Capsized

by Sharon Sala

  Eyeing the red cowboy boots with disgust, she pulled on the socks, then the boots, stomping her feet as she stood in order to jam her feet the rest of the way inside. Then she strode to the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door and rolled her eyes.

  There was a two-inch gap of skin between the tail of her T-shirt and the waistband of the shorts. With the long length of legs between the shorts hem and the top of the boots, she looked like a bad version of the token female on that old television show The Dukes of Hazard.

  “Eat your heart out, Daisy Duke,” Kelly muttered, then sat down in the only chair to await Daryl Connelly’s return.

  * * *

  Quinn was still smarting from sexual frustration when he came out of the bathroom. And what he saw didn’t help matters any. She was a teenage boy’s vision of heaven on earth, and he felt himself regressing. The only way he knew to make sure he stayed safe was to keep her ticked off.

  “Nice outfit,” he said.

  “Go to hell,” Kelly countered.

  The knock on the door saved both of them from making a miserable situation worse.

  Kelly flinched, then stood, her posture betraying her nervousness.

  “It’s probably Daryl,” Quinn said.

  “I wish I had my gun.”

  “You’d shoot a man over a tight pair of panties?”

  Kelly glared. “Shut up. Just shut the hell up and see who’s at the door. And if it’s not your friend Daryl, you’d be wise to duck. Ortega’s men don’t give second chances.”

  The teasing in his voice ended. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Just trying to make a bad situation a little better.”

  Kelly sighed. There was no reason to take her clothing limitations and sexual frustrations out on someone who had saved her life—and who was still trying to help her.

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said. “I don’t know what’s come over me. I guess we could chalk it up to a big case of nerves.”

  “Or PMS?” Quinn pointedly eyed her shirt as he turned toward the door. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Daryl.”

  Kelly was struggling with the urge to just shove Quinn out the door when Daryl came striding into the room. He was carrying the sack of underwear as if it contained something foul. When he saw Quinn, he shoved it in his hands, then stared pointedly at Kelly.

  “Missy, these here better fit, cause I ain’t gonna go back into the store for a third round of shoppin’. Those lady salesclerks are startin’ to look at me funny.”

  Kelly took the sack from Quinn, then kissed the old man on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Daryl, more than I can say. I promise I’ll repay you.”

  “Oh hell, honey. It’s not about the money. I’m just not in the habit of buying this kind of stuff,” Daryl said, as he blushed. Then he realized what she was wearing and started to grin. “I knew you’d fit into that stuff just fine.”

  Kelly resisted the urge to roll her eyes. “Yes…well…thank you again for being so thoughtful.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said.

  “Uh…I’ll just be a minute,” Kelly said, and headed for the bathroom to put on the clean underwear. She was in the act of closing the door when she stopped and turned around. “Hey, Daryl?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m guessing that you’re a big Dukes of Hazard fan. Am I right?”

  His eyes widened. “Why…yes, I am. How did you know?”

  Kelly wouldn’t look at Quinn. She couldn’t. Not and maintain her composure.

  “Oh…I don’t know. Women’s intuition, I guess.”

  She could hear Daryl talking as she closed the door behind her. He was saying something to the effect of she might be a little bit psychic and for Quinn to watch out. She didn’t hear Quinn’s answer, which was just as well.

  * * *

  Ortega hurt, and he wasn’t used to feeling pain, only administering it. Even though he was being given enough morphine to fell an ox, he continued to demand more. In doing so, he also managed to alienate most of the staff. God knew he would rather have been drugged out of his mind than have to deal with this misery. But revenge was a strong taskmaster, and he wanted Kelly Sloan to die—at his hands.

  “So…Mr. Ortega…how are we feeling today?”

  Dominic glared at the doctor who’d just entered his room. His name was Fry. In Ortega’s opinion, it was not a name that demanded respect.

  “We don’t feel anything,” he snarled. “However, I hurt like hell.”

  The nurse handed Ortega’s chart to Dr. Fry.

  “We’ll see what we can do about that,” Fry said, and wrote some new orders on the chart.

  As soon as the nurse left the room, Ortega grabbed the doctor’s arm.

  “When can I be moved?”

  Fry frowned, then removed Ortega’s hand from his wrist. “I’m not sure. Why?”

  “I am not safe here.”

  Dr. Fry smiled. “Of course you are. You were admitted under the name of Howard Jones. No one knows who you are.”

  “You know it,” Ortega said.

  Sam Fry took a step back while fixing Ortega with an angry stare.

  “That sounded like a threat. I am assuming that when you leave you’re aren’t planning on ‘eliminating’ the man who saved your life. Because if you are, I can promise that doing that will raise far more questions than you would want to answer. I cross all kinds of legal lines when I treat men like you. But I’m not stupid. I have my own set of notes. Call them insurance, if you will. Should I die unexpectedly, the contents of my safety deposit box will be of great interest to the authorities.”

  Ortega shifted restlessly in the bed, suddenly realizing it wasn’t smart to threaten the man responsible for his welfare.

  “I am not a monster. I did not mean that the way it sounded,” Ortega said. “Of course you are in no danger.”

  Fry arched an eyebrow and then nodded.

