Badlands

by Jill Sorenson

  That wasn’t Shane’s only challenge. He’d planned to recapture this bitch and her brat before checking in with Ace. Now Shane had to deliver the bad news. He’d lost his quarry, and he had an injured man to deal with.

  He turned to Roach, his eyes narrow. “Find their trail and follow it. We can’t afford to let them get away.”

  “What do I do if I see them?”

  “Keep your distance. Watch them until we come back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Roach left the cavern, armed with a jug of water and a walkie-talkie. Shane went back down the tunnel to rejoin Dirk and Brett. “They’re gone,” he said, clenching his hand into a fist. “Let’s get him out of here.”

  Dirk helped Brett stand up and supported him on one side as they limped away. The return trip to the SUV took forever. Brett might have been prepared to face death like a man, but he handled a gunshot wound like a total pussy. He moaned every time his boot dragged along the ground. Dirk had to lift him up and carry him the last half mile.

  Shane didn’t slow down or offer to help. When they reached the SUV, Dirk loaded him into the backseat, elevating the injured foot. It was still bleeding.

  “Should I take off his boot?” Dirk asked.

  “Hell if I know.”

  “Don’t touch it,” Brett wailed.

  Dirk removed the soaked T-shirt, to Brett’s dismay. He had a small hole in the top of his boot and a slightly larger one in the sole.

  “It went in and out,” Shane said.

  Brett grimaced. “Is that good?”

  “It’s better than ricocheting around in there, shattering bones.”

  Dirk wrapped another shirt around Brett’s boot and gave him a bottle of whiskey, which he sucked on like a tit. “He needs to go to the hospital.”

  “Let’s go,” Shane said, annoyed.

  He got behind the wheel of the SUV while Dirk climbed into the back with his brother. Brett made a sound of agony every time Shane went over a bump. He turned the radio up to drown out his whimpers.

  Back at camp, he slowed down to talk to Gardener, another useless wretch. He was sitting in the shade, smoking a joint.

  “Get in,” Shane said.

  Gardener blinked at him stupidly. “I just started this.”

  “Bring it.”

  As soon as he got in the passenger seat, Shane took the joint away, bringing it to his lips and inhaling deeply. He was going to smoke the rest without sharing, but then the mellow mood hit him and he handed it back.

  “What happened?” Gardener asked.

  “Brett got shot.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  They followed the road to the highway. It was a long drive, so long that they were sober again by the time they arrived. Brett hadn’t lost consciousness, and his color looked better. Shane was glad; he didn’t want to go to all this trouble for a goner.

  While he drove, he tried to plan what he would say to the boss. Ace was really just a middleman, a connection between Shane and his unknown clients. Shane knew they were affiliated with the AB, but he’d never met any of them. He didn’t want to meet them. He just wanted to do the job and get the hell out of Dodge.

  Before he bit the bullet and called Ace, he took Owen’s phone from his pocket, scrolling through his list of contacts.

  Janelle was there. Owen had her home number and her cell phone number, unlike Shane. She refused any communication from him, even letters. She told him that he had to apply for visitation rights if he wanted to see Jamie.

  Shane knew Janelle was friendly with Owen, but he’d never envied their relationship. Probably because he’d held an outdated view of his little brother, like an old picture he hadn’t bothered to replace. Owen was a man now. The better man, according to Janelle. The man who was allowed to visit Jamie.

  Shane dialed her number on his throwaway cell. She picked up right away, her voice raspy from sleep. The sound hit him like a main-line rush. She wouldn’t have answered if she’d known it was him. They hadn’t shared an uncontentious conversation in years. Shane wished he could ask to speak to his son.

  Instead, he shoved the phone at Gardener. “Tell her to take Jamie and go to her mother’s house. Stay there for a few days.”

  Gardener repeated this message.

  Shane listened as Janelle’s tone turned shrill. She demanded answers and issued threats. This was the woman he knew, sharp and combative. But even her foulmouthed tirade elicited a pleasurable response in him, oddly enough. He remembered the good times, the passionate arguments and wild nights.

