by B. J Daniels
The man was strong and had Jake pinned in the pickup in a position where he could do little to free himself. The arm at his throat was cutting off his air. He felt his fingers weakening on the weapon and heard Elena cry out something in Spanish to her mother. Darkness edged his vision as the pressure from the man’s arm cut off his air.
He heard the shot, felt the arm around his neck loosen, the hand on his weapon release. The first shot was followed quickly by a second. The man behind him made a small grunt before he hit the ground with a lifeless thud. The third shot, which came within seconds of the other two, made a hollow sound as it punctured the windshield, driving a clean hole through the glass and instantly turning the glass around it into a thick white web.
Jake heard the sound of someone running, the roar of a large car engine and the screech of rubber as the sound of the engine died away.
Beside him, one of Ramon’s men lay in a pool of blood, staring up, a neat little black hole between his eyes.
Jake swung around to look at Isabella as he gasped for breath, his throat on fire where the man had choked him.
She sat perfectly still, except for the trembling of the hand that held the pistol. A pistol she must have taken from the man he’d killed on her side of the truck. He looked quickly at Elena, still huddled on the floor.
“Are you all right, Elena?” he asked, his voice hoarse.
She lifted her face from her knees, her doll clutched to her thin chest, and nodded, eyes wide.
In the distance, he could hear the sound of police sirens. He knew he wasn’t going anywhere in this truck and now, more than ever, he needed to get out of Mexico. “Come on,” he said to Isabella.
She still hadn’t moved. She seemed in shock. No more than he was, he thought.
“We have to get out of here,” he said, touching her arm.
She stirred at his touch, her gaze settling on him for a moment, then quickly flicking to Elena. Tears welled in her eyes as she dropped the gun and reached for her daughter.
Jake shoved his pistol into the waist of his jeans, then took Elena from her mother’s arms. “We’re going to have to run. Are you up to it?” he asked Isabella.
She nodded and pulled her bag from the back. A second later she was out of the truck and running beside him down a side street.
He ran with Elena, her one small arm wrapped around his neck, the other around her Sweet Ana. As he wound through the narrow streets, he looked for a vehicle to steal, trying to ignore the voice in his head, the one that kept reminding him of the perfectly placed bullet hole and the only other woman he’d known who could shoot like that.
Abby Diaz.
Chapter Six
The red short-box Toyota pickup was almost too easy. It had Texas plates, was parked at the edge of the industrial area and was one vehicle he could hot-wire in less than a minute.
Jake would have much preferred something a little less flashy than bright red. But beggars couldn’t be choosers.
However, when he got closer, he realized hot-wiring it wouldn’t be necessary. Not only was the truck unlocked, the keys glittered in the ignition. He glanced around nervously. When things went too easily it made him nervous. When they went this smoothly, it scared the hell out of him.
Jake quickly ushered the woman and child into the front bench seat, worried either that the owner hadn’t gone far and would return too soon or that he’d just walked into an ambush. He hurried around to the driver’s side and slid behind the wheel. The truck started on his first try.
The Mexican town still dozed in the warm, early-morning sun. He drove toward the border, avoiding the part of town where he could still hear police sirens. Three minutes later, he pulled into the short line of commercial trucks and several cars at the border crossing, still looking over his shoulder. For Ramon. For the owner of the pickup. Afraid someone would stop them before they could reach the States.
The line moved as slow as mesquite honey. When their turn came, the border guard ambled over to Jake’s side of the pickup and leaned down to peer at the three of them. He asked the standard questions. Were they American citizens, where they were born, what had they been doing in Mexico and had they purchased anything.
Jake wondered if Frank had alerted the border guards to watch out for him and his companions. That would be like Frank. If Frank had his way, he’d have Isabella and Elena in protective custody the moment they stepped on U.S. soil.
But the guard barely glanced at them or their drivers’ licenses before he waved them on through.
Still, Jake found himself holding his breath as he drove into Texas. He watched the highway ahead and behind them, expecting—hell, that was just it. He didn’t know what he expected.
Well, at least he was back in Texas. Home. He’d done what he’d been assigned to do. Find the woman and child, get them to the States. Now all he had to do was call Frank and have the Feds pick them up. Job done.
He glanced down at the speedometer and quickly lightened his foot on the gas pedal. Don’t be a fool, Cantrell. All you need to do is get picked up for speeding in a stolen vehicle.
But he couldn’t deny the need to put distance between them and Mexico. Or the unaccountable urge he felt to run.
The question was: run from what? He watched the highway. No Ramon. No nondescript car with occupants who looked like agents. He told himself he could relax now. He was back in Texas. Safe.
He looked over at the little girl, her face lit with excitement as she stood on the seat, staring ahead at the town of Del Rio. Then past her to her mother. The woman’s eerie resemblance to Abby struck him like a blow—just as it always did. Now, though, after what he’d witnessed in Ciudad Acuna—
“That was some shot,” he said.
Yes, it had been. She’d thought of little else since. “I can’t believe I did that. It just happened so fast.”
Her hands had stopped trembling but she was still shaking inside. She’d killed one man and would have killed the other one if he’d given her the chance.