  “That’s good to know…. However, just so we understand each other, this only works if both sides keep their word.”

  “Yes, certainly,” Ortega muttered.

  “The nurse should be here shortly with your injection. I’ve increased the dosage a bit, but not much. Truthfully, you need to start weaning yourself from the painkillers, not demanding more.”

  “You never did tell me when I could leave,” Ortega asked.

  Dr. Fry patted him on the leg. “We’ll know more tomorrow, okay?”

  Ortega wanted to slit his throat. Instead he smiled and nodded. “Yes. Okay.” But as soon as the doctor left, Ortega picked up the phone and made a call. There was only one way to find out for sure if Kelly Sloan was alive. He would put a bounty on her head that would bring her out of hiding and force her to run.

  * * *

  Quinn and Kelly were circling each other like snarling dogs. A day and a half of being shut up together with nothing but the television and a worn-out pack of cards to keep them occupied was wearing thin. Added to the discomfort of the situation were Kelly’s healing cuts and bruises. She was stiff and sore and had yet to be completely rid of the headache from the cut in her scalp. They’d been eating takeout food and sleeping in the same bed with a pillow between them. It was by no means a perfect situation, and with each passing hour, their fragile détente was coming undone.

  * * *

  Quinn leaned over Kelly’s shoulder and pointed. “Red four on a black five.”

  “There’s a reason this is called Solitaire,” Kelly muttered, even as she slapped the four onto the five.

  “Just trying to help,” Quinn said.

  “I don’t need any help,” she countered.

  Quinn flopped backward onto the bed and reached for the remote, aiming it at the television as he muttered beneath his breath.

  Kelly frowned. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I said…obviously you do need help, or you wouldn’t be losing to yourself.”

  It was the last straw. In a fit of frust
ration, Kelly swiped the cards into a pile, then flung them onto the bed, showering Quinn with the entire deck.

  There were several long moments of silence; then Quinn moved a card from his mouth.

  “Was it something I said?”

  Before Kelly could answer, the telephone rang.

  “Saved by the bell,” she muttered, and shoved her hands through her hair in frustration as Quinn rolled toward the phone and picked up the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Quinn, it’s me.”

  “Hey, Daryl, what’s up?”

  “I heard something at the bar today that you need to know.”

  Suddenly Quinn was all business. He sat up on the side of the bed, ignoring the cards that fell to the floor.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  “Heard a couple of wanna-be badasses talking about a million-dollar contract that’s gone out for whoever can find and kill a certain DEA agent.”

  Quinn’s stomach turned as he looked at Kelly. A million dollars? This wasn’t good. Their days of “playing house” were over.

  Kelly could tell by the look on his face that something was seriously wrong.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Quinn held up his hand, indicating that she should wait as he finished the call.

  “I’m thinking you two need to find some new scenery,” Daryl said.

  “Yes, I’m thinking you’re right,” Quinn said. “And, Daryl…thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Just take care of yourselves.”

  “The best that we can,” he said, and hung up the phone.

  “Damn it, McCord. Talk to me,” Kelly said.

  “We’ve got to get out of here.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “There’s a million-dollar contract out on you.”

  Kelly flinched. “Then Ortega is alive.”

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Quinn said.

  “Sure I do,” she said. “He’s the only one who has a vested interest in seeing me dead.”

  Quinn reached for her, but Kelly pulled away and strode toward the closet.

  “What are you doing?” Quinn asked.

  “Packing.”

  “You can use my suitcase. It’s big enough to hold all our things.”

  Kelly stopped, then slowly turned around.

  “What do you mean our?”

  “I’m going with you.”

  “Like hell,” Kelly said.

  “Probably will be, but I’m going just the same,” Quinn said.

  Kelly’s shoulders slumped. “You’ve already helped me more than I had reason to expect. I can’t ask you to do this. It could get you killed.”

  “You didn’t ask. I volunteered, remember?”

  Kelly wanted to hug him. Instead, she only smiled.

  “Who do you think you are? The cavalry?”

  Quinn grinned back at her. “One Texas Ranger. One cavalry troop. Same firepower. Less noise. So is it a deal?”

  He was holding out his hand. Kelly took a deep breath, then held out her hand.

  “It’s a deal.”

  Chapter 4

  Quinn carried the suitcase to the truck as Kelly went to call her boss. She knew he was going to tell her to wait, to let him send guards to help bring her in, but she had a gut feeling that the more people who knew what she was doing, the less likely it would be that she’d make it in alive.

  She sat down on the side of the bed and made the call.

  When Michael Forest finally came on the line, Kelly was waiting to make her case.

  “This is Forest.”

  “Captain Forest…this is Agent Sloan.”

  The tone of his voice lifted.

  “Kelly, it’s good to hear from you again. I trust you’re healing?”

  “Yes, sir. Almost good as new.”

  “Good…good. Let me know when you’re up to traveling and I’ll send someone for you. The trial is coming up, and Marsh, the Federal prosecutor, is getting antsy.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s part of why I’m calling. There’s a problem that’s developed since we last spoke.”

  “What kind of problem?”

  “There’s a million-dollar bounty out on me.”

