Badlands

by Jill Sorenson

  Now, three years later, he was a security guard for a presidential candidate. He hadn’t been worried about the gang coming after him. His mistake.

  “You turned your back on the AB,” Shane said.

  Owen couldn’t deny it.

  “There’s a punishment for deserters.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Your compliance.”

  He wasn’t sure how to respond. Did it even matter? These assholes would never believe he was on their side.

  Owen had become a member the Aryan Brotherhood of his own free will. He’d engaged in gang fights and color wars. He’d used racial slurs without batting an eye and littered his body with offensive epithets. Although he regretted the necessity of these actions, he’d seen no other solution. He’d been eighteen when he’d gotten arrested. Male inmates preyed on young, attractive boys. Owen couldn’t escape their attentions without help. And, unfortunately, only one group would accept him. There were no rainbow coalitions in prison. It was a segregated environment, and protection came at a price.

  Owen wasn’t a white supremacist, but ideological differences hadn’t made it difficult for him to fit in with the gang. No, he’d adopted their ways easily. He’d been poor white trash his entire life. The men in the Brotherhood were just like him. They were the boys he’d played with after school, the desert rats with the faded clothes, the trailer park kids who came from nothing and ended up the same way.

  Salton City was a backward place, full of poverty and prejudice. His father had been a racist fool, spewing ignorance on a regular basis. His mother didn’t agree, but she’d known better than to contradict him.

  Despite his upbringing, or perhaps because of it, Owen had rejected those views. He didn’t want to take after his father. Long before he reached adulthood, he’d decided to be whatever Christian Jackson wasn’t. Owen couldn’t change the fact that he was white, male and heterosexual. In all other areas, he would diverge.

  That was the plan, anyway. But he’d gotten caught up in his brother’s world and drifted in the wrong direction. He’d started drinking heavily in high school, and he’d been a regular meth user by the time he was seventeen.

  Since he’d left prison, however, he’d stayed on the straight and narrow. He had a stronger sense of who he was as a person. The idea of pretending to go along with Shane’s scheme made him nauseous. Not only that, he doubted an agreement would give him any advantage. They wouldn’t remove his handcuffs or let him go.

  This was all just bullshit posturing. Shane had to prove his loyalty to the gang, and he had to do it with his fists. Dirk cracked his knuckles in a threatening manner. Owen knew what was coming: an epic beat-down. He studied each set of boots in his vicinity, expecting he’d be seeing them up close in the next few minutes.

  “I told you he was fucking her,” Dirk said.

  “You might be right.”

  “Looks like he’s had some tattoos removed.”

  “Strip him,” Shane said.

  Owen held still as one of the other men came forward, ripping his shirt down the front and letting it hang off his shoulders. The swastika on his hand and the script on his neck were gone. His other tattoos had been altered, rather than removed. He’d changed the Old English lettering that arced over his stomach to read Irish Pride, instead of White Pride. More telling, perhaps, was the cross on his chest. The flames were covered and the name Cruz was added underneath, transforming the hateful image into a tender tribute.

  He still had a three-leaf clover on his shoulder, minus the AB initials. Green ink was hard to remove, and it was a symbol of his Scotch-Irish heritage, so he’d kept it. He was damned lucky to be alive after several close calls.

  But maybe this was it. The last scrape.

  Dirk pointed out the obvious. “This motherfucker isn’t one of us.”

  “Are you with us?” Shane asked.

  Owen didn’t answer.

  “Stand him up.”

  Two men dragged him to his feet. He looked Shane in the eye, his pulse racing. His brother hit him with an open hand across the face, knocking his head to one side. Pain exploded in his cheek and gums.

  “Are you with us?” Shane repeated.

  Owen spat a mouthful of blood on Dirk’s shoes. “No.”

  “Son of a bitch!”

  They took turns hitting him in the stomach and back, hammering his pride and bruising his luck. Shane didn’t participate as much as the others, and his blows weren’t quite as heavy. Owen wondered if he’d lost his appetite for violence. The malicious glint in his eyes had faded into resignation.

