The Marshalls Boxed Set (Texas Heroes: The Marshalls Books 1-3)

by Jean Brashear

  Bullhorn’s man looked over at his boss for permission. When Bullhorn nodded, he told Case the name of the motel.

  Case turned to go. Bullhorn reached for him as he passed, but Case shook him off, his eyes shooting a warning that he would not be forestalled.

  “I won’t try to stop you, Case, but take one of my guys with you. Let him drive—it will save you time and perhaps you will get there alive.”

  Case nodded tightly. Clasped his friend’s shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll check in.”

  “I will keep looking for la ‘tite ange, mon ami. We’ll find her.” The promise in his voice was firm.

  Case had little faith in anything right now, certainly not Fate’s tender mercies.

  But Fate had seen nothing like the revenge he would wreak if anything happened to Sammie.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The door to Room 122 of the Bayou Motel exploded inward, the wood splintering at the hinges from the force of Case’s body hurtling against it.

  “Case!” Roland sounded delighted to see him

  His expression turned uncertain as Case’s towering anger registered.

  He began backing across the room as Case advanced. “Now, see here, my boy, let’s don’t be hasty now. I don’t have your money right now, but I’ll get more for you, just as I did before.” He scrambled into the corner, brandishing an umbrella as his only weapon.

  Case snarled and snatched the umbrella from him, launching it across the room, hearing it crack against the wall. He enjoyed the fright on Roland’s face. “To hell with the money, Roland.”

  “Oh, you don’t need it? Well, I daresay, that’s very helpful, but I don’t quite see—”

  Case grabbed the once-dapper little man, fighting the urge to punch his lights out. Too bad he needed the little prick’s help. “Oh, I intend to get every penny back, Roland, don’t you ever doubt it. But right now, I want Sammie.”

  Roland’s eyes bugged out. “Sammie?” He blinked, as if Case had spoken another language. “Do you mean Samantha? My Samantha?”

  “No, Roland, my Samantha,” Case growled. “The woman you left to face the music when you turned tail and ran. The woman who’s been running for her life, thanks to you.” His fingers wrapped around Roland’s throat as he fought the urge to squeeze the life out of him. “The woman Frenchy Pelletier beat up and carried away a few hours ago, you lousy piece of shit.”

  All the color drained from Roland’s face as he visibly recoiled in horror. “Frenchy?” he croaked weakly. “Gascoigne has Samantha?”

  Case released him and Roland slid to the floor, gasping. “Get dressed,” Case snapped. His fists clenched and unclenched as he paced the floor. The moment he had Sammie back safe, he would grind this weasel into the dirt.

  Roland scuttled over and removed another of his white planter’s suits from a hanger, the awkward gait a reminder that Roland was not a young man.

  Case hardened his heart against any sympathy. This was the man who’d caused all of Sammie’s troubles. Because of him, whatever his reasons for doing what he had, she was in grave danger. Every second might mean the difference between life and death for her.

  But he had a plan. Roland was going to be bait to flush out Gascoigne. It was fitting; he’d made Sammie bait—now he’d get to do the honors.

  “Case, you must believe me, I never intended…I love that girl as though she were my own. I would never—”

  “Don’t say you’d never—you did this to her, Roland. You dragged her into a nightmare. You turned her life into a living hell. What in the devil were you thinking? How could you involve her?” Barely suppressed fury vibrated in his voice.

  Roland flinched from the violence in his tone. “But I don’t understand—why didn’t she turn the matter over to the authorities? Let the police and the bank examiners handle it?” His confusion seemed genuine.

  “Because Gascoigne’s brutes told her they’d harm her family if she told anyone. They backed it up with some pretty nasty demonstrations on Sammie.”

  Roland sucked in his breath but didn’t speak.

  Case continued. “Nice little things like beating her, trying to abduct her. And then there was Frenchy Pelletier, stripping her and almost raping her in her own apartment.” Case didn’t even try to restrain the menace he felt for this weasel.

  Roland squeezed his eyes closed, a struggle on his face. “Please believe me, Case. I would never—never—have put her in this position if I’d known. Tell me what I can do to help.”

