Both were over an hour from their present location near Riverside, and since they had such a small force, Riley didn’t want them to split up. Sound police prudence, but every minute dragged by like a year for Chad. He looked at his watch. Jasmine had to be wondering where he was by now, but her cell had gone straight to voice mail when he tried to call her. He didn’t know why he felt obligated to give her an update as to his whereabouts, told himself it was plain old Texas courtesy since she’d put him up. He left her another message and hung up. Riley’s knowing smile irritated the hell out of him, but he only turned away to check on Chester for the fourth time.
Finally the police radio crackled. “Indio police report navy 2005 GMC eighteen-wheeler sighted on Route 125 approaching the suspect warehouse.”
Chad and Riley were in his truck before the dispatch was finished. Riley responded using Chad’s radio, which they’d tuned to the CHP frequency. “Advise Indio police to monitor possible hostile situation but wait for backup. We’re on our way.”
Jasmine lay, her hands bound behind her, in the rear trunk of a black Land Rover she’d glimpsed before they stuck a black hood over her head. She’d quit struggling because that only made her bonds hurt more. Instead, with a few calming, deep breaths, she tried to reason through why she’d been taken. Why did Thomas suddenly view her as a threat?
He continued to lie about Trey and was likely involved in the car theft ring they’d stumbled on in South El Monte. And she’d seen him in close conversation with the very guy who’d kidnapped her. Plus Chad had warned her she’d been followed, and she had no stalkers that she knew of, which left one conclusion: Thomas had been a master tactician all along, finagling her and Mary into identical tattoos, probably leaving her card in Texas for Chad to find, having Mary seduce Trey into selling his land so he would return to California to be with her. All part of Thomas’s plan to lure the brothers away from the Foster homestead so he could drill.
And somehow Trey had figured out what was going on, so Thomas had decided to get him out of the way. But his machinations couldn’t account for the passion of two redheads who’d fallen for the Foster brothers . . .
Jasmine squeezed her eyes tightly shut to quell her tears. While she could trace the chain of events to a logical conclusion, Chad would never believe she’d been used just as he had. Even after the explosive sex between them, or more accurately, because of their volcanic chemistry, he still considered her damaged goods, someone who used her allure to manipulate men for money. He’d never believe she’d tried all along to help him find Trey, not unless he came face to face with Mary and realized there were two redheads.
As the car jounced over rough roads, Jasmine braced herself for the coming confrontation. Somehow she knew they were taking her to Thomas, no doubt miles away from Beverly Hills. And somehow she had to convince him she was still on his side so he’d let her go. If only she could help Chad find Trey, she’d go willingly back to Texas with him. Once he saw her standing beside Mary, everything would click into place. She could kick off her stilettos along with her stripper lifestyle. She’d saved a lot of money, enough, if she was careful, to transfer to SMU or UT law school and finish her degree, and Texas was a much cheaper place to live.
And Texas? She waited for the usual knee-jerk revulsion, but it didn’t come. She thought of the endless prairies, the desolate deserts, the piney woods near Houston, and the sparkling sands of Port Aransas and South Padre. The men who still opened doors for women, the helpfulness of other drivers if she was stuck with a flat, and the soft cadence of the Texas drawl even in the best drawing rooms.
She was going home.
But first she had to escape. She began working her neck from side to side, trying to loosen the hood, but when the car stopped, she went still.
The trunk opened and she was dragged roughly out to uneven pavement.
Jasmine blinked in the bright light as the hood was jerked off her head. Her eyes took a while to adjust, but finally she made out rows of shelving packed with can after can of paint. Forklifts sat idle, several holding large boxes also marked Paint. She didn’t know what she’d expected of Kinnard’s base of operations, but something less prosaic than paint.
“Hello, Jasmine.”
She spun, and sure enough, there was the man himself. His Armani was a bit wrinkled and a five o’clock shadow shaded his face, but his smile was as smooth as ever.
“Why did you bring me here, Thomas? Let me loose.”
“Why couldn’t you mind your own business? I want to know where you put the incorporation papers you copied.”
Jasmine pretended confusion. “What papers?”
“Larsen may be led by his dick, but I’m not. Approximately twenty copies were made on his machine while he was getting your requested takeout. Coincidentally enough, that’s the count of the Del Mar organization papers.” When Jasmine opened her mouth again, he took an angry stride forward. “Don’t bother lying. You’re very bad at it.”
Jasmine leaned against a shelf, crossing one ankle over the other. “And you’re very good at it.”
Kinnard shrugged. “Occupational hazard . . . now tell me where the copies are.”
Jasmine stayed still and carefully appraised her surroundings. The warehouse was long and low, and if there was another exit other than the roll-up door they’d shut behind them, she couldn’t see it. Almost at the end, she saw the huge outline of a big rig parked deep inside the warehouse. The three men who’d brought her here had been joined by three others, all wearing the colors of the South Side gang. They fanned out on either side of her, and she couldn’t escape the feeling that she was being hunted by a pack of wolves.
She looked back at the alpha male. Keep him talking. Delay. “Why are you doing this, Thomas? You have plenty of money.” She hesitated, then admitted, “I saw the articles about you and Gerald Foster. Your vendetta against the Fosters is flat wrong. Trey and Chad were just kids then—”
“I thought you were snooping around. That’s why I had you followed. You searched my desk, didn’t you? Did you tell Foster about the articles?”
“No.” At his look of disbelief she said more insistently, “No, not to protect you, to protect him. We needed more proof and I was afraid what he’d do. I only found fragments, anyway.”
