by Rita Herron
Jordan fastened her seat belt, well aware of Miles’s terseness as he argued with his superior over what he should do.
“Of course this is personal,” Miles said. “But I’m not turning back. You can have my badge, but I’m going to find Dugan and bring my boy home.”
Jordan looked out the window at the darkening sky and prayed they would find Timmy.
That she hadn’t been wrong about Dugan—that they’d bring Timmy home alive.
* * *
MILES LATCHED ONTO THE HOPE Jordan’s words had offered like a lifeline. She was right. He couldn’t give up.
He couldn’t lose his boy.
Night had set in, the city lights glittering, the evening crowd of tourists and locals making the traffic thick. He cut through the side streets, weaving around slower cars, and blowing past a stalled vehicle.
He would get Timmy back and take him fishing, and buy him that horse that he’d promised him. And they’d get a dog and a ranch and spend hours together working the horses and just...hanging out by the creek.
Yes, he had to have a creek on the property and stables and when Timmy was older they might spring for a four-wheeler.
Sucking in a calming breath, he focused on the road. A minute later, his cell phone rang. He yanked it open, hoping the caller had answers that would lead to his son.
“Miles, it’s Blackpaw. Our computer guys called. You were right. Dugan had some tests run when he got out of prison.”
Miles ground his jaw. He didn’t give a damn. Except for how it might help him find the bastard. “And?”
“He has a brain tumor. Inoperable.”
“So he’s tying up unfinished business before he croaks.” He saw Jordan frown. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. Ables wasn’t at his house. Looks like he packed a suitcase, and judging from his computer, he booked a flight to Mexico himself. Airport authorities are waiting to pick him up.”
Stupid son of a bitch probably thought the cops hadn’t made the connection yet. At least Miles hoped that was what he thought.
Then they could catch him and find out exactly how many women he had killed.
And why he’d helped his half brother when nothing in their investigative research had shown that the two of them were close.
Miles’s phone buzzed again. “Let me know when you arrest him,” he said. “I have another call coming in.”
He clicked over to answer the other call. “McGregor.”
“It’s Special Agent Graham Storm,” the man said. “I’m a friend of Mason Blackpaw’s.”
Miles tensed. “Yeah?”
“Robert Dugan just blew through the border. He’s in Mexico.”
Miles pounded his fist on the steering wheel, nearly losing control of the vehicle. Jordan gripped the wheel to right the vehicle and gave him a panicked, questioning look.
“Dammit,” Miles said, gathering his composure. “I think his mother lives there. Her first name is CeeCee. Can you find an address?”
“I’ll get back to you ASAP.”
Sweat beaded on his brow as he ended the call and sped up.
“What was that about?” Jordan asked.
“You were right.” Miles took the road leading out of town, speeding up to pass a truck that was about to pull out in front of him. “Dugan has a brain tumor.”
Jordan fidgeted with a lock of her hair. “That might explain the tic, and why he’s been behaving so erratically.”
“As opposed to his methodical, sadistic kills.”
Jordan nodded, her expression troubled. “It also explains why he’s going to see his mother now. Time is running out for him.”
And maybe for Timmy.
But Miles bit back the words. He couldn’t allow himself to believe that.
Jordan didn’t comment further either. She turned and studied the passing scenery while he focused on the road. The miles crawled by, but finally he neared the border. The border patrol was on full alert, official policía vehicles in abundance, traffic clogged as the patrolmen checked passports and inspected vehicles.
Agent Storm was supposed to alert the authorities he was on his way, so he pulled to the side, stepped from the car and approached one of the officers.
The officer immediately looked wary, his hand poised on his weapon. Miles had already removed his ID and passport and held both of them for identification purposes. “Miles McGregor. Special Agent Graham Storm of the FBI was supposed to contact you about me. I’m here to meet with your authorities about a man named Robert Dugan. He’s wanted for kidnapping a child. I’ve just been alerted that he crossed the border.”
The officer examined his ID, ordered him to stay put, went to speak with another officer, then returned. “One of our policía officers is waiting to meet with you across the border. Pull your car up here and we’ll check your passports, then you can be on your way.”
“Thank you.” Miles quickly returned to his Jeep, drove to the checkpoint, then handed him their passports. The officer scrutinized their paperwork and his badge, then finally let them pass.
Another policía officer pulled up in front of him and escorted him to the nearest police station. They passed several trucks and cars and a tourist bus as they entered the small town, then wove through the village where locals sold their wares. Other small stores, a cantina, gift shop, cigar shop and beer store occupied one row while the police station sat at the far end of the town.
The small adobe structure looked worn and was overgrown with weeds. Frustration knotted his insides.
Hell, he didn’t want to deal with the police here. If he found Dugan he wanted to kill him without worrying about the rules.
The Mexican police were known for taking bribes to supplement their poor pay, too, but since his business with them wasn’t related to drugs, he hoped for assistance.
The officer who’d led them to the station climbed out and escorted them up the dimly lit path to the doorway. Dirt and weathered patches made the building look ancient, and as Miles entered, he scanned the front room that consisted of dingy concrete walls and floors.