Even now it didn’t seem like her hand that had wrenched the pistol from the dead man’s fingers and fired without hesitation. She didn’t even know she knew how to shoot let alone could hit anything.
But she’d more than just hit something, hadn’t she?
“I just pulled the trigger,” she said, trying to convince herself as much as him. “Anyone could have hit such a large target at that close range.” Was that true?
She dragged her gaze from the Texas town to look over at him, afraid of what she’d see.
He stared at her openly, suspicion in his gaze as he searched her face. She knew what he was looking for. Abby Diaz. He was beginning to suspect what she’d feared.
“You must have shot a pistol before,” he said.
She noticed the careful way he chose his words. “Not that I can remember,” she answered truthfully.
He nodded, eyeing her intently before turning back to his driving. “Lucky shot, for your first time.”
She said nothing. She’d shot the man between his eyes. No hesitation. The pistol in her hands had felt almost…natural. She looked out her side window and watched the city of Del Rio rush past in a blur, remembering the look on the man’s face, the shock when she’d turned the pistol on him and fired.
Dear God. She closed her eyes. Who was she? Certainly not Isabella Montenegro, housewife and mother, prisoner of Julio Montenegro in a loveless marriage.
She opened her eyes. Why couldn’t she accept what had to be the truth?
She glanced over at Jake. A thought struck her, taking her breath away. She’d always wondered why she couldn’t remember anything before the fire. At first she’d thought her loss of memory was due to the accident. But the doctors had told her it was psychosomatic, caused instead by trauma or repression due to possible shock. In other words, she’d blanked out the past because she couldn’t face it.
Couldn’t face that someone close to her, someone she’d trusted, maybe even lov
ed, had betrayed her?
The thought sent a chill through her. If that were true, then Abby Diaz knew her killer. Knew him and trusted him. Just as she might have her lover. The father of her child. If Jake really was guilty, then wouldn’t he now be afraid she’d identify him to the FBI?
If only she could remember. Dear God, what had happened six years ago?
She realized Jake hadn’t stopped at a phone booth yet. Hadn’t he said he was taking her to the first phone booth, calling the FBI and turning her and Elena over to the Feds?
But he seemed to be driving straight through Del Rio as if he had no intention of stopping. Her heart took off at a gallop. He’d been so anxious to wash his hands of her and Elena. What had changed?
Had he changed his mind because of what had happened in Ciudad Acuna? Did he suspect that she was Abby Diaz? Is that why he’d changed his plans?
Her pulse throbbed at her temple, the morning sun blinding. She pulled Elena closer, fear making her chest tighten, her mouth dry.
They passed another phone booth. “Are you going to call the FBI or take us to the nearest office?” she asked, trying to keep the anxiety out of her voice.
“I’m not taking you to the FBI just yet,” he said without looking at her.
Her heart thudded dully in her chest. She looked out at the small Texas town, fighting panic. Once they left these streets and were out in the open desert again— She leaned down and whispered into her daughter’s ear. Elena whispered back.
“Elena has to go to the bathroom,” she told Jake.
He glanced over at them, not looking happy about the prospect, then glanced at the gas gauge. “All right. We need gas, anyway. Can she hold it just a little longer? I’d really like to get to the other side of town.”
She nodded and reached down to pick up her bag from the floor.
“But you’ll have to make it quick,” he added. “We have a long way to go.” His gaze locked on hers, suspicious.
He didn’t trust her. Not that he probably ever had. But now he’d be careful. Cautious. More watchful. And he’d changed his plans.
She could think of only one reason he’d decided not to take them to the FBI yet.
We have a long way to go. She hated to think where he might be planning to take her and Elena.
He stopped at a small, deserted gas station on the far edge of Del Rio. “Just a minute,” he said as Isabella started to get out, her bag in one hand, Elena’s small hand in the other. He took the bag from her. “You won’t need this, right?”
She looked up at him. Compliant was a look she’d perfected with Julio. “I just need a change of clothing for Elena and me. These clothes still reek of smoke.”
He nodded, seemingly reassured as she pulled out what she needed, then she let him take the bag and put it behind the pickup seat.
She climbed out and, taking Elena’s hand, walked toward the ladies’ room. She heard his door open, heard him begin to fill the gas tank. She knew he was watching them. She knew she’d have to be careful. Just as she had been with Julio.
TEN MINUTES LATER, Jake saw her and the little girl come out of the ladies’ room. The two of them made a striking pair and he couldn’t deny the resemblance between mother and daughter. If he even considered that Elena might be his daughter, then—he caught the woman’s eye. She quickly looked down at the child as the two advanced.
He didn’t know what to think. What to believe. Right now he was just scared and not sure exactly what it was he feared the most.
A dust devil whirled across the pavement to shower the side of the nearly derelict building with Texas dust. He glanced at the road, unable to shake that uneasy feeling. But there was little traffic out this way and they had the gas station to themselves.
When he turned back, the woman and child were almost to him. He finished filling the tank with unleaded and waited until she’d led Elena around to the passenger side of the truck before he went in to pay. In his pocket, he jingled the keys just to assure himself he hadn’t left them in the ignition. And he kept an eye on the pair. Not that he thought the woman was fool enough to take off on foot. Not with the child.
