Fight For Me

by Hayden Braeburn

  As soon as he'd seen that video he had known who he was after, and he prayed he was barreling down the road to the right place. He hadn't called Chris, hadn't done any research, just jumped in his truck, rounded up his weapons and made his way out to the parcel of land he knew Archer had purchased less than a year before. It was isolated, and if it hadn't been the family farm of a fellow skip-tracer, he'd have never known Archer owned the place. The last time he'd seen it, it had been mostly trees and weeds, but in his gut he knew this was where he needed to be. He just hoped his instincts were better now than they were earlier this morning when he let Cassie out of his sight. He slammed a hand against the dash, the tingling pain shooting up his arm welcome. If he could feel, if he had control over his hand, he could pull the trigger.

  ~*~

  She didn't know how long she kicked, banged, and yelled, just that it felt like hours. Was the box so thick, her alerts were of no use? Was she using up priceless oxygen screaming like a banshee? That thought stopped her cold. Oxygen. She was sure she'd run out of breathable air before she died of dehydration. Her thoughts went to Dylan and she let out a small sob. He'd told her he loved her, that his life wouldn't be worth living without her. He'd lost his sister, his wife had been pregnant when she took her own life, and now... She slammed the door on the thought. Someone had to hear her. Someone had to know she was trapped. She had to live to tell Dylan she loved him, had to live to make love to him again, to find out if she carried his child. She gritted her teeth against another wave of nausea. Even if she'd been pregnant this morning, with the trauma to her body there was little hope of that now.

  Another train shook her prison, its whistle silent, but the sound deafening nonetheless. Where the hell was she? She didn't believe she'd been out all that long, so she guessed she was still in Ayles county. She braced an arm around her midsection as she shifted her body, trying futilely to get more comfortable. If she were still in the county, there were only two train stations, one a metro stop and the other an Amtrak station. Either would be occupied at all hours, but considering her current surroundings, she was betting on Amtrak. She pinched the bridge of her nose, distracted momentarily by the feel of dried blood under her fingers. Her nose may be broken, she was certain a few ribs were cracked, and there was no doubt she had a concussion. She was locked in a box with no way out, with limited air and no water, and the man she'd just admitted to herself she loved was frantically searching for her, blaming himself for her situation.

  She sighed heavily, the movement sending a sharp pain through her ribcage and down her left leg. She swiped the tears running down her cheeks. She couldn't give up. She had to believe he would find her, would save her, would love her. She cast her gaze around the steel walls imprisoning her. “What now, Everett?” she muttered aloud. What now indeed.

  ~*~

  The land was just as Dylan remembered it, full of trees and weeds, bordered on one side by a creek and the other a train track. All he had to do now was find Cassie and get her the hell out of the way so he could take Archer down. He tightened his hand around his rifle, the feel of it comforting. This he could do. He could identify a target and take him out. The snag was finding Cassie first. His shoulder holster rubbed against his side, the Beretta it held a solid weight against him, the extra magazines sharp in his pocket. He took in a breath, blew it out slowly. He would save her, there was no doubt in his mind, and no other option.

  He knew he should've called Chris, should have alerted the police about who had Cassie, but he hadn't. He needed to save her and he needed to know the police weren't corrupt. If Steve fucking Archer could do this, what would others do? Protect one of their own, or save Cassie? He trusted Chris, but he wasn't ready take that chance with anyone else, especially Brandon Davis.

  He could see the entire property from his perch in a tall elm tree, his eyes searching for anything out of place, anything of note. He spotted a silver sedan beside the long, rectangular box of a trailer and arranged himself and his rifle on the branch, using his scope to peer through the window.

  Empty. Cassie wasn't inside, at least not anywhere he could see. He promised himself he wouldn't simply pull the trigger when he actually saw Archer. Killing him now wouldn't help Cassie wherever she was. Information first. Death later.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket at the same time he saw Chris's car pull onto the rutted dirt road leading to the property. Evidently the detective had determined the same thing he had, finding his way out here. He checked the call, then slid his thumb across the screen. “I figured it out first,” he greeted.