The place reeked of sweat, cigarettes and filth. A short robust Hispanic man in uniform with a bulbous nose and thick mustache stood, tugging at his too-tight uniform. “Officer Sanchez,” the man said in greeting.
Miles introduced the two of them. “You know why we’re here?”
“Sí.” Sanchez gestured toward his desk where a faxed photo of Dugan and Timmy lay. “Your FBI call, he say this man wanted for kidnapping your son.”
“That’s right,” Miles said, antsy to skip the chitchat and find Dugan. “We have reason to believe that his mother lives here, and that he’s on his way to visit her. I hope you can help us track her down.”
“Sí, we will try.” The man rubbed at his thick mustache, then gestured toward the ancient computer on his desk. “Unfortunately we do not have the fancy equipment you do, but our federal police division has better. I contact them and let you know.”
Miles clenched his teeth in frustration. That could take days. Days he might not have.
“Where will you be staying?” Sanchez asked.
Miles glanced at Jordan with a frown. “I’m not sure. But you can reach me on my cell phone.” He scribbled down the number and handed it to the officer. “Please check your records for information on Dugan’s mother. Her name is CeeCee Dugan. I think she’s a prostitute.”
The man’s eyebrows rose, making his mustache twitch. “If she is as you say, she may not have a steady address. But there is a whorehouse where many of the locals work.”
Miles’s pulse picked up. “Where is that?”
Sanchez rolled a cigar between his fingers. “I tell you, but you don’t give girls no trouble. They see you and think arrest and run.”
“I’m here to get my son back, not arrest your street girls,” Miles said. He’d use whomever he had to in order to find Timmy.
Sanchez studied him for a moment, but finally conceded. “The cantina i
s the pickup spot. The Red Hot motel at the end of the street is where the girls take the johns. That is, unless they do them in the back room.”
Miles thanked him again, then took Jordan’s arm and led her outside.
Jordan pulled her jacket around her. “Even if she once worked that street, she might not be working there now.”
Of course he knew that.
“Dugan is thirty-five so she might be in her fifties or older by now,” Jordan continued. “If age hasn’t deteriorated her appeal as a hooker, she might have succumbed to some disease she picked up from one of her johns.”
“True,” Miles said. “But if she’s near this town or worked here before, one of the other girls might know where she is now.”
At least he hoped that was the case. They needed a damn break.
Night had set in and Timmy had to be terrified.
He didn’t want him to have to spend the night with a monster.
* * *
JORDAN COULD FEEL Miles’s tension because her own body was riddled with anxiety, too. Night loomed long and lonely, the darkness a reminder that Timmy was out in the unknown with Dugan and not with his father where he belonged.
The wilderness between them and the next town meant they could be anywhere by now.
Every hour, day and mile that passed would make it more difficult to find Timmy.
And lessened their chances of finding him alive.
What if Dugan’s tumor affected him to the point that he lost all senses and killed Timmy?
Shivering with worry, she followed Miles to the Jeep and climbed in, hoping they weren’t chasing a dead lead. But they had nothing else to go on.
“You can wait in the car if you want while I go in,” Miles said.
Jordan shook her head. “No, I might be able to help.”
Miles looked doubtful, but he was running on emotions and didn’t argue.
He drove to the cantina and parked. They went to the door together. “Be careful, Jordan. Watch your drink and stay close to me.”
Jordan wanted to tell him she wasn’t a fool, but she refrained. He didn’t need her testiness now. He needed some clue as to how to find his son.
The place was dimly lit, authentic Mexican decor with sombreros, maracas and cacti decorating the orange-and-yellow adobe walls. The bar held dozens of patrons, mostly men, while the restaurant section catered more to couples, although the place’s reputation must be known in the area because there were few families.
Two men at the end of the bar gave her lewd looks while a scantily clad woman in red eyed her from the back area, where a string of Mexican beads dangled over a doorway to the back room.
Another female in thigh-high boots, a low-cut spandex top and miniskirt poured tequila through a funnel into a man’s throat in a corner.
Miles slid onto a barstool and motioned to the bartender for two beers. Jordan excused herself to go to the ladies’ room while he spoke with the bartender and a local man sitting beside him.
She spied the woman in red watching Miles. Sensing trouble, she veered by the ladies’ room and decided to confront her.
“Miss?”
The woman started to duck behind the beads, but Jordan caught her arm. “Please, wait. I need to speak with you.”
At close range, she realized the woman was much younger than she originally thought, probably early twenties. Already she looked aged from the hardships of her lifestyle. “What do you want?” the woman asked, trying for bravado. “You and your policía friend come here to shut us down, take our jobs.”
“No, that’s not why we’re here.” How had she known Miles was police? “Did someone warn you we were coming?”
The girl shrugged. “I recognize a pig when I see one.”
Jordan softened her grip. “You have it all wrong. That man is a detective but not here in Mexico. And he didn’t come to arrest you or expose this place.”
The wariness in the girl’s eyes dissipated slightly, and Jordan released her hold. “Then why you come?”
“Because of a man named Robert Dugan, a man who has murdered many people and kidnapped Mr. McGregor’s son. Timmy’s only five.” Jordan paused, pleading with her eyes. “He’s in terrible danger and we’re trying to find him. We traced him across the border.”
