by V. B. Tenery
Chance Crawford Home
Gulf Coastline, Mexico
Gray clouds hung low and dense in the sky. Wind whistled around the corners of the house, and waves pounded violently against the shore. In the uncertainty of what lay ahead, Sara watched as Emily withdrew into herself, her beautiful eyes wide with fear, but her fighting spirit was intact. “Sara, I’ve heard of people carving their toothbrushes into weapons. Do we have anything sharp enough to do that?”
Sara shook her head. “Not in here, but we can try to slip a couple of knives in from the kitchen. If we can do that, we won’t need the toothbrushes. I’d suggest we try to use the knives on Tom, but I’ve seen him in action. We might wind up dead or injured and helpless.”
A knock sounded on the door. True to his word the night before, Tom handed in their clean garments.
Emily passed on breakfast. That was a good thing. Sara wanted to speak to Tom alone and it would be easier without Emily’s presence.
Tom set a stack of blueberry pancakes in front of Sara. She pushed the food around on the plate, searching for the words she needed. “Tom, if what you told me is true, that you’ve never killed for money before, you need to let Emily and me go. There are lines of humanity that once you cross, you can never go back.”
Tom shook his head. “You’re asking me to go to prison for you. I can’t do that.”
“You wouldn’t have to go to jail. Emily and I would tell the authorities you wore a mask, and we can’t identify you. If you’ve learned anything about me, you know I don’t lie. Take us to safety, and we’ll give you time to escape before we notify the authorities.” Sara’s gaze searched his face. “Emily’s only twenty-two with a lifetime ahead of her.”
“It’s tempting, but to do that, I would have to kill the man who’s going to make me rich. He wouldn’t stop trying to kill Emily and would probably put out a contract on me.”
“Not necessarily. The man is wanted for killing five people. You could turn him in to the Texas authorities. He’d get the death penalty, and you wouldn’t have to worry about him.”
The sounds of a small aircraft made him look up. He ran his fingers through his hair. “That just might work. We’ll talk about this later. I need to think it through. Put the dishes away and help me get rid of the extra food. That may be my visitor. I don’t want this guy asking questions.”
While she removed the food and dishes, Sara slipped a carving knife into the back of her jeans. Tom was too busy removing all signs of their presence to notice.
He followed her back to the bedroom and pushed her inside. “Be very quiet. If you hear anyone at the door, get into the closet.”
Two hours dragged by before Sara heard gravel crunch in the drive. The man responsible for the Grayson family’s murders had arrived. Anger rolled through her system and she wanted desperately to get a look at his face, to be able to identify him if they got out of this mess alive.
Sara sat on the bed, her arm around the younger girl’s shoulder. Emily knew about her conversation with Tom, but he hadn’t made any promises. As time passed, Sara attempted a brave face, but her heart raced so wildly she thought it would burst from her chest.
The conversation in the other room was indistinguishable. It seemed an eternity before a chair scraped the floor.
Two shots rang out.
Sara clamped her hand over Emily’s mouth to stifle her scream. Had Tom decided to accept her offer? To kill the contractor and let them go?
The doorknob rattled.
Sara grabbed Emily’s arm and shoved her into the closet, stepped in behind her, and eased the door closed, sending up a fervent prayer. Her knife would be no match for a gun.
Footsteps walked through the house, came back and tried the door again. With a sickening feeling in her stomach, Sara understood. The shots were fired at Tom, not by him.
Seconds ticked like hours until the front door slammed and someone tried to raise their bedroom windows, but the bars kept him at bay. As the footsteps receded on the gravel outside, Emily ran to the window and peeked through the bars. She gasped and stepped back, her face ashen.
Sara moved to her side. “Did you see him? Who is it?”
Emily braced herself against the wall. “That man...his windbreaker.”
“What about it?”
“Ian, he has a blue one just like it.”
Sara shook her head. “No, that isn’t possible. He would never…”
Anger flushed Emily’s cheeks. “I’m not mistaken, Sara. The jacket is too unusual.”
