Trust No One (Vista Security)

by Diana Layne

  Tasha stretched her legs toward the fire. “At least it’s warming up in here.”

  MJ knew Tasha’s calm was deceptive, that like a cat waiting for a chance to pounce on an unsuspecting rat, Tasha was waiting on her chance to make a move and get the hell out of here.

  MJ was waiting, too.

  Chapter 27

  Abby Walker watched the policemen cart away the two women in the unmarked car. One was stunningly beautiful with long golden hair, even features and womanly curves that would grab anyone’s attention. The other woman, with her wavy dark hair, and lean, long, athletic build, was a beauty as well, but had more of an all-American wholesome look. From the way the woman was looking at the baby, along with Ben’s description, Mrs. Walker knew the dark-haired woman was MJ, Angelina’s mother.

  What on earth had those women done? Ben hadn’t mentioned police involvement. And where was Ben?

  Something didn’t seem right. Abby had both a daughter and a son-in-law who were cops and something just seemed . . . off about this picture. She frowned.

  Her concern turned to alarm when moments later the other two policemen carried Ben, obviously unconscious, to another unmarked car.

  What the hell? The hair raised on the back of her neck as she got the kind of psychic warning that mothers often had when an offspring was in danger. She adjusted the baby on her hip and reached into her purse for her cell phone. She squinted to see the tags or car number on the unmarked car so she could relate the information to her daughter, the detective. That’s when she noticed the car had regular tags, not government tags.

  Phony cops?

  If that were the case, they were about to drive off with Ben in a car that had no tie to the police. It would be impossible to track them.

  She needed to follow them. And fast. She tossed the phone back into her purse. No time to call now, she needed to follow that car. If she didn’t have the baby with her, she could call and follow, but with a baby she was short a hand—the lament of mothers over the millennia.

  Mom-mode kicked in, Abby scraped Angelina’s uneaten food into the sack, snatched the sack in her free hand and burst through the door, all the while talking to Angelina, keeping her calm through the sudden flurry of speed.

  “Good baby, we’re going to go for a little drive and find Ben, and then we can find your mom, because if it’s phony cops holding my son, no doubt it’s phony cops who have your mom and that other pretty lady.”

  What the hell was going on? She’d never heard of such a thing beyond a T.V. show or fiction novel.

  Keeping a steady stream of chatter, she buckled Angelina into the car seat before the toddler realized how it’d happened.

  “That’s the advantage six kids and three grandkids gives you,” Abby said, remembering Ben’s struggle earlier. “Plenty of experience, though with my older children there wasn’t such a thing as these fancy car seats.”

  Turning on the musical dog Angelina liked, Abby unlocked the front door and quickly slid into the driver’s seat, grateful she’d asked Ben for the keys before he left, in case she needed a diaper for the baby.

  Before she put the car in gear, she pulled out her phone again, punched the number for her daughter.

  “Hang on, honey,” she said to the baby as she sped through the parking lot, dodging pedestrians and other cars on the way to the exit. Although she’d gone as fast as she could, the other car disappeared. Frustration sank into her stomach, making the coffee she drank earlier slosh around.

  She looked left and right, searching for any sign of the white Impala.

  Dana Sue answered the phone; Abby almost forgot it’d been ringing.

  “Hello?”

  “Damn.”

  “Mom?”

  Abby saw the car. There, to the right. She looked left to see if traffic were clear. The light at the corner had just changed to green and a whole line of cars headed her way. No time to wait on them.

  “What’s going on?” Dana asked.

  “Hold on,” Abby replied to her daughter, muttering as an afterthought to the toddler, “Hang on again, baby.” So she could use two hands, Abby pitched the phone to the seat, then stomped the accelerator and turning the wheel hard right. The car swerved into the street with a squeal of tires as it bounced off the curb. Straightening the wheel, she accelerated beyond the speed limit, fastening her gaze on the car in the distance.

  Abby heard Dana’s voice screaming at her from the phone on the seat. Picking it back up, she barely uttered a word before her daughter interrupted, “Mom, are you trying to talk and drive again?”