  Roland’s shaken composure began to breach Case’s anger, convincing him that perhaps the man really had not anticipated the carnage he’d wrought.

  “You, my man, are going to serve as bait.”

  Roland blinked rapidly, but surprisingly drew himself up to face the task. “Very well. Where do we begin?”

  Case felt pretty stupid, dressed up like a delivery man for his visit to the St. Claires’ opulent home. Knowing that Sammie had spotted surveillance on this street, however, he didn’t dare show up undisguised. He wasn’t happy about the delay, but Roland was insistent that he must speak with his sister before meeting with Gascoigne.

  It wasn’t like Case had a lot of options. Bullhorn still had no word on Sammie’s whereabouts, so he’d seized upon Case’s idea of using Roland as bait. If they couldn’t find Gascoigne, they’d make sure he had reason to want to find them. Bullhorn had set about sending word through all his channels that Roland wanted to meet with Gascoigne to hand over files he had that Gascoigne wanted.

  Now they were playing a waiting game, one Case hoped like hell would end soon. Every time he thought about what Frenchy and Ray might be doing to Sammie…

  He was strung taut as a bow from his sense of foreboding, half-crazed with his need to get to her. He’d seen what these creeps were willing to do to her, and her earlier escapes would only make them more determined to make her pay.

  The door finally opened.

  “Yes?” A maid stood there, polite in her unconcern. His disguise must work.

  “I have a package for Mrs. St. Claire. She has to sign for it in person.”

  “Can’t someone else sign?”

  “No. Only Mrs. St. Claire. I can’t leave it with anyone else.”

  Her mouth a prim line, at last the woman nodded. She closed the door in his face and left to fetch her employer.

  The quick view he’d had of the enormous black-and-white marble entry and the elegant, curving staircase made it easy to picture Sammie gliding down in a ballgown, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  He could also imagine her descending those same steps as a bride, and he was painfully aware of what he would be asking her to give up to come live with him. Parents who lived like this wouldn’t be happy.

  The door re-opened, and he got a glimpse of Sammie as she might look years from now. The woman before him was beautiful, too, though she lacked Sammie’s vibrancy. This woman looked fragile enough to break. Linnie Mae was smaller, but her eternal vitality, her roots in the harsh land, made her a mighty oak compared to the will-o-the-wisp standing before him.

  “You asked for me?” He hadn’t realized he was staring, until the woman’s quizzical look forced him back to the present.

  “Mrs. St. Claire?”

  She nodded.

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am, but this package must be signed for by you personally, and my instructions are to have you open it in my presence.”

  “I don’t know…” She looked nervously around her.

  Of course a woman of her age and station would not be comfortable letting a delivery man into her home, but he had to be with her when she opened the package and read Roland’s message. “You could open it out here, if you wish, where we could be in plain sight, Mrs. St. Claire.”

  She hesitated and studied him. “I suppose it will be all right for you to come in,” she offered. “The servants will be nearby.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Case removed his cap and stepped inside, enjoying the cool c
omfort of the entry.

  Sammie’s mother took the package to the large library table on which stood a tall crystal vase filled with fresh flowers. Her back was to him, but he could see her reflection in the huge mirror mounted over the table. As she read the address, her brow wrinkled slightly. Her skin was smooth as a girl’s, he noticed. Her figure was trim, her bearing graceful. The silver in her hair and the slightly blurred lines of her face were the only clues that she was not Sammie’s age.

  From a drawer in the front of the table, she took a silver letter opener to slit open the package. She opened the single sheet of paper nestled inside, written in Roland’s own hand, and gasped. Her eyes met his in the mirror. She turned. “Who are you, young man? And where is my daughter?”

  Case stepped toward her, halting as she retreated in fear. He’d intended to comfort her, he realized, but she didn’t know him from Adam.

  “Mrs. St. Claire, I’d give a lot to know that myself. Your daughter is in serious danger, and I’m doing everything I can to find her, but I need your help.” When she didn’t speak, he continued. “I don’t know how much you know about what your brother has done, but I’ll leave that to him to explain. Suffice it to say that she is in the hands of people who won’t blink at killing her.”