“Unusual how?”
“Jesus Saves is printed on the back.”
“Why would he…what motive could he have? I can’t believe—could you see his face?”
Emily shook her head. “The hood was pulled up, and his back was to the window.” She dropped like a stone onto the mattress. “I don’t want to believe it either.” Her bottom lip quivered. “I trusted him.”
Sara’s attention snapped to the door. Locked, and Garza and his minions were on their way. And they wouldn’t give up so easy. They would blow off the lock and drag them away.
The doorknob rattled again, and Emily shot a frightened glance at Sara.
Sara snatched the knife from her waistband and stepped behind the door.
It eased open, and she raised the knife.
“S-Sara?”
Tom stood, braced against the doorframe, then slid to a sitting position on the floor. Wet red liquid dripped through his fingers that clasped the wound in his side and dripped onto the tile.
Sara cast the knife aside and knelt beside him. “Tom—.”
He shook his head, his face drained of color. “No time. G-Get to the boat. Head due north.” He coughed. “There’s . . . a radio and cell phone charger in the boat.”
“We can’t leave you like this…”
“S-Sara, go. Garza will be here any minute. You can’t...can’t let him find you here. Keys...in my pocket.”
“Tom—”
A weak smile tilted the corners of his mouth. “Just this once, don’t argue. Go. Serves me right for kidnapping Mother Teresa. Wait.” He placed a hand on her arm. “The life jackets onboard are EPIRB equipped, they have transmitters, GPS, and strobe lights…activate them all as soon as you are in open water.”
He slumped onto his side. Out cold or dead, she couldn’t tell.
For a split-second, she hesitated. What could she do for him? Getting her and Emily taken by Garza would help no one. She’d send help back to him.
She fished the keys from his pocket, grabbed Emily’s hand, and ran for the boat, snatching up her handbag as she left.
An audible prayer escaped her lips. She’d never driven a boat—of any kind.
They scrambled aboard and rushed to the bridge. Sara held the keys in trembling hands, her eyes searching the maze of instruments. “Emily, do you know anything about boats?”
Emily nodded and took the keys from her hand, then searched the panel for the ignition.
In the distance, barely visible through the pelting rain, two automobiles sped along the coast road headed toward Tom’s cabin, maybe fifteen minutes away. It had to be Garza and his minions.
“Emily, hurry!”
The young girl bit her lip as her eyes search the panel. “I’m trying—”
Sara’s voice raised a couple of octaves. “They’ll be here any minute. Can I do anything?”
Emily snapped. “Yes, be quiet and pull up the anchor.”
Suddenly, a smile creased Emily’s face and within seconds the motor roared to life. “I’ve never backed a boat, but here goes.”
She hit the slip on the way out, but kept going until the cruiser was far enough out to turn towards open sea. She breathed a triumphant, “Yes,” and pushed the throttle all the way forward.
Sara found the charger connection, inserted the plug, then glanced at the gas gauge. Half full. What did that mean in a boat this size? Was there additional fuel on board, and if so, where was the gas tank?
&nb
sp; On the shore, Garza and his entourage slid to a stop, shouting in Spanish. Car doors flew open pouring men onto the shore.
No shots whizzed around their heads. For a moment it surprised Sara. Then she understood.
Dead women were not profitable. Garza had a place nearby. He would have a boat there to follow them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Chance Crawford’s Home
Gulf Coastline, Mexico
Chance drew a shuddering breath. The roar of the boat motor echoed through the windows followed by a crash against something. He listened for the sounds that would assure him the boat wasn’t disabled. The growl of the engines at full throttle told him Sara and Emily were headed into the Gulf.
Five minutes later, cars came to a halt outside the house. Chance leaned back. No telling what Garza would do. Chance lay back on the floor and closed his eyes.
The front door burst open. Someone came inside, kick his foot, then turned and left. Voices sifted through the open door.
A voice that sounded like Garza, spoke. “Chance is dead.”