  Whatever enthusiasm Shane lacked, his friends more than made up for. They held Owen upright and pummeled the hell out of him.

  “Enough!” Shane roared.

  They let him fall to the ground, writhing in pain.

  “Leave us alone for a minute.”

  “Are you going to finish him?” Dirk asked.

  “How about I finish you?”

  Dirk walked away with the others, grumbling.

  Shane crouched down next to Owen and lit a cigarette, one hand cupped around his jaw to block the wind. “I don’t want to kill you.”

  Owen struggled for breath, rolling over on to his side in the dirt. The punches to his rib cage felt like fire. It was difficult to anticipate Shane’s next move. He’d always been a loose cannon, acting in his own self-interests. But he’d defended Owen as often as he’d bullied him. He hadn’t been as cruel as their father.

  Shane changed the subject. “How’s Mom?”

  The question didn’t soften Owen’s sympathies any. Shane had a lot of fucking nerve, asking about their mother. “Better, now that Dad’s gone,” he said, spitting out another mouthful of blood. “I’ll send her your regards.”

  He had the grace to look guilty. Their mom had a substance-abuse problem. Since their father died, she’d been clean, but Owen was worried she’d relapse. Difficult situations—like Shane busting parole— triggered her addiction. “Have you seen Jamie?”

  “Yes. I visit him once a month.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “Janelle won’t even let me talk to him.”

  Owen didn’t blame her. Jamie’s mother didn’t want her son to have anything to do with Shane, for good reason. He was a convicted killer. He’d only served eight of his ten-year sentence, which had been light to begin with. His brother had gotten off easy because the liquor store clerk had fired at him first—while he was running away with the contents of the cash register. The bullet intended for Shane had nearly hit Owen, who’d been sitting behind the wheel of the getaway car.

  “Why are you doing this?” Owen asked, lowering his voice. “You’ll spend the rest of your life in prison.”

  Shane took a drag of his cigarette, eyes narrow.

  “Do you owe them money?”

  Shane didn’t answer. It was easy to get drugs in the pen if you had the right connections. Guards brought in the supplies while prisoners racked up debt. The AB was deeply involved in the underground narcotics trade.

  “You could have gone to the police,” Owen said.

  Shane snorted at the suggestion. The Brotherhood might not track down and execute every ex-member, but they didn’t mess around with snitches. If Shane gave incriminating information to the authorities, he’d have to enter a witness protection program.

  “Fuck the police,” Shane said. “I’ll do the damned job and get it over with. Then I’ll be free of them.”

  “Do you really believe that?”

  “I don’t have a choice, and neither do you. I told them you’d cooperate.”

  Owen refused to consider it. He had too much to lose. He wanted to make something of himself. Shane was asking him to throw his future away. “Not a chance. The last time we collaborated, I went away for three years.”

  Shane tossed his cigarette in the fire. The conversation hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped, so he switched tactics. Shoving Owen
facedown on the ground, Shane climbed on top of him. He hooked an arm around Owen’s neck and applied a crushing pressure to his windpipe. Owen was trapped under his weight. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

  Shane continued to choke Owen until his vision went dark. “Tell Dad I said hi,” he muttered, finishing him.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  PENNY EASED AWAY from Cruz and sat up, her ears straining for the slightest sound.

  The men had finally quieted. She’d watched in horror as they’d beaten Owen to a pulp. When the leader had climbed on to his back and choked the life out of him, she hadn’t screamed or broken down in hysterical tears. She hadn’t unzipped the tent opening and rushed to his aid. She’d gone completely numb, her heart shrinking inside her chest.

  She couldn’t believe her eyes.

  Someone dragged his body away from the fire, out of her line of sight. Then the men gathered in a circle and passed around a bottle. They didn’t seem upset or anxious about the sequence of events. If anything, they were giddy. In the hours that followed, they’d celebrated their success, drinking beer and laughing like hyenas.

