Capsized

by Sharon Sala

  Charlie shrugged. “Sorry. We can’t give out that kind of information.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s a family emergency. If I don’t find my brother, he might never get a chance to tell our mother goodbye.”

  Charlie frowned. He’d heard all kinds of stories, and as stories went, this one was pretty lame. He remembered the man who’d driven the Dodge truck, and he didn’t look anything like this guy. This man was Latino. The Dodge guy was not.

  “You two don’t look anything alike,” Charlie said.

  “That means he was here!”

  Charlie’s frown deepened. “You already said he’d been staying here. So what’s the deal? What’s going on?”

  Suddenly the man pulled a gun and pointed it in Charlie’s face.

  “Talk to me, damn it. Where is he?”

  “No. No. Don’t shoot me, man! I got a wife and four kids.”

  “Then tell me what I need to know,” the man growled.

  “He’s gone. He checked out this morning, and that’s all I know.”

  “Just shoot him and let’s get out of here,” the other man said.

  Luis de Jesus was set on claiming that million-dollar bounty. His cousin Franco worked for Ortega, and it had been Franco who’d given him the heads-up on the tag number of a black Dodge truck that had been sighted on the beach the morning Kelly Sloan had escaped. He hadn’t come this far to take no for an answer.

  “Shut up, Armenio. You talk too much. Let me think.”

  Even though the air-conditioning was blasting a thirty-four degree wind down his neck, Charlie was sweating. He had to think of something—and fast—or he was a dead man.

  Luis turned back to Charlie. “This man…the man in the truck…did he have anyone with him?”

  “He registered alone. He was supposed to stay a week, but he left early. That’s all I know.”

  “That’s not what I asked,” Luis said. “Was he alone when he left?”

  “I didn’t see anyone with him.”

  “Think harder,” Luis said, and shoved the gun up the desk clerk’s nose.

  “I don’t pay any attention to who comes and goes. If you’ll look out the window, the only view I have of this place is the front entrance.”

  “So who came and went that wasn’t a client?”

  “God almighty! How would I know that?”

  “Then I’ll rephrase the question, and you better by God have an answer I like. Did you recognize anyone coming in here that wasn’t registered?”

  Charlie frowned, trying desperately to remember anything that would get them out of his face. And then it hit him.

  “Yeah! Yeah! Actually, I did.”

  “So who?”

  “There’s this old guy who lives just off the strip. I saw him come and go a couple of times in the past few days.”

  “What’s his name?” Luis asked.

  Charlie rubbed at his chest. “I’m not sure…. Don, David, Daryl…maybe it’s Daryl. But I don’t know his last name.”

  Luis twisted the gun a little tighter against Charlie’s nose. “Then how do you know him?” he asked.

  “Seen him down at the Baytown Bar. He’s always talking about the good old days.”

  “What do you mean?” Luis asked.

  “He was a Ranger…a Texas Ranger, and that’s all I know.”

  Luis started to smile. It was the lead they’d been looking for, because according to his information, the Dodge truck belonged to a man named Quinn McCord. Current employment—a Ranger for the state of Texas. Now all they had to do was find the old man and see what he knew about Quinn McCord’s hasty exit.

  “You’ve been very helpful,” Luis said, and flipped off the safety on his gun.

  Charlie’s eyes widened, and then he started to gasp. He grabbed at his chest, wadding the fabric of his shirt into his hand as he stumbled backward.

  “My heart…my heart…I got a bad heart.”

  Luis eased up on the trigger.

  “Aren’t you going to shoot him?” Armenio asked.

  Luis hesitated, then put the safety back on and slipped the gun in his jacket.

  “Why? It would only alert the police…and any one else who might have information similar to ours.”

  “But he’ll tell,” Armenio said.

  Luis smiled. “Not if he’s dead of natural causes, he won’t.”

  Armenio stared at the desk clerk, who was turning paler by the second. When he doubled over and then dropped to his knees, Armenio elbowed Luis.