“How?” One of the men asked.
“Shot. Must’ta been one of the women. No matter now. We’ll find out once we get our hands on those two. Julio said one of them was a spitfire.” He laughed. “My specialty is taming spitfires.”
Doors slammed and gravel pinged the house.
Chance groaned. They were headed to Garza’s place to get his boat. At best, Sara and Emily had only a twenty-minute head start. And the Last Chance was no match for Garza’s Mark V speedboat.
Chance’s vision blurred as he sat upright. The pain in his side was almost unbearable. But the wound was his biggest problem. He was losing a lot of blood.
He rolled over on one knee and tried to stand. He grabbed hold of the door facing and struggled to his feet, leaning against the wall. A growl of pain escaped his lips.
He thanked whatever gods may be that he’d put on body armor before meeting the contractor. It was an old habit left over from his Special Forces days. Unfortunately, the jerk sent one shot into his right side below the vest.
The Englishman had lured him into feeling safe. He brought the money and talked for a while. When Chance went to refill the man’s coffee cup, he pulled the gun and fired. No warning.
One bullet caught in the Kevlar liner over his heart. The second missed his vital organs, but it hurt like blazes and he could die from loss of blood. It could be worse. The shooter could have put a bullet through his head. He owed that guy a debt, and he would happily pay it if he got out of this alive.
First order of business. Stop the bleeding.
Ignoring the agony, Chance made his way to the master bath. He pulled down a black case and retrieved a syringe, filled it a quarter of the way—something to ease the pain, but not enough to knock him out. At least until he could get help. That done, he applied a pressure bandage over the side wound. Gritting his teeth, he secured the dressing in place, winding the tape around his body a couple of times.
A wave of guilt swept over him. He’d killed more than his share. Special Ops didn’t keep count and they didn’t lose sleep. Team members were your brothers. You had each other’s back, and you never left a man behind, even at the risk of your own life. He’d known the men in his unit better than he knew himself. There had been honor in that. Now he’d fallen low enough to kidnap two women who had everything to live for, and who just might lose their lives, or fall into Garza’s hands, because of him.
The men he and his team took out targeted innocent civilians seeking the maximum damage possible. The thugs he had set on Sara and Emily were even worse.
Injured, he couldn’t go to their rescue, but perhaps he could help in another way. He snatched up his phone and punched in numbers.
He ended the call, and sat on the bedside. He had to collect his thoughts and leave. Garza would come back. Snatching his keys from the hook, he made his way outside.
The storm’s velocity had increased, and his clothes stuck to his body before he reached the shelter of the Land Rover. It was an older model he kept in Mexico. Not such a target for thieves as the one he parked at his berth stateside.
Cool rain had felt good on his face, but soon the wet clothes and his injuries made his body jerk from the cold, probably in shock as well. He leaned back against the headrest and took deep breaths until the chills and dizziness passed.
He closed his eyes and pounded his fist against the steering wheel and swore a promise to the women he’d captured. However long it took, he would make sure they got home safely.
Car in motion, Chance checked the gas gauge. More than enough to get to his destination. He followed the unpaved road, his vision blurred by the torrent of rain. Sheets of water had turned the road into a quagmire, making the vehicle slide and threatening to leave him stuck—a sitting duck for pursuers. He switched the Rover into four-wheel drive, and the going was much easier. Finally, he reached the safety of the village. Everything was dark. Which meant the storm had knocked out the power. Not unusual for this backwater town. He found the building he was looking for and parked the Land Rover in back.
He gazed at the dark sky knowing somewhere on the turbulent sea Sara and Emily were running for their lives. If Sara’s God existed, he hoped He would guide her to safety. If they perished, it would be on his head for bringing them here.
He staggered to the front of the building and knocked. The door opened, and a woman in a black veil stood in the threshold.
“Sister,” Chance said, stumbling through the opening. “I need your help.”
