t exactly reach my wallet now can I?”

  He squeezed her wrist hard once, exerting his authority and trying to scare her before letting go. She hated men like that. She’d enjoy teaching this fucker a lesson.

  “So how did you know Earl?” she asked calmly as she pulled three crisp bills from of her wallet. She tucked the bills neatly under her beer bottle.

  “Money first,” the guy replied, staring at the cash. “Talkie talkie later.” He lunged toward the cash, and Sam anticipated the move, smashing the bottle down on his hand so hard, he yelped and snapped back, cradling his broken fingers.

  They hyena lurched forward, reaching for the cash, and Sam helped him along by grabbing the back of his neck and slamming his head into the table. She rose slowly, leaning against the table for support as she mashed the hyena’s scruffy cheek against the tabletop. He immediately tried to rear up, knocking the whisky bottle and empty glasses over. Sam rapped him hard in the temple with the bottle, knocking him out cold.

  “You crazy bitch, you broke my hand!” the guy across from her cried out, clutching his hand. Sam unceremoniously pushed his unconscious friend off the table with her cane. His head bounced against the floor like an overripe melon.

  “Yeah, I did,” Sam replied calmly. She was winded but exhilarated—all her senses heightened. She felt adrenaline licking through her veins like a fix. “And just so you can’t say I didn’t warn you, I’ll do a helluva lot more than break your hand if you don’t start answering questions to my satisfaction. Earl Childress,” she repeated calmly. “What do you know about him?”

  His mouth opened and closed like a fish, eyes unfocused with whisky and pain as he gripped his use
less and swelling hand. She wondered briefly if she’d have to break his other hand to get him to talk.

  And that’s when she heard the unmistakable sound of a shotgun racking a round just a few feet away from her.

  “Don’t know who you are, ma’am, but I don’t need any kind of trouble in my bar,” the bartender told her, holding a big, handsome Ithaca at his side like he knew exactly how to use it.

  Sam met his eyes. “Seems to me like you had no problem with two drunk assholes against one woman just a few seconds ago. Now you care about their well-being? Hardly gentlemanly of you,” she pointed out.

  “All I saw was two guys chatting a pretty lady up,” the bartender replied. “You broke a patron’s hand and knocked another man with a beer bottle. I’d say you had the situation covered. Now you best be going—and I ain’t asking.” He lifted the shotgun fractionally.

  “Tell me what you know about Earl Childress and I’ll go.”

  “You’ll go now,” the bartender growled, stepping forward.

  “She’ll go when she’s goddamn good and ready.”

  Sam smiled slowly as she saw Alejandro and another member of her security detail round the bar like shadows, each holding 9mm Berettas. They must have come in from the back. Smart. She couldn’t resist peeking at her watch. He’d arrived in fifteen minutes, about five minutes under what she’d thought he’d take to track her down. Impressive.

  “Put the shotgun on the bar slowly,” Alejandro ordered the barkeep, his voice hard and angry. He looked like a cowboy in the jeans and shit-kickers he’d taken to wearing around the ranch, but there was no mistaking the military precision with which he held his weapon. The bartender saw the don’t-fuck-with-me signals that Alejo was exuding like a neon sign, and complied quick enough.

  The drunk asshole in front of her blinked at the scene unfolding in front of his eyes, trying to comprehend it all even as he clutched his swollen hand. He squirmed sideways like a horseshoe crab, trying to slide out of the booth, but the guard with Alejo pointed his Beretta at his head as he made a move.

  “Who the hell are you?” the bartender asked.

  Sam considered him calmly. “The woman who’s going to teach you another lesson in manners if you don’t start answering my questions.”

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble in here—” he started, hands up in the air.

  “Then tell me what I want to know.”

  “Earl was just the town drunk. He worked, tooling on some of the rigs. Couldn’t hold his drink for shit, but he was basically harmless,” the bartender told her, like he couldn’t imagine why she’d give a damn about some bum who used to frequent his bar. “It’s the same as what I told that reporter—”

  “What reporter?” Sam asked, head snapping around.

  “The one who came in here, asking the same question,” he replied, agitated. “I told him they put ole’ Earl away for drunk driving. Said he killed some oil tycoon and his son, but I served that poor sonofabitch myself the night it happened. He was way too gone to drive. Could barely stand on his own. I told that reporter there was no way in hell Earl could’ve gotten his shit together enough to walk, much less drive—”

  “What was the reporter’s name?” Sam interrupted as she pushed up on her feet.

  If Alejo and her other guard were confused by her interrogation, they didn’t show it. They were both professional enough to remain silent and focused on the men in front of them.

  “Well hell if I know,” the barkeep replied with a huff.

  “He leave a card?” Sam pressed. “Any kind of contact?”

  The bartender turned to reach for something behind him and Alejandro stepped forward. “I’m feeling pretty mean-tempered today, culero. Give me a reason to shoot you. Please.”

  “Whoa—whoa—!” the barman lifted his hands again, eyes darting to the business end of de Soto’s Beretta. “Just getting the number the guy left.” He pointed at a beat-up old Rolodex next to the register. “Said I should call if I remembered anything, but it was a long time ago now, and I already told him all I could recollect—”

  Sam stepped over the hyena gingerly with the help of her cane. “Give it to me,” she said, holding out her hand.

  “Sure—sure—” the bartender nodded. “Don’t want any more trouble, you hear?” He handed Sam a slip of paper.

  She recognized the name and the bold scrawl before she saw the number. A hot zing of discomfort trilled through her. Wesley Elliott.

  “Sonofabitch,” she muttered under her breath.