  “Ten dollars says he won’t last another thirty seconds.”

  Luis looked at the desk clerk, then nodded. “You’re on.”

  Charlie rolled over onto his side and started to moan as Armenio began timing what he thought were the throes of Charlie’s death.

  Fifteen seconds, then twenty, then thirty seconds passed. A minute and fifteen seconds after he fell to the floor, Charlie Warden rolled over onto his back, exhaled loudly, then stopped breathing.

  “Pay up,” Luis said, as he held out his hand.

  “What if he’s not—”

  Before Armenio could finish what he was going to say, the headlights of a car flashed across the wall behind the desk. Both men looked toward the window, then headed through the door behind the desk, exiting the motel through the room reserved for the clerk on duty. They were in their car and driving away by the time Charlie Warden sat up and crawled to the phone.

  As he dialed 911, he knew he had his wife to thank for being alive. If it hadn’t been for all those murder mystery shows she insisted on watching, it would never have occurred to him to fake his own death.

  Meanwhile, Luis and Armenio were heading toward the Baytown Bar. If they were lucky, someone would know where the old Ranger lived.

  * * *

  The next morning and half a country away, Dominic Ortega walked out onto the veranda of his Florida home with the aid of a nurse, then took a seat in the shade as a waiter handed him a glass of cold juice.

  “Thank you,” he said, as the nurse pushed a foot stool up to the chair and helped him lift his feet.

  “You’re welcome,” she said softly, then shook two of his pain pills out into her hand and gave them to him. “Are you comfortable, sir?”

  Ortega swallowed the pills, then nodded. “Yes. You may go. If I need you, I will ring.”

  He leaned back in the chair as the nurse disappeared, then took a small sip of the chilled juice. It felt good to be out of that hospital, although the helicopter ride from Houston to the west coast of Florida had been extremely uncomfortable. But once they’d arrived, he’d settled in just fine. Here, he had peace and quiet when he needed it, and guards that he trusted. And here, he was, once again, in control. Satisfied that, for now, all was right with his world, he closed his eyes and relaxed.

  Overhead, a flock of seagulls squawked noisily. An easy breeze was coming in off the water, cooling the heat of mid-day. The scent of jacaranda and oleander overpowered the smell of salt air just enough that Ortega could almost believe he was back in Mexico, and he would be, as soon as his wounds had healed.

  His thoughts drifted as the pain medicine took effect. But when he slept, his dreams turned to nightmares, and once again, he felt the pain of the knife plunging deep into his chest.

  Somewhere in another part of the house a phone began to ring. It filtered through his sleep until he began to wake. He was struggling to sit up when his house man came hurrying outside with the phone.

  “Señor! Señor! The call…it is an emergency.”

  Dominic frowned as he took the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Dominic…this is Ponce.”

  Dominic sat up too quickly, then grabbed at the front of his shirt, grunting in agony as he shifted the phone to a better position.

  “Damn you, Ponce. You should not be calling me here. They can trace your call.”

  “No, no, it’s safe. I’m using my lawyer’s cell phone. There’s something you need to kn
ow.”

  “What is it?”

  “Kelly Sloan is alive.”

  Ortega cursed. “How do you know?”

  “I have someone on the inside who’s feeding me information. They said she’s not only alive, but on the move. My lawyer said the deal we made is off the table. If she testifies at my trial, she’ll crucify me.”

  Ortega frowned. “What deal?”

  “I’m sorry? What did you say?” Ponce asked.

  “I asked you…what deal? You said you had made a deal with the Feds. What deal could you possibly have made that did not involve me?”

  Suddenly Ponce realized that he’d given himself away. Desperate to get back in his brother-in-law’s good graces, he began whispering, as if he were about to hang up.

  “I can’t talk anymore now,” he said. “The guards are coming to take me back to my cell.”

  “Damn you, Ponce…what did you tell them?”

  “Nothing! I told them nothing!” Ponce cried. “I’ve got to go. Just make sure you stop Kelly Sloan or we’re both dead.”