The young girl shifted and fidgeted with her hands. “You think he come here?”
Jordan glanced around the place. “I don’t know. Maybe, maybe not. His mother lived in Mexico, and we think she might have been a...working girl.”
The young woman’s eyes widened.
“Her name was CeeCee. Her son is thirty-five so she would be older than you.”
“CeeCee,” the young woman said. “No one name her here.”
Jordan gave her arm a squeeze. “Thank you anyway. If you hear anything about this man—” she removed the printout of Dugan’s face and showed it to her “—please let us know.” She jotted Miles’s cell phone number and name on the handout and gave it to the woman, then ducked into the bathroom.
By the time she finished washing her hands, the woman suddenly appeared in the bathroom. “I show to others,” she said quietly. “One of the girls say she go by Candy. She was here but gone year ago.”
Jordan’s pulse pounded. “Do you know where she went?”
The girl shoved a small piece of paper in her hand, and Jordan realized it was an address. “Left with man who came through. Live with him.”
Jordan thanked her and rushed to tell Miles. He looked grim, but asked the bartender the man’s name.
“Cortez, he mean,” the bartender said. “But he like Candy and say he keep her for himself.”
“I have his address.” Jordan pushed it into Miles’s hand and he motioned toward the door.
“Let’s go.”
Jordan’s stomach churned as she slid into the Jeep, and they drove away from the small town. Soon the buildings gave way to desolate land and patches of poverty-ridden areas that made Jordan sad for the people who lived in the tiny rotting dwellings. They passed a section of concrete houses that had fallen into disrepair and were abandoned, then Miles turned onto a road that seemed to lead nowhere.
A chill enveloped her as the endless emptiness, darkness and barren land swallowed them. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
“According to the GPS, yes.” Miles rubbed at his neck where she was sure the tension was knotting his muscles. Her own was cramped and aching from fatigue.
They lapsed into silence, the narrow road winding deeper into the wilderness, but finally Jordan spotted a set of buildings that looked like a compound ahead.
“There,” she said. “That has to be it.”
Miles sped up, both of them surveying the buildings, which at first sight appeared dark and empty.
Despair threatened as she twisted in her seat.
“I don’t see any cars or lights.”
“Dugan could have hidden the car inside the compound.”
“You think he knows we’ve followed him here?”
Miles shrugged. “I think he’s delusional and paranoid and knows he’s a wanted man. He’ll do whatever he can to hide himself.”
Jordan clung to hope as he slowed the Jeep and pulled up to the compound. The metal gate was open, and as he slowed, she saw no cars inside the premises. No sign of movement or life.
Night shadows hugged the tattered walls, but the headlights from Miles’s Jeep fell on peeling paint, overgrown weeds and a sign saying Casa Laredo that hung askew, blowing in the wind, all confirming that no one lived here year-round.
Apprehension knotted her insides as Miles cut the lights and pulled to a stop. He grabbed a flashlight and his gun, then opened the car door and stepped outside.
* * *
MILES INCHED FORWARD, his senses alert. “Jordan, wait in the car.”
She glanced around at the desolate area with a grimace. “No way. I’ll feel safer with you.”
He sighed. “All right, but stay behind me.”<
br />
“Yes, sir.”
He cut her a sharp look at her sarcastic tone, then realized she was simply tired and worried the same as him. Worse, she had been physically assaulted, a bullet had skimmed her arm, and yet, she’d rallied, fought for his son and been a rock for him.
She was the most courageous woman he’d ever met.
He didn’t know how to thank her.
But he didn’t have time to think about it now. He scanned the flashlight along the ground and spotted fresh footprints in the dirt.
His heart hammered. “Someone was here.”
“You’re right.” Rocks skittered below Jordan’s boots as she followed him. “There’s more over there.”
She pointed to the side entrance, and he followed the trail. A man’s prints. No child’s.
A hollow emptiness tore at him. Dugan could have been carrying Timmy.
No. He refused to let the images and possibilities in his mind.
Instead, he turned the knob on the ramshackle wooden door and it squeaked open. Sweat beaded on his neck and trickled downward as he shined the flashlight inside and followed the dirt tracks. The concrete floor was worn and showed signs that an animal had been inside through a mudroom, then a small hallway leading to a den and kitchen combination. The furniture left behind had been chewed and picked by birds and God knew what else.
He held his gun at the ready in case Dugan was still here, waiting to ambush him. The sound of the wind whipping through the stone walls echoed around him.
Then he spotted a T-shirt on the floor of the den. A green T-shirt that looked like the one Timmy had been wearing when Dugan had snatched him.
His breath stalled in his chest as he knelt to examine it. Dammit.
No...
Blood dotted the shirt and a note had been pinned to the sleeve.
Say goodbye to your son, McGregor. I won.
Chapter Nineteen
Miles doubled over as pain and denial ripped through him. No...Timmy could not be dead.
He couldn’t be.
A loud groan punctuated the air, and somewhere on a distant level he realized it had come from him. His chest heaved for air, the room swirled with an icy darkness that beckoned and bile rose to his throat.