  Now they were probably sleeping it off inside the other two tents. The guy who’d searched her was still awake, sitting outside. He’d been respectful, but she didn’t fool herself into believing she was safe. Dirk had made several suggestive comments about Penny. What would stop him from trying to attack her?

  These men were dangerous criminals.

  She doubted her father would follow their instructions. There was no way he could keep this secret from the police. His profile was too high. He’d bring the money and pretend to cooperate. She swallowed hard, imagining a bloody shoot-out.

  Even if everything went according to plan, which she doubted, the kidnappers might kill her before the money exchange was completed. They could take her father’s money and kill him. They could kill Cruz.

  Her thoughts raced with possible outcomes, none of which involved a happy ending. They’d killed Owen. Hadn’t they?

  Her head ached from tension. She refused to accept the fact that he might be dead. Maybe if she saw him up close and touched his cold skin, she could acknowledge it. Until then, she had to push the awful possibility from her mind.

  She thought back to the dance she’d shared with Owen at his friend Sam’s wedding. It was months before he became her bodyguard. Her sister Leslie had been helping Cruz eat a piece of cake at a nearby table. Penny and Owen had had a rare moment to themselves. But when the song was over, they’d broken apart.

  Tears of regret spilled down her cheeks. If only she could go back in time and not let go. She should have hugged him closer, confessed that she wanted him. Instead, she’d withdrawn, waiting for him to make a move. He hadn’t.

  For too many years, she’d been passive and acquiescent, pleasing her parents. After surviving the earthquake and seeing so much devastation, she’d been overjoyed to be reunited with her family. She’d needed their love, comfort and security. Keeping Cruz safe was her main focus, and her father’s house was very safe.

  But her father wasn’t going to rescue her tonight. Neither was Owen. She had to save herself—and her son. If she didn’t try to escape, and they hurt Cruz, she’d never forgive herself. She had to act fast, while the leader and his cronies were inebriated.

  Outside the tent, the guard made quiet crunching sounds. Slow, deliberate, infrequent. After a long pause, he started again.

  Penny’s stomach lurched. She’d been too nervous to eat before going on stage, and now she felt sick. She was also desperately thirsty, and her bladder was full. They hadn’t been given any food or water, or allowed a bathroom break.

  Cruz shifted beside her. “Mommy?”

  “Be quiet.”

  “I have to potty.”

  Damn.

  He sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Where are we?”

  “We’re camping.”

  Cruz had always wanted to go on a camping trip. Her father had taken them boating at Pyramid Lake once. Her son had been enthralled by the sight of tents and picnic tables on the lakeshore. This probably wasn’t what he’d pictured, however. He had no pillow and only a blanket as a cushion. “I’m thirsty for water.”

  At least he wasn’t hungry. Yet.

  She unzipped the front of the tent and looked out at the guard. “Can we have a drink of water?”

  He handed her a canteen, his eyes shifting in the dark.

  A glance around as she accepted the offering revealed nothing but inanimate shapes in the moonlight. “Thank you,” she said, helping Cruz get a drink. After she slaked her own thirst, her bladder screamed for relief. “We have to go to the bathroom.”

  “One at a time,” the man said.

  She urged Cruz outside, telling him to go right there, by the tent. He came back when he was done and curled up on the blanket, too drowsy to question the strangeness of this experience. “I’ll be right back,” she whispered, kissing his forehead. More tears sprang into her eyes, but she blinked them away, exhaling.

  She could do this. She could think of a way to trick the guard. She could find a weapon. If she had to, she’d attack him with her bare hands. Owen had taught her some self-defense techniques.

  Owen.

  Heart clenching painfully, she stepped out of the tent. The sand was cool and gritty beneath her bare feet. She didn’t want to push her luck by straying too far, but she wouldn’t squat down in front of the guard. He kept his eye on her as she balled the fabric of her skirt in her fist and crouched in the shadows by the canyon wall, next to a crumbling rock pile.

  Rocks made good weapons.

