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

by Jean Brashear

  If that was so, killing her was the only option—she knew too much. Regrettable, perhaps, but necessary.

  Gascoigne snapped out of his thoughts when he heard the warehouse door open.

  Case silently thanked his old friend Hank Mallory as he scaled the last stretch to the warehouse roof. Hank was obsessed with rock climbing and had dragged Case along with him, swearing he’d love the challenge. Hank had been right, more than he could know. Though it had been several years and the gear Bullhorn had scared up wasn’t top quality, the experience Case had gained in scaling heights and traversing difficult surfaces proved invaluable.

  There was so much at stake. Fear for Sammie was a tight fist squeezing his throat. What if she wasn’t here after all? What if Frenchy had—

  No. He had to believe Gascoigne had ample reason to keep her alive. That he could control Frenchy.

  But he could still picture her, pale and terrified when she remembered that bastard’s brutal handling. If that sonofabitch laid another hand on her…

  His grip on the rope slipped.

  Swiftly he corrected. Steadied himself. Forced himself to ruthless control of his emotions.

  Stay focused. It’s the only way you can help her.

  One foot upward, then the next.

  When he reached the top of the warehouse, he scanned for Roland outside below. Assuring himself all was in place, Case made his way across the roof, looking for an opening.

  Case neared the last two skylights, praying that one of them would give him a view into the space where Sammie was being held. He had to believe that Gascoigne would have her here to exchange as he had said. If that was a lie…

  Case couldn’t think about the implications of that. It would mean Sammie was being held somewhere else—another cranny in this city filled with dark corners—and God only knew how long it might take to find her. Or she was already—

  No. He was going to find her. Save her. They’d had too little time together.

  He wanted more. A lifetime more.

  Then he heard the faint sound of a woman’s voice, and his heart skipped. He approached slowly. He couldn’t risk casting a shadow in the moonlight. Some of the other skylights he’d checked had been in varying stages of clouding, a couple nearly opaque. He hoped to heaven this one would be in better condition.

  No more sounds from the space below, but a faint glow emitting through the skylight ahead raised his hopes. Careful to stay on the side opposite the moon, Case peered over the edge. Spotted a figure bent awkwardly on a cot in the room below.

  The figure moved, and he saw it was Sammie.

  She was alive.

  He squeezed his eyes shut. Thank God. He’d found her.

  He quickly scanned the room below for a way to enter. Nothing promising. He’d have to return to the ground.

  But he lingered for a second, simply absorbing the reality that she was here. He’d found her.

  Then he realized she was working at the bindings on her ankles, and he had to smile.

  What a woman. She’d never give up, not his Sammie.

  Okay. Settle down now. He centered his thoughts on the task ahead and started to turn away to seek a way inside.

  Movement at the edge of the room caught his eye.

  Frenchy Pelletier lumbered into view.

  Case’s fists clenched. How he wanted a piece of that bastard.

  He forced himself to remain still and observe—until Frenchy pinched one of Sammie’s breasts with a vicious twist, and she cried out in pain. Red rage blinded Case, and he rose from his crouch—

  Bits of gravel shifted, and the sound yanked him back from the bloodthirsty urge to beat Frenchy senseless.

  He still hadn’t seen where Gascoigne was. He had to have a complete picture of the setup before he went down there. It would do her no good for him to be taken hostage, too. Ruthlessly he steeled his mind to the task at hand, crushing all thoughts of revenge, knowing they would only distract him and not help Sammie at all.

  Later, however…

  He looked below once more, just in time to see Frenchy haul her to her feet with one brutal jerk. Sammie stumbled, then turned her head—

  And spat right in Frenchy’s face.

  Damn it, Sammie, don’t antagonize him.

  She wouldn’t go down without a fight, but Frenchy looked like he was spoiling for one. He hauled back and cuffed her hard on the side of the head.

  Sammie swayed.

  Frenchy yanked her upright, fist clenched to hit her again—

  A voice shouted at him, and he turned toward a door Case couldn’t see. Frenchy bellowed a defiant response.

  But he stopped hitting Sammie.