  Clearing his throat, he ended the call. Then he dialed Ace’s number. “We have a problem.”

  “I don’t like problems.”

  Shane broke the news about Brett’s accident and claimed he had the situation under control. No need to worry Ace with too many details. Shane was optimistic his brother wouldn’t be on the loose for long. Owen had limited resources. The girl and her kid would drag him down. In this heat, they couldn’t outrun Shane on foot.

  “Let me talk to Roach,” Ace said.

  “He’s back at camp. Keeping an eye on things.”

  “Just handle it,” he said, and hung up.

  Shane said he would. If he didn’t, he’d be a dead man.

  He had a third call to make, to Jorge Sandoval. It couldn’t be traced, but it could be triangulated. The government might scrutinize all communication signals from the same basic area, and there was nobody else out here. He drove twenty more miles to the town of El Centro, pulling over at a dusty truck stop.

  Shane got out and glanced around to make sure the coast was clear before dialing. Dirk waited in the backseat, an impatient look on his face.

  “This is Jorge Sandoval.”

  Shane had planned for Owen to make this call. It was the only reason Shane had brought him along. He didn’t trust Gardener to do it right, so now his only option was disguising his voice. “Do you have the money?”

  Jesus. He sounded like Cookie Monster.

  “I want to speak to my daughter,” Sandoval demanded coolly.

  His attitude pissed Shane off. “You think you’re in charge?”

  “You’ve made it abundantly clear who’s in charge.”

  The way he said it suggested the opposite was true. Sandoval was a Mexican puppet, as far as Shane was concerned, but the man enjoyed a position of wealth and power. All men wanted those things.

  “I have the money,” Sandoval said. “Please, put Penny on the phone.”

  “We need a goodwill gesture first,” Shane growled. “Drop out of the race. Make a formal announcement. When we hear the news, we’ll get back to you.”

  He hung up before Sandoval could reply. The men Shane worked for had financial and political motivations. They’d take Sandoval’s money, but they also wanted a different puppet in the White House. It didn’t matter to Shane. He couldn’t care less about politics. He’d been chosen for this job because of his connection to Owen.

  Climbing behind the wheel, he continued a few more miles to a parking garage. He had a getaway vehicle stashed here. He’d kept it secret from the other guys. It was always good to have a solo escape plan. Although he’d recruited everyone on the crew except Roach, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t double-cross them.

  Shane cleaned his prints off the cell phone and gave it to Gardener. “Take Brett to a hospital in Mexico. Before you cross the border, make a phone call. Dial a number from a billboard, any random number. Hang up when they answer. Then wipe the phone and ditch it in a trash can.”

  Gardener stared at him in disbelief. There were three glossy, purplish knobs on his forehead. He reminded Shane of the dead fish on Salton Sea Beach. They washed up in stinking piles, their eyes foggy and jaws gaping open.

  “You got that?”

  Gardener nodded, accepting the phone. Shane made him repeat the instructions twice. “How long should we stay in Mexico?”

&n
bsp; “Until you get word to come back.”

  Dirk shook his head in protest. “Brett can’t get operated on by a border doctor, man. They’ll cut off his foot with a rusty knife.”

  Shane doubted it, but he didn’t really care.

  “We can find a hospital in Arizona and say he shot himself.”

  Even in Arizona, people asked questions. Who were you with, what were you doing. All it took was one slip, and Brett wasn’t a practiced liar. Unlike him. “They’re going to Mexico. Boss’s orders.”

  “How the hell are we getting back to camp?”

  “I have a backup vehicle parked here.”

  Dirk swore under his breath. He said a tearful goodbye to Brett while Shane gathered his belongings and got out. They stood and watched the SUV drive south, toward the border crossing in Calexico.

  “This is fucked up,” Dirk said.

  “Yes.”

  “You should have sent me into the cave instead of him.”

  That might have ended more violently. Dirk had no finesse with guns or women. “It was a simple task.”

  “Yeah? You didn’t tell anyone your brother was a psycho.”