  The woman gasped, and he rushed to assure her. “I am not going to let it come to that, but I need Roland’s cooperation in order to rescue her, and he’s insisted upon talking with you first.”

  “We have to call the police.”

  “We can’t,” he said grimly. “They have issued very credible warnings against your lives that sent her running away in the first place. They’ve found her, and I have to get to her immediately. I need you to trust me, Mrs. St. Claire. Your daughter means everything to me. I’d give my life to save her.”

  “We should speak with my husband.”

  “There is no time. Don’t you dare slow me down, Mrs. St. Claire. Her life is at stake, and I won’t hesitate to mow down anyone in my path.” He exhaled. “I don’t want to scare you, but I can’t emphasize enough what a dangerous situation she’s in.”

  She frowned. “How do you know Samantha?”

  “It’s a long story, and time is critical. Whether or not Sammie wants me in her life isn’t nearly as important as making sure that she’s alive to make that decision.”

  Mrs. St. Claire looked deep into his eyes before she spoke again. “I cannot leave with you, Mr.—?”

  “Marshall, ma’am, Case Marshall. But you have to—”

  She interrupted. “I cannot leave with you because my husband would find out, and I cannot be sure what he might do. I have no wish to endanger him, nor do I want anything to happen to my daughter. I will meet you at the entrance to the Audubon Zoo in thirty minutes.” She began to walk away.

  “Fifteen minutes. Please.”

  She revolved, one patrician brow lifted.

  “We have to hurry. He’s already had her at his mercy for hours.”

  Her expression was stricken. “You are sure this will work?”

  Hell, no, he wasn’t. But to her he only said simply and from the heart, “I’ll get your daughter back, Mrs. St. Claire. I won’t consider any other outcome, whatever it costs me.”

  She studied his face, then nodded. “I’ll tell my driver to hurry.”

  Not knowing was the worst part, Sammie decided. That must be how prisoners of war were broken down, by the gnawing uncertainty of having no idea if help was coming—or if anyone even cared.

  Case will come, she chastised herself. He will come for me.

  If she could just hold on.

  If only Frenchy would stay away.

  She shuddered and curled into the back seat upholstery, desperate to make herself less noticeable. Bound and blindfolded, she was still dizzy from the blows she had taken when she’d fought to keep him from dragging her out of the club.

  The car stopped. The back door opened.

  He ran those meaty hands up her legs. Grabbed her ankles and pulled her legs apart, dragging her body toward his.

  It was all she could do to remain limp while he groped at her and muttered crude curses in bastard French.

  “Frenchy! There will be hell to pay if you don’t get her inside this second.”

  He yanked her the rest of the way out, then threw her over his shoulder and stomped his way inside. The feel of his thick hands on the backs of her legs, of her breasts mashed into his back, was so disgusting she couldn’t repress a shudder.

  She forced herself to relax immediately—but too late.

  “Putain, you will pay for the trouble you have caused me.” With relish, he recited a litany of details.

  She wouldn’t let herself listen. Could not afford to, not if she hoped to get out of here.

  Despite everything, she did. She had no idea how, and she was hopelessly outmatched—

  But she still clung to the hope that Case would come after her. In the meantime, she would stay alert for any opportunity to escape.

  Wherever they were, someone must have stored chemical fertilizers here in the past. There was a strong, acrid smell which reminded her of chemicals the gardeners used on her parents’ lawn.

  Frenchy tossed her on a cot. She landed on top of a scratchy blanket.

  His hot, fetid breath washed over her face. He shoved one hand between her legs.

  Sickness rose. Oh please oh please…

  The other voice called out. “Frenchy, goddamn it, where the hell are you?”

  One more ham-handed squeeze. “I will be back, bitch. Count on it.”

  Oh, God. The thought of being alone with him…

  She heard a door close and she thought she might be alone, but she wasn’t taking any chances. She kept herself completely still, using one deep breath after another to calm herself. To will away the urge to be sick.