  And dragged her out of the room.

  Case’s own fists clenched as he followed on the roof in the direction Frenchy had taken. The nearest skylight was cloudy and crackled. He could only make out several hazy figures below. Frustration seethed as he scanned the roof for the best place to enter the building near them. He couldn’t afford to take the time to return to the far edge.

  He hoped like hell Dolly had done her job with the sentry. He spared a quick glance and smiled thinly as he located Dolly on the ground below. Apparently, the sentry had proven relatively easy. No surprise there—few men could resist the woman who seduced entire audiences.

  Dolly had taken to her role eagerly, thrilled to drive the Corvette Jerry Benson had provided. What a picture she must have made, hood up, draped over the engine, tiny skirt riding high on her thighs, drawing off the sentry by appealing to his instinct to help a very hot damsel in distress.

  Sparky, Bullhorn’s favorite bouncer, was assigned to make short work of the sentry once Dolly had the man’s full attention. He would be tied up tight in Jerry’s van nearby. Now it was up to Case to get inside.

  “Well, M’sieur Bracewell, it seems we have a problem.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure, M’sieur…Gascoigne?” Bracewell responded.

  Gascoigne’s eyes narrowed, then he looked down, flicking a speck of lint off the sleeve of the suit jacket he wore despite the sweltering heat of the night. In a voice suddenly devoid of all politeness, he said, “Let us not get cute, mon ami. Perhaps we can treat together, perhaps not, c’est vrai? Mais, do not play the fool with me, comprends?”

  Bracewell said nothing, merely nodding.

  “It seems to me that you have been perhaps a little too greedy, n’est ce pas? Had you continued to ply your petty little schemes, we would have been content to leave you alone. We always make a note of small-time operators like you, but usually your vision is too limited to cause us much trouble.” He sighed loudly.

  “But you, M’sieur Bracewell, chose to play in our arena, and we cannot have that. You are not one of us. You did not ask permission.”

  “Where is my niece?”

  Gascoigne raised one eyebrow. “Ah, yes, the beauteous Mademoiselle St. Claire. She is resourceful, that one, eh?”

  More sharply, Bracewell asked again. “Where is she, Gascoigne?”

  “Do not presume to set the terms for our little conversation, m’sieur.” Gascoigne’s voice grew cold. “You will know about her when I decide it is time, and not before. Now, mon ami, where are the files?”

  “Not until I see Samantha,” the other man insisted.

  “Don’t be a fool, Bracewell. I can simply take them from you.”

  “You could if I had them with me, but since I don’t, you will need me to lead you to them.”

  Gascoigne narrowed his gaze. “A trick, M’sieur Bracewell? I had thought better of your intelligence. It would be a simple matter to beat the information out of you. Frankly, your niece has so frustrated Frenchy that I am certain he would be happy to do the honors.”

  Bracewell stared back as if daring him to do it.

  “Ah, but Frenchy would far prefer to ply his trade upon the more delicate skin of your beautiful young niece, I think.” He clapped his hands. “Frenchy, venez! Et la putain aussi.”<
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  Bracewell stiffened at the insult to his niece. Gascoigne heard him suck in his breath at the sight of her, blindfolded, bruised and battered. She stumbled on the uneven floor, and Frenchy didn’t balk at the chance to be rough. He jerked her into the darkened room, cursing at her in a low growl. When they neared, Gascoigne nodded for him to stop just short of Bracewell.

  Bracewell moved to embrace her.

  Ray stepped in front of him.

  “Oh, I believe you are close enough,” said Gascoigne. “Do you have a good view? Such a pity, really. Frenchy does seem to harbor a very real resentment toward your niece, M’sieur Bracewell.”

  At the sound of her uncle’s name, the girl’s head came up quickly. She drew in a breath. Her mouth opened as if to speak, but Frenchy quickly squeezed her upper arm in warning. She fell silent, waiting.

  Roland stiffened. “She’s innocent in all this. Let her go, and I’ll give you the files once she’s free.”