  Shane had to admit he’d underestimated Owen. He’d always seen his little brother as skinny and weak. Gentle but ineffectual, like their mother. As a child, Owen had felt sorry for the dying fish on the shore, throwing them back in to the toxic sea. Once he’d tried to save an egret that got stuck in the mud.

  He was...sensitive.

  Shane had assumed that Owen landed the cushy security job because of his connection to the candidate’s daughter, not because he was a qualified badass.

  “My mistake,” he said with a hint of admiration. “It never occurred to me that he’d fight back in these circumstances.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t think he had the balls.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PENNY KNEW WHAT Owen had done.

  She’d held her hands over Cruz’s ears in anticipation of the gunshot blast, and had kept them there to muffle the screams.

  She understood why he’d done it, too. A medical emergency was a serious diversion, affording them better opportunity to escape. These men would exact a bloody revenge on Owen if they got the chance, but she didn’t blame him for taking the risk. She knew he’d do anything to protect her and Cruz.

  Owen seemed troubled by his actions, his brow furrowed and his mouth drawn. She longed to put her arms around him, but she doubted he’d take comfort in her embrace. He would hold himself at a distance, as always.

  They fled the scene in a rush, traveling on a footpath that zigzagged across the mountain of dried mud. Owen kept his shoulders low, seeming to expect gunfire to erupt at any moment. The sun bore down on them like an oppressive force. It burned the top of her scalp and sucked the moisture from her lips. She could feel the heat of the earth through the soles of her stolen boots. The dry air singed her lungs, and it was only midmorning. She was walking in an oven. Cruz couldn’t keep up.

  Owen carried him for about a mile. When they reached a shady spot in an adjacent canyon, he stopped, looking back the way they’d come.

  “Do you think they’re following us?” Penny asked.

  “I don’t see anyone.”

  She sat down on a rock next to Cruz, offering him water. His cheeks were flushed, his eyes half-lidded. He gulped the drink, but his normal excitability was gone. As soon as his thirst was slaked, he slumped against her, drowsy. His forehead felt cool against her palm, which was a good sign. Cruz wasn’t used to this much strenuous activity, and he’d only slept six or seven hours the night before. He needed a nap.

  “What now?” she said, passing the canteen to Owen.

  He took a judicious sip. “We have to keep moving. There’s a spring near here. It might be a puddle this time of year, but I think it’s our best bet.”

  “Why? The water won’t be safe to drink.”

  “We can use it to cool down, though. Higher ground is easier to defend, and I can see someone coming from far away. The palm trees also give off plenty of shade. It’s a good place to rest until the sun sets.”

  “Then what?”

  “There’s an old railroad a few miles south. It leads to the 8 Freeway.”

  “The 8 Freeway,” she repeated, cracking a smile. He had a history with the 8. After escaping the earthquake rubble, he’d ridden a BMX along that route until he’d found some National Guardsmen.

  He didn’t smile back at her. “If we walk all night, we might get there. If not, we’ll rest during the day and try again.”

  “We’ll run out of water today,” she said, lifting the half-empty canteen.

  “Maybe not. There are water stations every ten miles or so.”

  “Water stations?”

  “This is a popular border crossing area.”

  She’d heard of people traveling from Mexico through the desert on foot. Now she could better imagine the difficulty. Before setting out again, they made some gear adjustments. She took off her boots to rewrap her feet. The scraps of fabric kept getting bunched up, and several blisters were starting to form. When she winced at the tender spots on her heels, Owen removed his socks and gave them to her.

  “Won’t your feet hurt?”

  “Not as much as yours.”

  His basic black oxfords looked well-worn and comfortable, so she accepted his socks. The combination of soft cotton and stuffed toes felt much better. She applied ChapStick to her lips and face, doing the same for Cruz.

  “Want some?” she asked Owen. “It has SPF 15.”

  He put it on like war paint, two slashes across his cheeks and one on his nose.