  “Yet you said nothing, and you're already here.” He paused, and Dylan watched the white car make its way toward the trailer. “You haven't killed anyone yet, have you?”

  “Haven't seen anyone worth killin'.”

  “Shooting him won't find Cassidy.” He cleared his throat. “Unless you've already found her.”

  “Negative. No one is in that trailer or the car next to it.” Where the fuck had the bastard stashed Cassie? “So, you're here. Now what do we do?” he asked roughly. He was perched in a tree like the sniper he was, but he couldn't shoot her out of wherever she was hidden.

  “We find Archer and make him tell us where she is,” Chris answered simply. “Since you can see us and we can't see you, can I assume you're ready to snipe the next person you see?”

  “Not the next person. The person who deserves it.”

  He could practically hear Chris shake his head. “Won't save her.”

  “I know.”

  “Won't make you feel better either. Come down and join us.”

  “Which us?”

  “Morgan and me. Monroe and Davis will be a while—they went up to Sheridan first.”

  He could trust Chris, and Tiffany Morgan seemed useful. “See ya in five. Watch your six.”

  “Always.”

  ~*~

  A few minutes later, Dylan appeared out a stand of trees, his sniper rifle in hand. Chris worried his friend would break if they didn't find Cassidy soon, and he could almost understand. He had never loved a woman, but he loved his parents, his sisters, his nieces and nephew, and could see going over the edge to protect or avenge any one of them. If the big Ranger could hold it together until after they rescued his woman, they'd be okay.

  “Nice of you to join us,” he quipped, trying to make light of what he knew was a perilous situation. Brunswick had reported a lot of blood at the scene, and that alone meant they didn't have time to waste.

  “Y'all are late to the party. Not that there's much to see.”

  “So, now what?” Tiffany asked. “We just look?”

  “I think we spread out. Look in any nook or cranny there is to find where he's hidden Cassie. I know she's here,” Dylan instructed, the desperation in his tone and behind his eyes hitting Chris in the gut. If she were dead—which he hated to admit was a real possibility—Dylan would crumble.

  “Let's hope Archer isn't in a tree somewhere like you were,” he said instead of the comforting words that sprang to his tongue. Comfort wasn't something Dylan would accept, and he wasn't the man to give it.

  “Okay then. Walk around this huge property looking for anywhere a woman could be hidden and hope you don't get sniped while doing it,” Tiffany started. “Sounds like just another day at the office.”

  “I sure as hell hope not,” Dylan muttered.

  “Me, too.” Lately all he'd found were dead bodies. If that's what he found today, Dylan would have to fight him for the right to kill Archer. He knew the larger, better trained man would win, but he'd put up a fight just the same. He also knew he shouldn't want to kill anyone, murderer or not, but dirty cops made him insane. And vengeful. He rubbed the back of his neck, willed himself to breathe normally. Dylan was the one in love with Cassidy Everett, the one with his world at stake, and he was the one whose heart was beating itself out of his chest as he wished he could kill the Tyler cop he had decided had to live to face trial not even an hour before.<
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  Tiffany pulled her pistol from her holster. “Who's going which way?”

  Chris almost laughed at the widening of Dylan's eyes when the pretty little officer asked the question and racked her piece. Tiffany wasn't messing around. “I'll take the tree line, Chris can take the creek side, and you can take the tracks. That seem fair?”

  She nodded her blonde head. “Yessir.”

  They split up just as Dylan had dictated, insuring each had cell reception out in the boondocks before heading their separate ways. In a perfect world, they'd have backup, a helo, hell maybe a SWAT team, but this was Ayles County, and none of those things were available. So, they split up and walked. He trudged up the creek line, praying he wouldn't find a body in the water. His Catholic parents would be proud of the praying he did, a throwback to his younger, less jaded days. He kept walking, stopping to look into every ditch, behind every rock, all the while wondering if he was being watched, targeted, or ignored. By the time he'd made it the entire length of the creek, he breathed a sigh of relief. Nothing.