  Gascoigne laughed, a short, bitter bark. “Oh, so easily you think to make demands? Why do you imagine I would believe you now? Besides, your pretty niece knows too much.”

  “She won’t talk. She wants to protect her family.”

  “And when she tires of being silent? No, I think I would be most foolish to take that chance. I repeat, m’sieur: Why would I want to let her live?”

  “Because I have given copies of the files to someone who will make sure they wind up in the hands of the U.S. District Attorney and the bank examiners if she is harmed.”

  For the first time, Sammie allowed herself a little hope. Uncle Roland was a schemer, and right now, she was happy to have him on her side. He seemed to have neatly boxed Gascoigne into a corner. With effort, she schooled her features to remain neutral.

  Gascoigne spoke up. “Very nice, Bracewell. A neat move on your part.” His voice hardened. “Frenchy, she’s all yours.”

  Sammie gasped.

  Frenchy jerked her up close and ripped off the blindfold, his hot, fetid breath turning her stomach.

  Fear spiked. She didn’t understand what had just happened.

  Uncle Roland shouted, “Gascoigne, it won’t work. I can’t reverse my instructions for the files. Tell him to leave her alone!”

  “How do I know that, mon ami? No, I think a little time for Frenchy to work might prove most instructive. Go ahead, Frenchy. Do what you will.”

  Frenchy ripped her camisole down the front—

  A splintering crack. A roar from above.

  Case dropped to the floor and rolled, regaining his balance quickly. The gun in his hand pointed right at Frenchy’s heart.

  Frenchy froze for a second. “You!” He yanked Sammie in front of him.

  A deadly knife appeared in his hand. He held it to her throat. “Go ahead, you bastard, give me an excuse. Drop the gun, or she suffers for it.”

  “Samantha!” Uncle Roland charged toward her. “Leave her alone!”

  Ray whipped out a pistol.

  Uncle Roland threw himself the last few feet—

  Ray fired.

  Her uncle crumpled at Gascoigne’s feet.

  Sammie screamed.

  Frenchy crushed the breath out of her.

  His knife was a hot sting as he pressed it into her throat.

  Case watched the struggle on her face. If he dropped his weapon, she was dead. So was he.

  But he needed time for reinforcements to arrive. “Hang on, sweetheart.” He didn’t look at her, instead casting around in his mind for a way to break the deadlock.

  From the corner of his eye, he could see Ray edging toward him. He thought Gascoigne still stood in the same place. Case didn’t dare take his eyes off Frenchy to check.

  “I mean it, cochon, drop the gun.” Frenchy pressed the blade into Sammie’s skin again, drawing more blood.

  Damn it. Case dropped the gun.

  “Case, no—” Sammie moaned in anguish.

  “Now kick it over this way,” Frenchy ordered.

  Case kicked it, never taking his eyes off Frenchy, watching for his opening.

  Suddenly, the door flew open. Dolly’s voice rang out, “Roland, sugar, why did you leave me waiting out there?”

  Frenchy’s head whipped around toward the sound of Dolly’s voice.

  Sammie shoved backward and fouled his balance.

  Case leaped and grabbed the hand holding the knife. Frenchy couldn’t fight him and hold onto Sammie, too. “Get down, Sammie!”

  She dropped to the floor and rolled out of the way.

  Case’s muscles strained as he squeezed Frenchy’s wrist, trying to make him drop the knife. He couldn’t see Ray anymore, and Ray still had shots left. He struggled to turn the stocky Frenchy to keep him between Ray and himself.

  Bullhorn’s man Sparky charged through the door.

  He aimed and fired behind Case.

  Ray spun around from the hit to the shoulder and fell to the floor nearby.

  Sparky trained his gun on Gascoigne, daring him to move.

  The sound of the shot made Frenchy flinch just enough to loosen his hold on the knife. Case threw his weight into Frenchy and knocked him to the floor. The knife skittered across the concrete.

  Case rose and plowed his fist right into Frenchy’s face. Pounded him again with all the fury he’d built up over the long, anxious hours of searching for Sammie.

  Sammie cried out, “Somebody, please—finish untying me!”

