by Hope Anika
Above them, the twister snarled and howled like a caged animal seeking freedom. Sam could almost track it as the pressure swelled around him, pulling at his body, whipping and ripping his clothing, tugging at his hair and skin and bones until he groaned. The wind shifted without warning, wrenching his feet from the solid cement, threatening to suck him from the culvert. Lucia cried out and grabbed the waistband of his jeans, her small hand curling around it for dear life, knuckles digging deeply into his belly in an effort to pull him back down. Between them, Ben screamed with ear piercing intensity.
He hovered for just a second, maybe two, but it felt like eternity.
The cement tube trembled and cracked; water was rushing above their knees now. Survived a tornado only to drown, he thought, just before a shuddering rush enveloped them, like the thunderous roar of Niagara Falls, and he fell back to earth, landing against Lucia and Ben, nearly crushing Alexander beneath him. The wind slowed, whistled and keened; gravel and sand and dirt floated like dust motes around them. And then silence, abrupt and surreal.
Sam’s heart beat like a jackhammer in his chest. He dragged his feet beneath him, growling low in his throat as his leg screamed in protest. Beneath him, Lucia still held his waistband, and Alexander was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering.
The water was nearly at his thighs now, flowing over Lucia’s lap, engulfing Alexander. Sam forced his arms to unlock from around them and pushed back, but Lucia’s hold on his pants stopped him. He looked down at her hand—small, but strong, fine boned and delicate. Something heated and shocking and completely inappropriate stirred within him.
She made a soft sound, drawing his gaze, and color rushed into her cheeks, two bright rosy spots that glowed within the pallor of her skin. She uncurled her hand, fingers bloodless, and released him.
Alexander stirred, pushing at his weight, and Sam leaned back, until he lay against the opposite wall of the culvert. For a long moment, all he could do was breath.
“Out,” he rasped.
“Is it safe?” Lucia asked, her voice hoarse.
“Hell if I know,” he muttered. “But we can’t stay here. The water’s rising too fast.”
He reached down and hauled her up, pushing her out of the culvert. Alexander struggled to stand; he was pale and shaken and flinched when Sam lifted him up, but he didn’t fight. He followed Lucia, staggering in the water, and climbed up the ditch on hands and knees.
Sam followed, dragging the bags, the tent and his pack. His leg pulsed with pain, and the skin on his arms, his hands and back was raw and bleeding. He was soaked to the bone; his t-shirt hung from him in dirt-streaked tatters.
The sun was the first thing he saw, shining down brightly from a newly washed, crystal blue sky. Fluffy white clouds floated lazily across the atmosphere, as if the twister had been nothing more than an aberration. Or imagination. Water flowed through the culvert, gaining speed and volume, and climbing back up the ditch made him hiss as his bad leg shifted beneath him. Lucia stood waiting for him, Ben held tightly in one arm, the other around Alexander’s narrow shoulders. They stared at the horizon, looks of horror and shock stamped across their faces.
Sam didn’t want to look. He really didn’t. He’d had enough, more than enough. Too much.
But he wasn’t a man to turn away; the easy path was rarely the one he chose to travel. He understood there was no escaping most things, that it was better to face them head on. So he wiped at his face with a hand that shook faintly, sighed heavily, and followed their gaze.
Chapter Five
“Here.”
Tony looked down at the coffee Isabel Bjorn held out to him. The smell of the dark, rich brew mingled with the faint scent of cinnamon that emanated from her skin, and he couldn’t do a damn thing about the urge that gripped him, the one that demanded he step closer and take more than just the coffee she offered.
Son of a bitch.
She was just too much. Too aware, too smart. Too goddamn beautiful.
He could eat her up, swallow her whole in one luscious bite. A fucking fed, of all things. Christ, whoever ran the universe had a sick sense of humor.
“You’re worried,” she murmured, watching him with those dark eyes.