  They needed more protection from the sun, so she examined the fishing vest, deciding it could be made into hats. At her request, Owen cut the sturdy, sand-colored fabric into two sections. Penny put one of the squares on Cruz’s head and secured it with a strip from her skirt. Then she gave the other section to Owen.

  “What about you?”

  “I’ve got something else.”

  Taking the knife from him, she cut away another layer of her skirt, making a veil that covered her head and bare shoulders. Owen used his belt as a hatband. Soon they were all outfitted desert-sheikh style.

  “You look like a shepherd,” Cruz said to Owen.

  Owen smiled, picking up a long stick to use as a staff. “So do you. Let’s herd your mother up this hill.”

  Cruz grabbed his own stick, enjoying the game. She allowed herself to be “herded” for a few minutes before letting Owen take the lead. The hike was strenuous, and the temperature seemed to climb with the altitude. Cruz soldiered on. He walked behind Owen, mimicking his gait and matching his stride.

  About an hour later, his strength was sapped. So was hers. They’d eaten nothing today, after a grueling trek last night. It was blazing hot, well over one hundred degrees, and dry as a bone. When Cruz dropped his stick out of fatigue, she lifted him into her arms. Black spots danced behind her eyes, and the world tilted.

  She set him down quickly, fearing a fall.

  Owen turned to study her with concern. His gaze traveled across the landscape before returning to her. “Okay now?”

  Her vision cleared, but she didn’t know how long it would last. “Yes.”

  “You want a horsey ride, Cruz?”

  He nodded, climbing on Owen’s back. Penny took the lead again, after drinking a few more sips of water. She trudged forward, putting one foot in front of the other. Owen encouraged her to move at her own pace. He kept saying they were almost there.

  Almost there.

  Almost there.

  And then they were. She saw the circle of palm trees in the distance, the fresh green fronds and shady allure. It smelled like wet leaves and mud. If she wasn’t so dehydrated, she might have wept at the sight.

  The “oasis” was no fantasy paradise. It was a shallow, rocky pool about six feet wide, surrounded by towering palms. Palm fans littered the ground, their stems arc
hed and spiky, like dinosaur backbones.

  Owen let Cruz down, groaning as if his muscles ached. He took the fabric off his head and raked a hand through his short hair. Cruz did the same.

  She approached the edge of the pool with Cruz. “You can’t drink it.”

  “Why not?”

  “It might have bugs.”

  He flopped down on his belly and stuck his arms in the water, which was murky and moss-green. Making a frog noise, he hopped his hand along the surface, retreating into the safety of his imagination. He needed both rest and playtime, like all children.

  Penny sat down next to him, her muscles aching. She removed her scarf and swished it around in the pool. When the cloth was soaked, she wrapped it around her head. Cool water streamed down her face and neck.

  Heaven.

  Owen investigated a wooden barrel that was stuck between two tree trunks. “Sometimes people put extra supplies here.” As he opened the cask, his eyes widened with delight. He took out a sack containing three small water bottles, a can of apple juice, three boxes of raisins, and six dried sausage sticks. “Thank you, Boy Scouts of America.”

  “How do you know it was them?”

  “They signed the notebook.”

  Penny accepted the goodies, her stomach growling. She tore open the sausage packet for Cruz and handed it to him. Then she bit into hers. “Oh, my God,” she said, chewing rapturously. “This is so good.”

  Owen grinned, watching her eat with pleasure. The three of them wolfed down the sausage sticks and moved on to the raisins.

  “Mmm,” she said, gobbling them up. “I don’t even like raisins.”

  “I don’t, either.”

  They laughed as if raisins were hilarious as well as delicious. Even Cruz ate a handful. Penny let him drink all of the juice, figuring that he could use the electrolytes. She wasn’t full afterward, but she felt better.

  Cruz took off his shoes and waded into the water. Penny followed suit, removing her boots and socks with a wince. She sank her aching feet into the sandy mud at the bottom, wiggling her toes. “You might have to carry me tonight.”

  “Whatever it takes,” Owen said. Instead of joining them, he went to the edge of the trees to keep watch.