  “It’s necessary.”

  “Pull over somewhere, talk and then drive.”

  “Can’t do, someone has Ben.”

  “Ben? Isn’t he at some meeting with those women?”

  “It’s a long story but phony cops knocked him unconscious and tossed him in a car. I’m trying to follow them.”

  “Mom, have you been drinking?”

  Abby swerved in and out of cars, working to get closer to the car with her son. “It sounds crazy, yes. But I need someone to help me stop this car. They’ve kidnapped Ben.”

  “Mom, are you–”

  “Dana Sue, yes, I’m sure. I saw them carry him unconscious to the car with my own eyes.”

  “Okay, okay.” Dana finally seemed like she was catching the urgency. “I’ll call out a squad car, and I’ll head out myself. Give me the info on the car, do you know what kind it is?”

  “A white impala, it has a dent in the left fender, but I can’t see the license plate.”

  “Where are you?” When Abby gave her the street name, Dana said, “Try to keep with them, but don’t do anything dangerous. I’m on my way.”

  “I’m a few cars behind them now.”

  “Good. Put down the phone now and I’ll call you when I close in. If they take a sudden turn, let me know.”

  “Before I hang up. I’m not in my car.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Ben rented a car. It’s a dark blue Corolla.”

  “Gotcha.”

  Abby zigzagged through traffic. Two drivers laid on the horn. Finally, she sat two cars behind the Impala at a red light. She didn’t want to get any closer, didn’t want to be obvious.

  The light turned green, but the car in front of her took his time. When she made it to the intersection, she had to stop and wait at a bold trash truck driver coming from the opposite direction. He turned left in front of her, forcing her to slam on her brakes.

  The sudden stop made Angelina cry. “Sorry, baby.” The truck lumbered through the intersection. The light turned yellow, then red. Stuck in the middle of the intersection, she ran the light without a qualm, but the Impala had disappeared.

  Damn it. She picked up the phone and called Dana. “I got stuck in an intersection. Lost them.” When she told the intersection, her daughter said, “I’m a half block ahead of you. I’m turning onto the road in front of you.”

  Abby looked up. Sure enough there was her daughter in an unmarked dark blue Crown Victoria. “Good, do you see them?”

  “Yes, got ‘em in my sight. They’re at the next block. Whose baby do you have with you?”

  “None of ours,” she said, referring to her grandchildren and daughter’s two nieces and one nephew. “This is one Ben brought.”

  “Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

  “Nothing stronger than a coffee, which feels like it’s going to come back up.”

  “Quit worrying, I got them. I’m going to pull them over.”

  But when Dana put on her lights, instead of stopping, the car sped up.

  Shit.

  Dana Sue sped after the car. The scream of sirens filled the air and Abby knew her daughter had called for back up. She held her breath, watching a real live car chase unfold before her.

  Honk.

  Abby swerved the Corolla back into her lane. She was a menace on the road. She needed to find a place to stop, calm Angelina down and wait. Abb
y scanned ahead until she found an ice cream store. A little cold for ice cream, but Angelina probably wouldn’t notice. And something with lots of whipped cream sounded good to calm Abby’s own nerves.

  The store was empty except the pimply teenager behind the counter. Abby couldn’t stop trembling. She couldn’t help but worry about Ben. It was an irrational fear, Dana Sue was a competent cop; she’d made detective in record time. She would make sure her brother was rescued and the phony police arrested.

  Angelina was happily making a mess with her ice cream, dipping the spoon in and out, whirling it around and around, the ice cream forming rivers of milk. Abby was halfway finished with a peanut butter chocolate shake herself when her phone rang again.

  “We got him.”

  “Thank goodness. I stopped, too nervous to keep driving.”

  “Good idea. The phony cops stopped when they saw the extra squad cars.”

  “Everyone okay?”

  “Ben’s got a headache, said they knocked him out with a butt of a gun.”

  “If that’s all, he’ll be fine with that hard head of his.”