He said nothing, accepted the coffee, and turned away. They’d headed north, toward the second sighting of the ancient Nova Lucia was driving, but hadn’t gotten any farther than the little shit-hole town of Yellowgrass, Utah before they’d had to stop because of the storm—the same storm that had just laid a huge chunk of the Idaho countryside open like a gaping, bloody wound.
Were Lucia and the Cruz kids in the middle of that goddamn mess?
Was Sam?
Tony’s heart thudded heavily in his chest. In spite of the sighting, they hadn’t found the Nova; according to the old man who’d spotted it, it was just south of the storm path, jacked up on the side of the freeway, but because of the storm no one had been able to get there to confirm it was, indeed, Lucia’s Nova. The man hadn’t seen Lucia or the boys, just the car. In point of fact, no one had seen Lucia or the Cruz boys, and Sam’s cell was going straight to voicemail. Tony didn’t have any fucking clue what had happened to them, and FBI Special Agent Austin Kent was pacing around the tiny gas station they’d stopped at like a rat in a cage.
Then there was Isabel.
“Detective,” Isabel said, as if she could hear the chaos of his thoughts. “Talk to me.”
But he couldn’t. Not that he wasn’t a little tempted—he had a feeling she was a damned good listener. Probably too good. But spilling his guts wasn’t really his style. He forged his own path and held his cards close. He might not object to a round of hot, sweaty sex, but his secrets were his own.
Besides, she was the last person he could trust with the truth, with his suspicions of one of the country’s wealthiest and most influential people. The FBI was no more immune to political manipulation than any other law enforcement agency; hell, that was the entire reason they were here, because Cruz played with the big boys.
You’ve been warned.
The fuckhead.
No, telling Agent Bjorn anything would only endanger Lucia. Endanger those kids. And fuck things up more—if that were possible, which he was beginning to doubt.
Nope, he was on his own. He had to figure this thing out. And fast.
Guilt and gut-churning regret ate at him, as caustic and unpalatable as the acid currently brewing in his belly. He should have listened. Lucia wasn’t a liar, and she didn’t overreact. He should have realized that the state she’d been in, the claims she’d made—the things she’d said were real. If only in her head. And he wasn’t even sure they were in her head. There was every possibility that they were real.
Fear, he thought, disgusted with himself. That’s what had shut him down. Goddamn fear. Fear of remembering. Fear of returning to a time he’d never fully exorcised. Fear of the truth. And instead of listening—instead of doing his damn job at the very least—he’d treated her like an idiot and an inconvenience and slammed the door in her face.
He deserved everything he was getting. But not Lucia. Not if she was telling the truth. And somewhere deep inside himself, in a place he rarely visited, a place dark and damp and musty with disuse, certainty of her stirred. Unquestioning. Unrelenting.
Inescapable.
“I can’t help if you won’t talk to me,” Isabel said from behind him. Her patience was wearing thin; he could hear it in the tightening of that sweet, southern lilt. “I can’t help you, and I can’t help her.”
Tony turned around and took a sip of the coffee she’d handed to him. Her arms were crossed, her head tilted as she studied him with that piercing black gaze. He got the uncanny feeling she knew he was full of shit. That she saw everything no one else thought to look for.
Why was that?
“Her?” His brows arched; he couldn’t contain the mockery that edged his voice, although he knew he should. “Why would you want to help her?”
; “I’m not the enemy, Detective.”
Tony only snorted. At this point, everyone was the fucking enemy. Even his own men. “You’re only here because Cruz is rich as Croesus and just as well connected. If those kids were anyone else’s, the FBI wouldn’t give a rat’s ass about them. So let’s not confuse the issue here: you want those kids back, no matter the price.”
Her sleek silver brows rose, and she took a step toward him. When she spoke, her voice was low. “Is that what I want?”
Tony blinked. Something wove through her tone, a low, vibrant anger that stung him like the finest nettle. Her eyes glowed, nearly black.
“Don’t you?” he murmured, firmly squelching the urge to rub his knuckles along the ivory edge of her cheekbone. She stood so close, her scent flooded into his nostrils, sinking into his skin, his blood, his bones, and his mouth watered.