  He hung up before Dominic could say anything more.

  “Damn it,” Dominic muttered, then staggered to his feet. He walked to the edge of the terrace overlooking the ocean and stared out across the water.

  It didn’t matter now what Ponce had said or what he had done. He would deal with him later. For now, what he needed was to make sure that Kelly Sloan didn’t make it to D.C.

  He hurried back to the table, picked up the phone and made a call. It rang once. Twice. It was answered on the third ring.

  “It’s me,” Dominic said. “Spread the word. The bounty is up to two million, but only if they do her before the week is out.”

  He hung up without waiting for an answer, then rang for the nurse. She appeared within seconds.

  “I need something for pain.”

  The nurse glanced at her watch. “It hasn’t been three hours yet, sir.”

  Dominic repeated his request. “I said…I need something for pain.”

  The glitter in his eyes was more frightening than if he’d shouted at her.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll bring it right now.”

  “Thank you,” he said, then returned to his chair. He made himself focus on the undulating water, rather than the pain and frustrations of his life, and reached for his juice. Despite the fact that the ice had melted and the drink was no longer cold, he drank it all. The tart-sweet taste of the freshly squeezed juice washed the bitterness from his mouth.

  It would be all right. It had to be.

  * * *

  It was evening when Quinn crossed the state line into Louisiana. They could have gone farther and made better time if they’d stayed on the interstate highways, but Kelly was afraid that if someone was looking for them, they would be too easily spotted that way. Quinn had agreed, so they’d stayed on the old two-lane highways, often being forced to detour due to road construction—once even getting lost. He found it hard to believe that only three days ago he hadn’t known she existed, because now she had become a very important part of his life—so much so that he was playing bodyguard to make sure she stayed alive.

  Kelly had fallen asleep over an hour ago and was now slumped against Quinn’s shoulder, her hands lying loosely in her lap. Quinn could smell his shampoo in her hair. He’d never thought the odor was sexy before, but on her, it was gold-plated.

  Somewhere back in Oklahoma, he’d offered to buy her some more sedate clothing, but Kelly had refused, saying she needed a disguise and the “trashy” look was as good as any. Quinn wasn’t going to tell her, but that “trashy” look, as she called it, looked damn good on her. One of Frank’s favorite country songs had been about a man liking his women a little on the trashy side. He remembered how much he’d teased Frank about the song, but now he got it. Tight blouses and even tighter blue jeans left nothing to the imagination except what Kelly would look like without them. He’d thought of little else all day, and it was driving him crazy.

  An SUV sped past him with the stereo blasting. Even though the windows were up on his truck and the air conditioner was going, it still woke Kelly.

  She sat up with a jerk, instinctively reaching for her gun, only the last time she’d had her gun had been at Ortega’s Mexican hacienda. She saw Quinn, remembered where she was, and sat back with a sigh.

  “Where are we?”

  “Welcome to Tuskeegee, Louisiana,” he said softly.

  Her eyes widened. “Louisiana…as in…beignets and café au lait Louisiana?”

  Quinn smiled. “That makes you happy?”

  “Oh, yeah…so now you know my secret.”

  “What’s that?” Quinn asked.

  “That I can be had for coffee and doughnuts…in any form.”

  Quinn threw back his head and laughed. “Ah, God…I don’t believe it. How stereotypical—a coffee and doughnut cop.”

  “What time is it?” she asked, refusing to rise to his taunts.

  “Almost seven. I think it’s time to stop for the night. We need to regroup. I’m going to call Daryl, see if I can find out what’s going on, and then we’ll get something to eat. I’ll even spring for dessert.”

  Kelly nodded, watching as he maneuvered through the small-town traffic. She’d never let herself be this dependent before and wasn’t quite sure how to take his help.

  Sensing her discomfort, Quinn asked, “What’s wrong?”

  She shrugged. “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Come on, Sloan…it’s me you’re talking to.”