While he paid the cashier, a teenage boy watching a rerun on an old black-and-white TV, he had the feeling of being observed. He looked out at the pickup. Elena stood at the driver’s-side window, staring at him with an intensity that unnerved him. He suddenly realized he couldn’t see the woman.
Hurriedly, he took the change the teenager absently handed him, the TV still squawking in the corner, and left the office, his anxiety growing with each step he took toward the pickup.
She came around the front fender with a squeegee in her hand and began to wash the windshield. He almost laughed in relief and surprise. Someone had certainly trained this woman well. Then he remembered the way she’d fired the gun and wondered just how trained she really was.
“Here, let me do that,” he said, going around to the passenger side of the truck to where she scrubbed enthusiastically at the bugs on the dirty windshield.
She’d changed into a Mexican embroidered top and jeans. The top billowed out, hiding her curves as she worked. She turned to look at him, her gaze quickly dropping behind the veil of dark lashes.
He studied her a moment, wondering. One moment she was so passive, so subservient, a woman whose will had been broken. And the next? She was shooting a man between the eyes with a pistol as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
She handed him the squeegee, her fingers brushing against his. He was hit with that sudden unmistakable twinge again. The same one he’d felt the first time he’d seen her, the first time he’d touched her. And he had the most irresistible desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her. If he kissed her, he’d know. He felt certain of it. And wasn’t that what was driving him crazy? Not knowing for sure?
Their bodies were so close that her scent filled his senses, reminding him of something rare and exotic. And…familiar.
The feel of the cold hard barrel of the pistol pressed into his ribs caught him completely by surprise. He blinked. Too shocked to comprehend what was happening for a moment. Where had she gotten a gun? He had his on him and—the other gun. What a fool. He’d just assumed when he hadn’t seen her with the pistol she’d taken from Ramon’s henchman that she’d left it in the produce truck. Dropped it like a hot potato.
He closed his eyes and groaned. What the hell was wrong with him? But he knew the answer to that as he opened them again and looked at the woman.
“The keys to the truck, please,” she said.
He stared into her dark eyes and saw an intelligence that he’d somehow missed before. No, that she’d kept hidden, just as she’d hidden the anger and determination that now burned as bright as dazzling sunlight in her gaze.
“This is a mistake,” he whispered, and felt the steel dig a little deeper into his flesh.
“The mistake will be yours if you don’t give me the truck keys,” she said calmly, her eyes locking with his.
The last thing he wanted to do was give her the keys to the pickup. But he realized she could kill him where he stood in an instant and from the look in her eyes, he didn’t doubt she would. She probably believed the evidence in the envelope. Believed he was a killer.
Then she couldn’t possibly be Abby Diaz. Abby would never have believed that he could hurt her—even if the information had come from the FBI.
“Easy,” he said as he slowly reached into his pocket for the keys. He handed them to her, wondering, now what?
She produced a pair of handcuffs from the waistband of her jeans, cuffs that had been concealed under her billowing blouse. His handcuffs. The ones he’d unclipped from his belt and slipped under the seat of the pickup just before they’d reached the border.
She handed him the cuffs. “One on your right wrist, the other to the pump handle.”
“You and the kid don’t stand a chance on your own.”
“I’ll take my chances. The cuffs, please.�
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He glanced toward the gas-station office. The attendant was probably watching the TV he’d been glued to earlier. Not that the boy could see what was happening on this side of the pickup even if he’d bothered to look. No doubt that was the way she’d planned it. If only someone would stop for gas. But then he’d purposely chosen this rundown station because it wasn’t busy.
He let out a curse as the pistol barrel pressed deeper into his flesh beneath his shirt, drawing his attention quickly back to the woman.
“The cuffs,” she reminded him.
Completely gone was the passive female he’d originally thought he was taking to the FBI. This woman had a fireworks show of anger and pent-up aggression in her dark eyes.
And she had the pistol in the perfect spot to kill a man before he could make a move to save himself. Just luck, like the shot she’d fired between the man’s eyes? Right.
He cursed himself for the fool he’d been as he snapped one cuff to his right wrist, the other to the gas pump. He’d underestimated her. Whoever the hell she was.
He met her gaze. She seemed to hesitate and in that instant, he felt something arc between them, strong and fierce and—this time no mistaking it—passionately familiar.
“Abby?” he whispered.
And then the lights went out.
Chapter Seven
Ramon Hernandez was not having a good day. His half-finished breakfast hadn’t agreed with his stomach, the van was demolished, and three of his men were dead and another two hurt too badly to be of much use.
He swore to himself as he stepped gingerly into the hot, cramped phone booth, watching his back. Outside, one of his remaining, least-injured men stood guard; little consolation, all things considered.
He quickly dialed the number, nervous, sick to his stomach and frightened. Who was the gringo with Isabella Montenegro? DEA? Or a drug dealer? He didn’t like this added complication, whoever the man was, and wished he’d killed him when he’d had the chance.