Jesus. Get a fucking grip, man.
“I want the truth,” she said, still in that hushed, intense tone, and his skin prickled in sudden, uncomfortable awareness. “What is it you want?”
So many things came to him that he couldn’t speak. What he wanted…he looked away, out at the clouds that churned across the sky like a vast army marching to war, unable to face those knowing eyes. “Truth is subjective, relative to position. I want them safe. All of them.”
Now it was Isabel who snorted. “A pretty speech for such a plain-spoken man. Tell me, Detective, what are we doing here? Who are we helping? There are a hundred men out there looking for Lucia Sanchez and those kids. But no one is looking for the reason why it’s necessary in the first place. Why is that? Because the truth is subjective and relative to position, or because they fear it?”
He flinched. Took another sip of the coffee. “Whose truth? His or hers?”
Isabel stepped into his line of sight. “Exactly.”
His breath wedged in his lungs. Chest tight, he stared down at her. “What are you saying, Isabel?”
She blinked, and Tony realized he’d used her first name. A mistake, probably, but not his first. And inevitably, regrettably, not his last.
She flicked a glance at Kent, who was arguing into his cell phone, then to Bob Peabody, who stood next to the donut display, chewing slowly on a glazed bearclaw as he took in the approaching storm. Then she stepped closer, until Tony could see the tiny golden flecks that speared from her pupils and her breath, warm and moist, brushed his chin. “You know Lucia Sanchez—no, don’t bother to deny it, I can see it, and you believe her. So what the hell are we doing here? Why are we wasting time on retrieval when we should be investigating?”
He told himself to step away. Distance. He needed distance.
Perspective.
Instead he stood motionless next to her, absorbing her scent, her heat, letting the lilt in her voice wash over him like a soothing summer rain. And called himself a thousand kinds of fool.
“Investigate,” he repeated, and his heart jerked like a hooked fish. “Christ.”
He strode to Bob, turning the older man away from the oncoming path of Austin, who was still pacing, scowling into his cell phone.
Investigate.
What a dumb bastard he was. He’d given Lucia the only chance he could: Sam. Short of apprehending her himself and stashing her somewhere safe until he had this whole mess sorted out—which would be impossible with the FBI riding shotgun—this was as good as it was going to get. And Sam would keep her safe. There was no one he trusted more. When he reached Sam again, he would tell him to hold onto her. Keep her hidden—just for a little while. Just long enough to do exactly what Isabel had suggested.
Find some goddamn proof—one way or the other.
Hell, it would take a miracle. But it was more than he had right now.
“Some storm,” Bob mumbled around his bearclaw, motioning out at the hail beginning to pelt against the glass store front. “Hope they ain’t out in it.”
But they were, somewhere. Only the thought that Sam might have found them gave Tony any real hope. “I’m heading back,” he told Bob, motioning toward Austin. “I need you to stay with Boy Wonder and check out the car.”
Bob’s bushy brows furrowed, and he gave Tony a look. Bob was four months from retirement; he’d seen more shit go down in Vegas than the local sewer plant, and despite his bland countenance and benign appearance, he was sharp as a tack.
“Why?” Bob asked idly, taking another bite of his claw. “You got somewhere you gotta be?”
For a long moment, Tony said nothing. He glanced at Isabel who stood next to the door, arms folded, waiting.
“There’s a reason she ran,” he said finally. “I’m going to find it.”
Bob’s eyes narrowed. “Cruz ain’t no one to mess with. Best be careful.”
“He’s not above the law,” Tony said flatly.
“Law don’t exist to a man like Cruz. Pays to be careful when you deal with someone like that. Doesn’t mean you don’t do your job—you just do it real quietly.” Bob looked at Austin and sighed. “Sure you don’t want some help?”
“Agent Bjorn will assist.”
Bob looked over Tony’s shoulder, his avid gray eyes taking in Isabel’s slender golden form. “She’s a Fed. Best not forget that.”