  It was difficult to pee and search for a blunt object at the same time. Her pulse raced with anxiety as her trembling fingertips touched a chunk of clay. It broke apart on contact. She tried again, reaching farther. The next rock she encountered was solid, about the size of a baseball. She held it in a tight grip as she rose, adjusting her clothing.

  Now she needed a way to surprise him. If he saw her coming at him with a rock, he could shout out a warning or duck.

  The rest of the men had to have been asleep in the tents, because she couldn’t see them. As she walked forward, she pretended to step on a sharp object. Gasping in pain, she crumpled into a pathetic little heap on the ground.

  “What is it?” the guard asked.

  “I cut my foot.”

  He approached to take a look, kneeling beside her. Her skirt rode high on her thighs as she extended her foot, whimpering. When he bent his head to inspect the injury, she walloped him. Her first strike was weak, partly because she didn’t really want to do it, but also because winding up would have caught his attention. The short swing and glancing blow failed to incapacitate him.

  He touched his temple, dumbfounded.

  Cringing, she hit him again. And again. The third one did the trick. He slumped forward on top of her, knocking the wind from her lungs.

  Oh, God. Now she would die of suffocation underneath him. Saying a quick prayer, she asked for forgiveness. Then let go of the rock, which was wet with blood, and shoved him aside. He made an odd groaning noise that she hoped wasn’t his last breath. Pulse pounding in her ears, she tugged off his boots and put them on her own feet. They were slip-on style, reaching just past her ankles, and only a size too large.

  She hurried toward the tent, afraid he’d regain consciousness and start shouting. His canteen was sitting by the crate, along with the vest he’d been wearing earlier. Grabbing both, she stuck her head inside the flap. Cruz blinked at her in confusion. “Silencio,” she hissed. “Vente, ya! Apúrate.”

  He knew she meant business when she issued sharp orders in Spanish. Her family had a lot of Mexican pride, but Penny and her sisters were typical second-generation immigrants. They spoke English almost exclusively.

  He scrambled out and grasped her hand, voicing no complaints as she yanked him along. She rushed past the SUV, searching for a set of ignition keys. She couldn’t knock on the tent flaps,
asking for him. She didn’t see a cell phone lying around.

  They had to leave on foot. Trying not to panic, she fled with Cruz, circling around the side of the canyon until they were out of sight. Faced with another immediate dilemma, she paused, taking a ragged breath. She didn’t know which way to go. Following the tire tracks back to the road seemed like a reasonable option, but she doubted they would reach civilization before the kidnappers found them. The opposite direction was just as risky. Getting lost in the desert might be a fate worse than death.

  Even so, she headed away from the tracks, dragging Cruz across the moonlit landscape. The terrain was difficult to navigate, full of loose pebbles and shifting sand. They ran until the camp was far behind them, and Cruz begged to stop.

  “Where’s Owen?” he asked, winded.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Are we lost?”

  She couldn’t lie again. “Those were bad men. They wanted to hurt us. We have to get far away and hide.”

  He started to cry, which wasn’t unexpected. This situation didn’t sit well with her, either. She hadn’t wanted to leave Owen with those bastards, dead or alive. She was afraid to take her son into the deep desert. The ill-fitting boots were already bothering her.

  “Drink,” she said, passing him the canteen. “Don’t let it spill.”

  While he sat down with the water, she rifled through the vest. She found a pocketknife, a pack of matches, ChapStick and a miniflashlight. All useful items. There was also a medium-sized bag of corn nuts.

  She used the knife to cut strips from the bottom of her dress, making it shorter. The length inhibited her movements, and she needed the fabric. She wrapped up her feet and stuffed the excess into the toes of the boots. Much better.

  That done, she put on the vest and canteen, adjusting the strap across her chest. Then she knelt, gesturing for Cruz to climb on her back. As soon as he was secure, she resumed jogging. It wasn’t easy. He didn’t weigh much, just forty pounds, and adrenaline fueled her every step, but she didn’t have the strength to go all night like this. She wasn’t a cross-country runner or an experienced hiker. Cruz tightened his arms around her neck, half choking her. She kept looking over her shoulder, expecting to see Mad Max.