  “Agreed. But he’s yapping about some women taken hostage.”

  “Yes, I saw them.”

  “I’m taking him to the station to get a statement. I’ll see if I can figure out what’s going on. Why don’t you meet me down there?”

  “As soon as I clean up the baby. We’re having ice cream.”

  “In December? Are you sure you haven’t been drinking?”

  “Do you hear her crying anymore?”

  “Nope, but you’re going to have to explain that baby to me, too—hang on, what?”

  Abby heard Dana speaking to someone else, then she came back on the phone. “Ben’s saying something about a little dog back in the hotel room. You’ll have time to get the baby clean while we rescue the dog.”

  “You have to dog sit,” Abby said. “I’ve already got my hands full with the baby.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  * * *

  About an hour after they arrived at the cabin, another man, Harold, arrived with food, an alternator and a cheap set of tools. With the sun sinking lower in the sky, MJ needed to get outside and repair the car soon.

  Johnson asked, “Do we have time to eat?”

  “We’re running out of daylight,” MJ said. “Better fix it now and eat later.” Her stomach growled a protest, but the faster the car was fixed, the quicker they could get away.

  “I’ve got to get going myself,” Harold said. “The missus will whop me with her iron skillet if I’m late for supper.”

  Johnson nodded, unwrapping his burger for a bite. “Thanks.”

  MJ leaned over the edge of the couch. “If he’s leaving I better check and see if that’s the right alternator he brought. You can stay in here and eat,” she told Johnson.

  “Yeah, that’s a good one,” he mumbled with his mouth full. “I’ll go with you.” He laid his sandwich on the seat. “Pull your gun, Cantrell.”

  “What?” Cantrell’s mouth was full as well. “Why?”

  “Because I’m going to uncuff her.”

  “Ahem, what about me?” Tasha asked. “Are you just going to eat in front of me? She might have to work, but I can eat.”

  Both men looked disconcerted. MJ bet they had a little woman at home who took care of their every whim, and they never needed to consider anyone besides themselves. She’d met a few of those men in her small town as well.

  Cantrell laid his burger aside, unsnapping the strap on his .44 holster. Johnson uncuffed Tasha and moved the cuffs to the front so she could eat. He then uncuffed MJ, leaving her hands free. He pulled his .38 special and let her precede him to the door. After she confirmed the new alternator was a match, he asked, “How long will it take to change it?”

  MJ shrugged. “Fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  “You have enough daylight so you can eat first.”

  “I’d rather get this out of the way. It’s already too cold for me, and it will only get colder.”

  “Let’s get the car fixed then.”

  MJ liked how he used the plural. She doubted he’d be any help at all. He’d probably have trouble telling the difference between an English socket and a metric.

  She opened the tool kit, chose the right socket, then set to work taking out the old alternator. As she loosened the last bolt, he stood up.

  “You know you’re right, it’s damn cold out here. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.” He waved his weapon, emphasizing his point.

  Like she was going to run off on foot?

  He went inside the cabin and came back out, .38 special leading the way, cautious and stiff until he saw her still working on the car. He clutched a bottle of whiskey in his hand. “This will warm you up, want some?”

  He was going to drink while on guard? “I don’t drink and work on cars, too dangerous.” She twisted off another bolt on the old alternator.

  “I had to pry the bottle away from Cantrell in there. Left him a glass, damn bottle’s almost empty now.” He held it up to show the half-empty pint bottle.

  She supposed for a hard drinking backwoods hillbilly that a half pint wasn’t very much liquor. And it was becoming evident he was as much of a hick as Cantrell, even if Johnson’s military precise haircut was misleading.

  He let his gun hang loosely in his right hand while he took another swig then ambled over to the car, and stuck his head under the hood. “How’s it coming?” It was obvious from the blank look on his face, he had no idea where to look for the alternator.

  She positioned the wrench on the next bolt, wanting to appear to still have work to do though she’d already loosened them all and just needed to remove the last two. “Not much longer before I have the old one out.”

  “Oh, so that’s where the alternator is.” He took another drink from the bottle, then asked, “You like this mechanic stuff?”