  Forest made no attempt to hide his shock. “A million dollars! Damn it. That has to mean Ortega is alive.”

  “It could have come from someone else within the organization, but I don’t think so. Dominic Ortega and his brother-in-law, Ponce Gruber, have a lot to lose if I testify.”

  “I don’t like this. I don’t like this a bit. It changes everything. Give me a pickup location. We’ll bring you in under guard.”

  “Sir…if I may, I’d rather come in on my own.”

  “That’s out of the question. Not with a million-dollar incentive to bury you. It’ll bring out every scumbag in the country.”

  “But if you come after me, word will get out. And we both know that much money can turn even a righteous man if the need is great enough.”

  “Are you saying you don’t trust your fellow agents?”

  Kelly sighed. “Not in so many words.”

  “But you need help,” Forest argued.

  At that point, Quinn walked back into the room. Kelly looked up.

  “I have help…good help,” she said, her gaze locking with Quinn’s as he waited for her to finish the call.

  “Can you trust this help?”

  “He saved my life once already. I think I can trust him to do it again if the need arises.”

  “I’d rather we did this my way,” Forest argued.

  “Sir, it’s my life that’s on the line. I know what I’m doing, okay?”

  There was a brief moment of silence; then Kelly heard her boss give a slow, weary-sounding sigh.

  “Okay. But stay in touch.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And be careful.”

  “Always,” Kelly said, and hung up.

  “Well, now,” Quinn said.

  The grin on his face made Kelly’s blood pressure rise.

  “I trust you’re not about to make me sorry I complimented you to my boss?”

  “Who? Me? Never,” Quinn said, then put his hands on Kelly’s shoulders. Before she knew it, he’d leaned down and brushed his mouth across her lips. “Just call that a thank you for the vote of confidence,” he said softly. “Are you ready to go?”

  Kelly’s mouth was burning. She wanted to put her fingers on her lips to see if they were as blistered as they felt, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “No thanks are necessary. I was simply stating a fact, and yes, I’m ready to go.”

  “Then put this on,” Quinn said, and tossed a white wide-brimmed straw Stetson in her lap.

  “What on earth for?” she asked.

  “Disguise. The less people who see me leaving with you, the less chance we have of blowing our cover.”

  “Oh. Right,” Kelly said. She was already wearing the red boots, a pair of blue jeans and a white T-shirt with a logo that read Cowgirls Do It In The Mud. The hat would be the crowning glory to the white trash look to which Daryl seemed to be drawn. She bunched her hair up beneath the crown as she settled the hat on her head. The brim shadowed most of her face, which was exactly what she needed.

  “How do I look?” she asked.

  Quinn eyed the tight denim and even tighter T-shirt and opted for pleading the Fifth.

  “I refuse to answer on the grounds that it may incriminate me,” he drawled.

  Kelly laughed. “That bad, huh?”

  “Oh no. To the contrary, Agent Sloan. That good. You’ll pass just fine as a real cheap date.”

  Kelly felt herself blushing. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d blushed and began to worry what other responses Quinn McCord might bring out in her before this trip was over.

  “Just shut up and let’s go,” she said.

  Quinn slid an arm around her shoulder as they started out the door. “McCord…what the—”


  “Hey, don’t fight this. It’s part of your cover, remember?”

  Kelly stifled her dismay. He was right. Besides, what did it matter? They’d shared the same bed. Putting his arm around her was nothing.

  They started toward his truck with their hips bumping as they walked, and the farther they walked, the tighter his grip became. Finally Kelly’s right breast was mashed flat against Quinn’s side.

  “Come on, McCord. Ease up, will you? I appreciate your help, but not at the expense of my right boob.”

  Quinn looked startled, then loosened his grip.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

  Kelly grinned. “It’s okay, the damage isn’t permanent.”

  “Thank God,” Quinn said. “I’d hate to mess up something that perfect.”

  Kelly stifled a sigh. There was no need to respond, because she knew he wouldn’t stop until he’d gotten the last word. It was only after Quinn had settled her safely inside the truck and then paused and looked around that she realized he’d been teasing her to keep her mind off the danger to her life. She started to remind him that he wasn’t the only cop here, and that she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. But that was no longer true. If it hadn’t been for Quinn, she would never have made it to safety before passing out. And if that had happened, either she would have drowned, or Ortega’s men would have found her and turned her into fish food. Now, with the million-dollar bounty on her head, Ortega had once again turned her into bait. This was going to bring all the worms out of the underbelly of society. She needed to be gone when they started turning Galveston upside down.

  She rode leaning forward, with an eye to the mirror on the outside of the cab. It wasn’t until they had passed the city limits and begun heading north that she started to relax.

  * * *

  It was eleven minutes after 10:00 p.m. when two men walked into the office of the Sea Gull Inn. The desk clerk, Charlie Warden, looked up.

  “Evening, gentlemen. How can I help you?”

  A tall Latino man wearing a blue silk shirt and dark slacks leaned over the counter.

  “I’m looking for my brother, Quinn McCord. I thought he was staying here, but I don’t see his truck in the parking lot. He drives a black Dodge pickup. Can you tell me if he’s still registered here?”