Tony met his gaze. “I won’t.”
Bob nodded. “I’ll give a buzz if we find anything in the Nova. Still can’t believe she drove a Nova. Ain’t exactly the ideal get-away car.”
“She was desperate,” Tony said. “I need to know why.”
“True enough,” Bob said and finished off his bearclaw.
Tony headed for Isabel.
Kent was watching, his baby blues narrow with suspicion. He wore a dark gray Brooks Brothers suit and a double breasted wool overcoat; his blond hair was thick with something that gleamed wetly in the overhead lighting. Even his shoes shone. He was pretty and slick and full of youthful hubris. Tony detested him.
Worse, Kent was ambitious and determined and teeming with the urgent need to prove himself.
At any cost.
“Isabel?” Kent said sharply, and Tony had to check the urge that gripped him, to slap the kid down like an annoying insect. “Where are you going?”
Tony opened his mouth, but Isabel overrode him, giving Kent a cool smile and murmuring, “Having both of us wait around is a waste of resources. Detective Malone and I are going to head back to the city and see if Miss Sanchez left us any clues as to her destination. I’ll be in touch as soon as I find something.”
Kent stared at her for a long moment. “If she left anything, it’s probably in the car.”
Isabel only shrugged. “Perhaps. But I’m tired of waiting.”
He flicked a look at Tony, then back at her. “You sure?”
Again, Tony had the desire to smack him silly. But Isabel stepped neatly between them. “Quite.” She gave Bob a sympathetic glance. “Detective Peabody will stay and accompany you.”
Bob nodded. He met Tony’s gaze, rolled his eyes and helped himself to another bearclaw. Outside, thunder rumbled and lightning arced sharply down from the sky, a blinding glint that outlined them all like a sudden camera flash. Rain poured down in a torrent.
“Ready?” Isabel asked him, her face a perfect mask of calm. Tony admired that. But her ability to lie to her partner so smoothly bothered him. There was nothing to say she wouldn’t do the same to him. Nothing at all.
He might come to like Isabel, and God knew he wouldn’t mind a long weekend in her bed.
But he didn’t trust her. Not for a minute.
Chapter Six
“Everything is just…gone.”
Lucia didn’t respond. She knew if she opened her mouth, the horrified scream lodged in her chest would escape.
They’d abandoned the Rover, which had been crumpled and tossed aside like a flattened beer can, and headed toward the closest town. It had taken nearly an hour to walk the half-mile into town, down the broken freeway, up the ruined exit, where chunks of asphalt and earth and bent metal gu
ard rail lay twisted and exposed, as if a giant mixer had tried to blend them into one creation. They’d trudged down the narrow, ruined highway as the sun disappeared into another wall of dark, churning clouds, and found nothing but death.
The tornado had wiped Canyon Falls, Idaho from the map.
Debris littered every square inch of the demolished town: sheets of scarred metal, two-by-fours turned into toothpicks, a carpet of jagged, glittering glass that coated every surface like coarse sand. Paper, insulation, cardboard; appliances lay battered in the middle of what had once been a road. Overturned cars, broken telephone poles, electrical wires strewn about like unpredictable serpents. The ground had been scoured down to earth and rock, leaving a scar that disfigured the landscape as far and wide as the eye could see.
Bodies lay like mangled dolls, old, young, furred and feathered; a foot sticking out here, an arm there. Lucia stared in disbelief, overwhelmed by the sheer devastation and cut to the bone by the human toll. Her heart felt huge and hollow, and no matter how hard she strove for control, tears slid silently down her cheeks.
“Everyone’s dead,” Alexander said dully.
“Not everyone,” Sam replied as he surveyed the destruction. “There’re always survivors.”
Which seemed unlikely from where Lucia stood, but she knew he was right. Even if it was not a sentiment she would have expected from him—hope—and even if the idea of sorting through the carnage in search of those survivors seemed impossible.
“We need to look,” he added and turned to level that brilliant aquamarine gaze on her.