  “I like it okay.”

  “Not many girls do.”

  Not many girls had done the things she’d done either. “It’s challenging,” she told him. “I like a challenge.”

  “Yeah?”

  Oh, shit. She saw his brain shift to the sex gear. As if he might be a sexual challenge she would want.

  “How big of a challenge?”

  Damn, not again! Did all men think women prisoners were sex toys? Stupid question. Not all men would kidnap and hold women prisoners without authority or evidence. Only the men of sleaze bucket caliber.

  She pretended to deliberately misunderstand. “Well, I recently rebuilt the engine on my ’67 Mustang.”

  “That’s not exactly what I meant.” He ran a hand down her arm. His fingers were cold where they stopped on her wrist exposed below her sweatshirt, making her all that much colder. She hadn’t put on her jacket, not wanting its bulk to get in the way of her working. Now, she regretted that decision, the jacket would have been another layer of protection against this dude and his advances.

  She swallowed her disgust and changed the subject. “Did the guy who hired you say what we did wrong? Why we needed to be prisoners?”

  It not the smartest thing to bring up with her guard, when maybe she could’ve pursued the sex angle and gotten away easier. If she’d been Tasha, she might have done that, but sex with a pretend cop holding her prisoner to buy her escape simply didn’t register on her radar. Especially when she could as easily use violence to get away.

  “He said you two stole some money. That he didn’t want real cops involved because it was a private matter.”

  “So you just took him at his word?”

  “The money’s good. Work’s hard to come by in these parts.”

  “What if we’re innocent?”

  “What if you’re not?”

  Obviously, someone did a good job of convincing him they weren’t innocent. He struck her as the type to have to believe what he was doing was right, or his version of right anyway.

  “Or what if we did something wor
se, like say, kill a man. Or men.” Still, she couldn’t help antagonizing him.

  That stumped him for a moment, then he burst out laughing, the smell of whiskey saturating the air. “Two little pretty ladies like you? You’re tall and all, but you’re so skinny a good wind would blow you away. Even if you knew how to use a gun, it would knock you on your ass.”

  Poor guy, he was so stupid, she was almost going to regret immobilizing him. Almost.

  He took another swallow of whiskey. She pulled another bolt free.

  He took the hint that she was getting back to work, and turned to amble back toward the porch. Mistake.

  Never turn your back on anyone, darling.

  Before he could take three steps, MJ slid the alternator out of place, hefted the automotive heavy part in her right hand, silently pivoted and in two light steps she caught up with him. She brought the alternator down hard on the back of his head. He dropped like a heavy rock, the whiskey bottle landing on the ground. Alcohol leaked out, mixing with the dirt in fragrant rivulets.

  He’d fallen on his weapon; he was lucky the damn thing hadn’t gone off and shot him. She pushed him enough to grab the .38, automatically checking the chambers. The cuffs hung in a pouch on his belt loop, along with the key. She pocketed the key and used the cuffs on him—he might be out for the count, but she didn’t know how long he’d stay unconscious. Rule number one: make sure the bad guys stay incapacitated. Ok, it might be rule number two or three, but regardless, she didn’t like to do work twice. He was down and she wanted him to stay down.

  Needing the surprise element, she sprinted up the porch steps. Even if she and Tasha could easily take one man, if he were ready with his gun, that’d make things more difficult.

  She held the .38 special ready, carefully pushing open the door. Cantrell was passed out, snoring on the couch, his empty whiskey glass tilting in his hand, propped up by his stomach. He’d holstered his gun. Real bright guy there. Tasha stood over him with a piece of firewood, about to smash him in the head. She saw MJ, stopped.

  When Tasha raised her eyebrows. MJ shook her head, indicating the gun in her hand. No need to give both the men concussions. Tasha shrugged, strolled back to the fireplace, dropped the wood, then held out her hands for MJ to take off the cuffs. MJ passed Tasha the .38, so she could use the key to remove the cuffs while Tasha kept Cantrell covered.