  Kelly sighed. “It sounds petty.”

  “So?”

  “So, it took me twice as long to become an undercover agent with the DEA as it would have taken a man. No matter what I do, I have to do it better and faster to be accepted. It’s not fair, but it’s just the way things are. I guess what’s bothering me is, the first time I run into really rough water, I wind up letting some man help me.”

  Quinn paused at a stoplight, then turned to her.

  “Honey…by the time I came along, you’d endured what…? Three days of torture, rescued yourself from a boat load of drug runners, killed two of them and mortally wounded the boss. You swam God knows how far toward shore to save yourself before I even came on the scene. Who the hell do you have to be? Superwoman?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Then screw the whole lot of them,” Quinn said. “All you have to know is that they won’t find anything different out from me. I offered to get you to D.C. The rest is your story, okay?”

  There was a knot in the back of Kelly’s throat as she managed to nod.

  “Then we don’t need to hear any more about who’s got the bigger set of—”

  “Stuff it, McCord,” Kelly said. “We both know the answer to that.”

  He was still grinning as the light turned green.

  “There’s a motel up ahead and a little café across the street. Looks like a good place to stop,” Kelly said.

  “See,” Quinn said. “You’re back in charge already.”

  This time Kelly was the one laughing as she punched him lightly on the shoulder.

  A short while later they had a room at the back with two double beds. It wasn’t the Hilton, but for Quinn, who’d been driving all day, the chance to stretch out on that bed made it look like heaven.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked.

  Kelly nodded. “How about you?”

  “I could eat a horse. I’ll settle for a plate of fried cat-fish and hush puppies.”

  “I promise I’ll pay you back for all this,” Kelly said.

  “I’ll total up the bill when this is all over. For now, just forget about the small stuff, okay?”

  The sincerity on Quinn’s face shamed her. He kept giving and giving without ever asking for anything back. She didn’t know whether it was a skillful ploy on his part or not, but it made a woman thankful—in a very big way.

  “Then let’s go eat. After that, I’ll call in and find out what’s going on.”
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  Without giving Kelly time to think, Quinn took her by the hand, and together they crossed the street toward the small-town café.

  * * *

  It wasn’t until they’d come back from supper that their fragile peace was shattered.

  “Are you calling Daryl?” Kelly asked, as Quinn took out his cell phone.

  “Yes. If I call anyone else, then that’s one more person who knows I’m with you, and if they know what you’re traveling in, then that makes you even easier to find.”

  Kelly nodded, then kicked off her red boots and sat cross-legged on the bed as Quinn made the call.

  But the call didn’t go as planned. The phone rang and rang, and Daryl’s answering machine never came on.

  “What’s wrong?” Kelly asked, as Quinn disconnected.

  “Maybe nothing,” Quinn said. “But he didn’t answer, and his machine didn’t kick on. That’s not like Daryl.”

  “He could be at the bar.”

  “Not this early.”

  “Maybe he went out to dinner with some friends.”

  “This is Friday, right?” Kelly nodded.

  Quinn glanced at his watch. “And it’s just after seven. Unsolved Mysteries is on television. Daryl never misses it. It’s his favorite show.”

  Kelly leaned forward. “Should we be worried?”

  For a few moments Quinn was silent; then he nodded.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Who can we call to check on him?”

  “There’s this lady who lives across the hall from him. She should know what’s going on.”

  “Do you know her number?”

  “No, but I know her name.”

  He dialed information, got the number and dialed it. When the old woman answered, Quinn quickly introduced himself.

  “Mrs. Weatherly, this is Quinn McCord…Daryl’s friend from Fort Worth. We met last fall, do you remember?”

  “Oh, yes! Of course I do,” the old woman said. “It’s just so awful what happened to Daryl, you know.”

  For a moment, it felt as if Quinn’s heart just stopped.

  “What happened to Daryl, Mrs. Weatherly.”

  “He was beaten badly. He’s in Houston Medical Center. They airlifted him right from the scene.”