  He shaded his eyes from the sun and crossed the creek to continue his trek up the other side, searching from a different perspective. More hills, more ditches, and still no woman, and thankfully no body. Getting back to where he started, he called Dylan. “Nothing on the creek line.”

  He heard his friend let out a long sigh. “I haven't found anythin' either, and no sign of Archer.”

  “I can't decide if that's a good thing or a bad one. Have you heard from Tiffany?”

  “I figured she'd call you.”

  They had been working together for a number of hours, days even. “No. I'll call her. You want me to stay here or come to you?”

  “I'm headed back your way. You stay put, I'm headed to you.”

  “Watch your six,” he closed, giving Dylan back his words from earlier in the day.

  “Always.”

  The call ended with a loud click in his ear, and he pulled it away to scroll down and find Tiffany's number. He knew she was capable, a woman who could take care of herself, but she was small and there was no way she'd be a match for a man almost two feet taller than she was. He shook away the thought as the phone rang. He wasn't ready for this to become a double search and rescue mission. The call went to voice mail, and he disconnected and rang again. Voice mail. Shit.

  ~*~

  Cassidy woke to the sound of a diesel engine and a jostling of her cage. She was being moved. Her groggy mind spun. Where was she going? Who was moving her? Had Archer come back for her, or was she finally being moved around the station? Her throat itched to scream her questions, but she was certain no one would hear her after her earlier attempts at alerting anyone nearby had failed miserably. She braced herself against the wall, one hand flat against the floor, the other supporting her ribs, and she clenched her teeth against the pain in her head.

  Instead of being lifted as she'd expected, the crate was tipped up at a drastic angle, sending her reeling at the same time the door was opened and someone else dropped in. Before she could clamber up the box, she was tumbled by the woman's body and pinned to the wall.

  Her companion was small and pale, a profusely bleeding wound across her arm matched by a huge gash along her forehead and temple. Cassidy knew she had to stop the bleeding, but first she had to wait until their prison was stable. She wrapped her arms around the smaller woman, searching her brain for what to do. It was so dark, faint light filtering through in the very corners of the crate, and she barely knew more than standard first aid. She could argue, she could check her oil, she could even change a tire, but she left the doctoring to Caleb. By the time their box had been settled, she was covered in the other woman's blood and knew she had to do something, even if it was wrong.

  She scooted the two of them to the closest corner so she could see the wounds she had to patch, and noticed the woman wore a holster that was missing its gun. Her face was obscured by blood, her hair a matted mess, but she knew then it was Tiffany Morgan. God. Officer Morgan had come looking for her, and now she was locked in this cage with her, unconscious and bleeding everywhere. She swallowed the fear that infused her, the panic that froze her fingers and chilled her blood, and thought back to the the lessons Caleb had insisted she have, just in case she ever found herself in dire situation. A small laugh escaped her lips. This was most certainly a dire situation. She couldn't clean the wound, and she couldn't see well enough to determine if it was a bullet hole or cut, but she had to stop the bleeding or Tiffany would die on her.

  Thankful she'd worn a belt that morning and uncaring it was one of her favorites, she pulled it from her jeans and wound it around the officer's bicep. She knew the only way to stop the other woman from bleeding out was to keep constant pressure, and by cinching the leather around the gash, she could do that. “Hope you don't mind, Tiff,” she muttered as she stripped off her fitted t-shirt, leaving her in a pair of jeans and a white lacy bra. She folded the shirt in a long strip, placing it between the belt and the wound, and bore down as hard as she could, eliciting a soft moan from her patient.

  “It's okay, Tiffany,” Cassidy found herself assuring, and quite possibly lying.

  “Shot me,” the officer mumbled.

  So it was a gunshot wound she had just doctored with a belt and t-shirt. Great. “I think I've stopped the bleeding, at least,” she answered quietly.