  Case heard footsteps and whipped his head toward her just as Dolly reached her.

  Frenchy took advantage of the distraction. Leg-whipped Case onto his back and rose over him. Landed several sharp blows to Case’s head and ribs.

  Dolly screamed. “Sammie, no!”

  Case rallied. Adrenaline surged, and he reared up, throwing Frenchy over on his back. As he raised his fist to land another blow, a shot rang out from behind him, plowing into the concrete near Frenchy’s head.

  “What the—” Case turned, one hand still squeezing Frenchy’s throat.

  Sammie approached, Case’s gun aimed straight at Frenchy’s head. Her hands trembled and her voice shook. “Move away, Case.”

  It was the voice of a woman he’d never met. A woman who’d been pushed too far.

  “Sammie…” He made sure Sparky had everyone in his sights, then released Frenchy and rose, approaching her slowly. “Let me have the gun, sweetheart,” he said gently.

  “I can’t do that. He’ll never stop. He’ll come after me again.” The agony in her voice raked furrows into his soul. She was everything to him, and he’d failed to keep her safe.

  He closed in, speaking in a low, soothing tone. “Honey, I am more sorry than you can know that I wasn’t here to protect you, but I will die before I’ll let him hurt you again.” When she wouldn’t look at him but took another step toward Frenchy, he tried again. “Give me the gun, Sammie. You are too good for this. You don’t deserve to have killing on your conscience.”

  Everyone in the room went still as statues, watching the drama play out before them. Sammie clutched at her torn blouse with one hand as she struggled to hold the heavy gun level with the other, tears rolling down her cheeks.

  She raised her eyes to meet Case’s gaze. The torment in them tore at his heart.

  He could see the ice princess trying to emerge once more, but her edges were badly frayed.

  “I—” Her voice caught on a sob. “He hurt me so much, Case. I tried, but I couldn’t stop him. I was too weak.”

  “You’re not weak. You’re the bravest damn person I know, sweetheart. Please don’t do this to yourself. You won’t want to live with the knowledge that you’ve killed someone, even scum like him.” He held out a hand for the gun. “Please. He doesn’t deserve the break, but you do.”

  Sammie shuddered. Took a deep, ragged breath.

  The moment dragged out.

  Finally she lowered the gun.

  Case took it from her and wrapped her in his arms. She fell against him with a broken sob, and Case held
her tightly.

  Frenchy uncoiled himself from the floor and launched himself at Case.

  Case whirled and brought up the pistol, shoving Sammie behind him as he fired.

  Sparky fired, as well.

  Frenchy dropped to the ground.

  Sammie sank to the floor beside the still Frenchy, wrapping her arms around herself, rocking. Shaking visibly. “I hate you. Don’t touch me…don’t you ever touch me,” she sobbed.

  Case bent to her. Drew her into his arms and stroked her back. As he comforted, her sobs slowly died away. She huddled against him, trembling violently.

  He looked over at Dolly, who knelt beside Roland, checking for vital signs. She shook her head.

  Case grimaced. Roland had much to answer for, but he didn’t deserve to pay with his life.

  Case looked over Sammie’s head at Gascoigne, silently asking a question.

  Gascoigne held his hands up, shrugging eloquently as he eyed the gun Sparky had trained on him. “It appears we are at an impasse, m’sieur. My quarrel was with Bracewell, not with you. Since he is dead, the situation has altered.”

  Sammie’s head reared as Gascoigne’s words penetrated. She turned to look at Roland, horror-stricken at the sight of the growing pool of blood. “No!” She pulled away from Case and ran to her uncle, kneeling beside him, feeling for a pulse.

  Dolly gently laid a hand on her arm. “He’s gone, honey.”

  Sammie dropped her head as the tears began to flow.

  Case went to her.

  “He always loved me, I know he did. He did a lot of bad things, Case, but he always loved me.”

  Everything she’d suffered was Roland’s fault, but if she needed to remember Roland’s love and forget his mistakes, Case would not be the one to make her face them.

  After a long moment, Sammie straightened and looked squarely at Gascoigne. “So where do we go from here?”