  The only thing that helped was thinking of Case.

  But it seemed a sacrilege to recall their lovemaking while in this place of horror. She felt so exposed. So terribly vulnerable. The memory of Frenchy’s filthy hands touching where Case had caressed her so tenderly—

  No. She couldn’t think of them so close together.

  She would concentrate on her bindings. He’d probably done them this way to make her feel more helpless, but the way he’d bound her arms behind, forcing her breasts to thrust out, might work to her advantage if she could arch her back enough to bring her ankles near. Her wrists were bound too tightly for her to work at them with her fingers, but perhaps, before she lost all feeling in her fingers, she could pick at the ankle restraints.

  She blessed her yoga classes for her flexibility, but it was all she could do not to cry out when one hamstring cramped up. She straightened her legs again and focused on relaxing the muscle. She would try again, slowly arching and breathing into the movement as though she were in class. She would also listen for any hints about where she was and what was happening.

  And she would pray for rescue. She wouldn’t give up on rescuing herself, but she was out of her league and she knew it.

  Please, Case, please hurry.

  Chapter Twenty

  Case’s patience was strained to the breaking point, waiting for Gascoigne to make contact. Every minute that passed, every half-hour, seemed an eternity—one in which Sammie could be lost to him forever.

  He smashed one fist into the other hand, drawing the attention of everyone else in the room.

  Sammie’s mother flinched, and he lowered his eyes in silent apology. She didn’t deserve his anger; she was nervous enough.

  When he’d brought her back, she and Roland had embraced warmly, Roland rocking her from side to side. He drew his sister away to a corner of Bullhorn’s living room to speak with her, and Case had to admire the way she’d taken the details about Sammie. Her face had drained of all color, but she’d drawn herself back up and forced herself to listen to everything Roland had to confess.

  A few moments ago, Roland had stopped speaking and sat down,
visibly slumping with dejection. He’d looked at her with sorrow and apology; she had merely taken his face between her hands and kissed his cheek.

  Classy lady.

  Case wasn’t so charitable. He still itched to take out some of his worry and frustration on Roland’s face. Roland could natter on until the end of the world about how he hadn’t intended to get Sammie into this mess. The fact remained that she’d never have been involved in any of it, except for him. Roland had a lot of sins to repent, but none more grievous than this.

  The phone rang.

  Bullhorn answered it. Case closed the distance between them, fighting the urge to yank it from Bullhorn’s hand.

  He looked up quickly at Case and nodded as he listened to the caller.

  Case’s heart raced. Maybe the waiting was over.

  When Bullhorn hung up, all eyes were on him. “Gascoigne wants to meet with Roland—alone.”

  “The hell he will—” Case barked. “I’m going, too. I have to get to Sammie.”

  “He was very explicit, Case—no cops, no wires, and no one but Roland. He will consider exchanging Sammie for Roland—but only if his conditions are met.”

  Sammie’s mother gasped and covered her mouth with the handkerchief crumpled in her hand. At another time, Case would have sympathized with her. She would undoubtedly lose one of the people she loved this night.

  But it would not be Sammie. He would make sure of that.

  Bullhorn sighed. “Mon ami, he was very clear on his conditions. However, I know you well. Tell me what help you need to carry out whatever plan is undoubtedly forming at this moment in that devious mind of yours.”

  Case flashed a grateful smile. And began outlining his ideas.

  Etienne Gascoigne sighed as only a man who has many subordinates can. He wondered why he could not find the proper mix of logic and brutality in one man. He had made a simple request of Frenchy, to eliminate the threat from one young woman. Now, instead of one two-bit hustler to handle, Gascoigne had a spitting, angry chatte on his hands, to boot.

  Frenchy had overstepped his bounds with this one. His innate brutality proved useful at times, but ham-fisted tactics were out of place here. This situation called for finesse. Frenchy’s bestial desire to humiliate and violate the girl in retaliation for her defiance would lead them all to ruin if not controlled. He had succeeded in arousing rebellion in her already, according to Raymond. Killing her was not desirable, but negotiating with her might be impossible.