  “We done here?” Alejandro asked pointedly, gun still trained on the bartender.

  “Yeah.” Sam tucked the paper into her jean’s pocket. As she turned to leave, ‘broken hand’ tried to struggle up to his feet. With a neat two-step, Alejo moved in front of him, backhanding him with his gun as her other guard shifted in front of her like a shield.

  ‘Broken hand’ groaned as he hit the ground next to his friend, blood trickling from his mouth.

  “There’s three hundred bucks on the table,” Sam threw over her shoulder as she turned toward the front door. “That ought to take care of my tab.”

  “You broke my damn hand!” the guy shouted hoarsely from the floor.

  “You’re lucky that’s all she did,” Alejo replied, spitting on the ground beside him.

  The late afternoon sunlight blinded her as she swung open the old door, the air was thick with heat and dust. Sam shielded her eyes, halting for a moment as she registered two of the ranch SUVs blocking in the parking lot. A third guard met her outside the door, slipping an arm around her elbow. “You alright, ma’am?”

  “I’m fine,” she told him, shaking him off. “You boys can head on back to the ranch.”

  “They’ll head back to the ranch when I say they can,” Alejandro snapped, striding out of the bar with the bartender’s Ithaca in one hand, his 9mm in the other. He looked mad as a hornet, not that she cared much. The two guards looked uncertainly between her and Alejo—tension crackling between them like spark plugs. Alejo handed the Ithaca to one of the guards. “You take Sam’s Mustang back,” he told the guard.

  “Like hell he will,” Sam replied. “You forget you work for me, de Soto?”

  “I work for the United States Government, Wyatt,” Alejandro’s gaze narrowed. “You’re just an irritating penance I’m stuck serving.”

  “Feel free to go then,” she said over her shoulder as she limped toward the Mustang.

  “I’d rather feel free to throttle you,” he said under his breath, just loud enough that she heard.

  Sam rolled her eyes, ignoring the comment as Alejandro turned to speak to the two guards in a low tone. She had her seatbelt on and was just starting the Mustang when he swung open the passenger door and slid in.

  “I don’t want any company, de Soto,” she snapped, already thinking about her next stop.

  “Like I give a shit what you want, Wyatt. You’re compromising my ability to protect you.” Alejo slammed the door shut. “And you’re a real pain in my ass, you know that?” he continued, glaring at her like he wanted to set her on fire. “You just took off without telling anyone anything. Do you know how hard it is to do my job when you’re just peeling off like a bat out of hell?”

  “Not my fault you can’t keep up with a cripple,” Sam replied. “All my cars are low-jacked. You had me on GPS the whole time.” She shook her head at him. “I’m surprised it took you so long,” she said, just to rile him up.

  “You’re lucky we got here in time.” Alejandro gave her nasty look. “Couple more minutes and you’d be bent over that table by those two grunts.”

  “Like hell.” Sam pushed on her Wayfarers. “Those idiots were under control.”

  Sam shifted onto the highway, opening up the engine, feeling a little reckless and a little angry as the Mustang roared.

  “You’re as irritating now as you were in college.” Alejandro shook his head. “Fuck that—you’re even worse now.”

  “Well, c
onsider my punishment having to put up with you trying to boss me around all the time.”

  “You going to tell me why the hell you stopped at that Podunk shit hole of all places? The combined IQ of those three idiots could break a seventy,” he remarked, settling his big, rangy frame in the seat beside her.

  Sam thought about the piece of paper burning a hole through her pocket.

  Alejandro stared at her profile a long, tense moment before releasing a frustrated sigh. “Okay, fine. At least tell me where you’re dragging me now then, so we can at least try to figure out how to back you up if you want to start another barroom brawl.”

  Sam didn’t answer. She was too busy thinking about what the bartender had told her.

  Earl Childress was too drunk to drive. Then why did he take the fall?

  The CIA investigated a domestic matter in the middle of nowhere. Why?

  “I know you’ve been climbing the walls, Wyatt. Hell, I’m climbing the goddamn walls” Alejo admitted gruffly. “But I can’t protect you if you pull shit like this—”

  I work for the United States Government. You’re just an irritating penance I’m stuck serving…

  “Why are you here, de Soto?” she asked abruptly.

  “You know why, Wyatt,” he answered, frowning at her.

  Sam stamped her foot down on the accelerator. The Mustang surged forward like a bull charging out of a cage, eating up hard, gray asphalt cracked from heat and age. She watched the distance extending between the Mustang and the Wyatt Ranch SUVs in her rearview. All she had to do was lose those trucks again—easy enough to do with the torque of her classic hot rod. Sam reached carefully for the SIG Sauer she kept hidden between her seat and the door as Alejo glanced back at the trucks.

  “We playing a game of chicken now?” he taunted, gripping the side handle. “You think the scariest thing I’ve ever faced is an angry puta driving like a crazy maniac? You’ve met my sister.”

  She thought of Rox, his baby sister. Sam trusted Rox implicitly, but they had a different history. Sam and Alejandro had never really been on the same side. In college, they’d almost always been rivals, frenemies during the best of times—when they weren’t actively trying to take each other out. Their chemistry hadn’t changed over the years, but Alejandro’s role had. Sam was long retired from serving in the military, but he was still an active operative in one of the most elite and secret special ops fraternities in the world. Sam could only imagine the things he’d done during missions—the secrets he’d kept. The true question now was whether he was loyal to Rox and her by proxy or whether he was loyal to the same government who’d known the truth about what happened to her family all along. There was only one way to find out—and she knew exactly how to press his buttons.