The Last Chance
Gulf of Mexico
Sara stood by as Emily set the course Tom had directed, and then checked to ensure the throttle was wide open.
The boat could go no faster. It wasn’t designed for speed. The Last Chance seemed to stand still in the enormous waves in their path. Lightning streaked across the darkening sky as the thunderstorm visually surrounded them. Violent winds escalated, and the boat pitched down into a deep trough, sending sheets of water across the deck and into the bridge.
Tom’s last words rang in Sara’s ears, and on rough sea legs, she made her way below deck. In a closet at the bottom of the stairs, she found six life jackets. Hauling them topside, she secured them in the wheelhouse. It took her a few minutes to discover how to activate them, but soon she had all six operational and hopefully sending distress signals of their location.
Her thoughts went back to Tom. Shot and bleeding, perhaps dead. It was his own fault, but that didn’t take away the guilt she felt at leaving him alone, unsaved and dying. She whispered an ardent prayer, “Lord, give him another chance.”
She turned to Emily. “Do you know how to operate the radio?”
The girl shook her head.
Sara brushed wet hair from her face. “Well, I’m not getting any bars on the cell. No choice but to see if I can reach someone on the radio.”
She fumbled with the dials until out of the corner of her eye something red flashed on the clear side of the horizon.
Her heart jumped in her ribcage, the radio forgotten.
A red speedboat barreled unchecked for the Last Chance.
Garza.
Like an evil missile locked onto a fighter plane, the speedboat narrowed the gap. If he caught up with them, he could board the boat, and their trouble would just begin.
The cabin cruiser was taking a beating from the angry storm. The smaller boat should be in even more trouble, but they continued the pursuit. Sara hit the touch screen on her iPhone.
At last. She had three bars.
She sent a brief frantic message to Matt as the staccato blast of gunfire sounded above the wind’s roar.
Bullets slammed into the ship’s hull.
Their hunters were trying to disable the boat. But with the turbulent sea and the high winds the shots were inaccurate. She motioned for Emily to get down. A stray bullet could kill them as easily as an intended one.
CHAPTER TWENTY
-THREE
Coast Guard Cutter,
Mexican Gulf Coast
Matt, Joe, and Forbes had cruised the shoreline since dawn, compliments of the Coast Guard who had provided a C-130 and crew to help in the search. The Bureau had pulled strings in Washington, and a cutter picked them up around 5:00 AM.
They stood on the bridge next to the pilot, feet planted to balance against the rough sea.
The hours dragged by until Matt lost all track of time.
Forbes tapped Matt on the shoulder and pointed to the east. “Those clouds look mean. We can’t stay out here much longer. We’ll be worse than a blind goose in a thunderstorm.”
“We’re good for a while, sir,” the pilot said. “This craft is made for rough water unless it reaches hurricane intensity, and we have radar onboard.”
The guardsman was a sailor. She knew her business. The FBI had radioed an hour ago they’d received an anonymous tip that the missing women were in a boat headed for the Texas coast. Matt had no intention of giving up. Sara and Emily were still in danger and could be close by. “We keep looking as long as possible. Neither of those women are experienced sailors, and we don’t know their circumstances. They could be injured.” He turned his back on Forbes. “The cutter’s radar will help us locate Crawford’s boat.”
The pilot glanced over her shoulder at Matt. “We’re getting a number of distress signals from lifejackets in the area the boat should be in. We’ll head that way.”
“Does that mean they’re in the water?” Matt asked.
“Not necessarily, sir. The women could have activated them to help us find them.”
The agent’s brow furrowed in a skeptical scowl. “It’s a long shot, Foley. The Gulf is a big place. It may take hours to find them. My boss just texted me that the Coast Guard is putting more ships in the area to help with the search so additional help is on the way.”
Forbes spoke to the pilot. “Anything on the radar yet?”
The pilot shook her head.
Matt’s cell phone vibrated. He pulled it from his pocket, trying to shield it from the rain. His pulse gave a triple beat as he saw the caller ID. It was Sara.