  Her eyes fluttered open, and Cassidy wished the light were better in their prison, allowing her to see Tiffany's pupils. The gash across her head looked nasty, and she guessed the officer suffered a concussion like she was sure she did herself. Steve Archer must like clocking women across the face. She couldn't wait to throw him in prison for a long, long, time.

  “Was looking for you. Steve connected you to the Rossi and Stanza cases, and was punishing you for something.” Tiffany's voice was rough, but getting stronger as she spoke. “I don't know why, but I know it was him.”

  “I know why,” she whispered, unsure why she had lowered her voice. “There was a case I couldn't try a couple years back that Archer decided was my fault. I wanted to stop them from trafficking women and young girls, but I couldn't. Not with the evidence I was given. He threatened me then, but it's been two years. Why now?”

  Tiffany shifted to sit up straighter against the wall. “Rossi's old outfit is headed by Dwayne Irving now, operating out of Sheridan.” She wiped a hand across her face. “I found a house in Sheridan that Steve bought under an assumed name a few years ago. I don't know the connection, but there has to be one.” She rested her head against her knees. “I wish I had my computer.”

  This was not a time for research, no matter how much she wanted to know what the hell was going on. “I wish for a way to open the door, water, and fresh air.”

  Tiffany rasped a gravely laugh. “We don't have to worry about air. Very rarely are these things air tight, and there's light from the corners. I won't argue with the need for a way out, though.”

  Unbelievably, she found herself laughing. Of course the box wasn't air tight—there was light. She was supposed to be intelligent, yet she'd freaked herself out thinking she'd use all her air and die. At least she had a head injury to blame for her idiocy. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she asked what she was sure was a stupid question, “There's no chance he left your phone, is there?”

  “Right. Like he'd manage to make us all chase our tails for weeks, and would let me keep my phone when he threw me into a storage container?”

  “No need to be snippy, Officer.”

  “Sorry.” She was silent for a moment. “Chris and your Dylan are out there.”

  That got her attention and made her heart beat faster. “Where? Here?”

  “Uh-huh. We were all split up looking for you. Looks like I found you.”

  “That you did.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “Tiffany isn't answering her phone,” Chris shouted as soon as Dylan emerged from the trees. “I'm afraid she's hurt, or captured, or...” he
let the thought trail off.

  Now they had two women to rescue, and only one place to look. “Get in the truck.” Chris didn't question him, instead sprinting to the Bronco and vaulting into the passenger seat. Thoughts of what they might discover when they finally found both women bombarded him, but he shoved them away. He refused to accept anything but a whole and alive Cassie, no matter that it had been hours since she disappeared.

  He tore ass across the field, not caring about anything but getting where he now knew they needed to be, chanting, “Hang on, Cassie, hang on,” under his breath. When they made it to the edge of the property he turned the truck hard right to parallel the train tracks, throwing dirt and grass in a wide arc, peppering his windshield with gravel. As he sped down the graveled path, he took solace in Chris's hushed Italian prayer from the passenger seat. He hoped God was on their side, because time sure wasn't.

  He was looking down the tracks as they drove until Chris's sharp yell drew his attention. “Look!”

  He turned toward where his friend was pointing to find a weathered blue steel storage container angled across their path. When Dylan punched the brake, Chris leaped from his seat before they'd even stopped, his hollered, “Watch your six, amico,” trailing behind him as he hit the ground.

  He threw the truck in park and drew his sidearm before sliding from his own seat. Cassie and Tiffany had to be inside the container. Chris made it to the long metal box first, but when he pulled the bars, they wouldn't move. God, they needed those doors open. He ran to help Chris, “Cassie, are you in there?” tearing from his throat. If she answered, he couldn't hear her, but he had to believe she was inside. He shoved Chris out of the way to work the bars himself, his tenacious friend latching onto the section of bar beneath him. There was grunting and swearing until together they managed to wrench the doors apart.