“That’s because your friend Trey took them. He was going to give them to his brother, so he forced my hand.”
Sighing heavily, Thomas looked at Montoya, and back at her. “You really are a lovely young woman. It would be a pity to . . . change that. For the last time, tell me where the copies are.”
Jasmine spread her arms wide against the shelf, as if bracing herself. All the while, her fingers were reaching for the paint scraper she’d spied. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing. “Where is Trey? If you hurt him, or me for that matter, Chad will kill you.”
“He’s a lawman, like his daddy. He won’t dare move against me without evidence.” He nodded at a gang member. “And if you won’t tell me where the copies are, there’s only one way to keep the slate clean.”
With flicking switchblades, two gang members moved toward her. But with her supple dancer’s grace, she dodged to the side as one reached for her, the knife bared. She stuck a booted foot behind his ankle as she half whirled away from him, striking at his hand with the V-shaped paint stripper. He howled and dropped the knife, stumbling over her outthrust boot, falling to the floor. The other grabbed her shoulder to hold her still. The knife moved so close to her throat it nicked her, but using the momentum of her lower body, she pulled her second assailant with her, backward into the shelf. It teetered, and several cans of paint fell on top of them. She lifted an arm to shield her head, feeling a glancing blow that numbed her shoulder, but the gang member took the full brunt of a can on the top of his head. He fell in a heap against the shelf, disturbing more cans that rocked in place but stayed put.
Jasmine danced away—to face four more angry gang members. She was poised on her
toes to run for the entrance.
A police megaphone roared outside, “This is the Indio Police Department and the California Highway Patrol. Come out with your hands up. You’re surrounded.”
Jasmine screamed at the top of her lungs, “Help! I’m being held by—” A manicured hand covered her mouth before she could get out the name. Jasmine bit Thomas, but for once he did his own dirty work. He wrapped a long arm about her midriff and viciously jerked upward, winding her. Duct tape went over her mouth and she was still struggling to breathe when she was tossed up into the rear trailer of the eighteen-wheeler. Two of the gang members went with her. She felt the rig start up, its engine roaring as it was gunned straight toward the rear of the warehouse. They left the gate partly open, so she could see a little bit.
She hadn’t noticed a door there . . . With a crashing, high-pitched whine of metal, the eighteen-wheeler made its own door through the flimsy metal siding and jounced over rough terrain, up a dirt path, away from the police cars circling the front, lights flashing. It all happened too fast, but she’d bet the money in her safe that Thomas was not in this vehicle, that he’d get away.
Breathing deeply through her nose, Jasmine cleared her brain enough to see in the dim light inside the trailer. She held on for dear life to a shelf, auto parts rattling behind a tarp but securely lashed down, and looked toward the rear door. Did she dare try to jump out as the truck moved? She looked at the two gang members. They’d pulled pistols and seemed calm. One eyed her in a way that terrified her more than the gun.
She’d have to jump over him to make it to the door. They hadn’t had time to tie her hands so she was able to pull the duct tape away from her mouth, not that anyone would hear her scream over all the racket. She wondered if Chad was part of the law enforcement encircling them. She suspected so. She hoped so.
She was debating moving toward the cab to see if she could get out that way when a moan to her left alerted her. She blinked, and saw what she’d thought was a pile of tarps moving slightly. She had to move toward them on her hands and knees as the truck was seesawing so violently. Tentatively, she pulled aside the tarps as another moan sounded, this one louder.
The tarps moved and formed into a man, sitting up and bracing himself against the truck. “Trey,” Jasmine whispered in a mix of despair and relief. At least he was still alive, though he’d been beaten mercilessly by the look of him.
She sank down next to him, pulling him into her arms. He groaned, wincing away from her, and she realized he’d been beaten about the ribs and stomach, too. “I think Chad’s outside, trying to rescue us,” was all she could think to say to comfort him.
“How’d you end up on Kinnard’s shit list?” His voice was so hoarse she had to strain to hear him over the roar of the engine.
“I’ve been helping Chad look for you. I . . . copied some important papers that link Thomas to the Del Mar Corporation. He was going to kill me, I think.”
“Yes.” He slumped against the side of the truck, his teeth now chattering, and Jasmine realized some of his wounds must have become infected, because some of the cuts on his arms were red and puffy, oozing pus.
“And Mary? Where is she?”
“I . . . think she’s in Texas.
“Drilling on our land.”
It was a statement. She couldn’t argue with him. She said again, “Chad will come.” As if it were a mantra. She had no illusions about how badly hurt Trey might be.
He looked at her through his swollen eyelids, a ghost of the old Trey twinkle shining even in the dimness. “You love him, don’t you?”
Jasmine had been avoiding that truth, but faced with Trey’s bruised, battered, but still kind, still caring countenance, she couldn’t lie. She managed a nod.
Trey sighed. “Well, I’m glad one of us gets a redhead.”
The words had scarcely left his mouth before a pistol butt slammed him in the mouth. Blood spewed from his cracked lips as he sank sideways, unconscious. “¡Basta!” hissed one of the gang members. “The two of you, or I’ll kill you both now.”
When Jasmine shrank away, the gang member scooted back to his post beside the door. Jasmine pulled Trey into her arms to support his limp head, knowing she wouldn’t even try to escape now. She couldn’t leave him behind. She ran a gentle hand over his head, feeling dried blood and lumps through the dirty blond strands. “Chad will be here soon,” she whispered to reassure both of them.
The words had scarcely left her lips when she heard a very distinctive sound even over the straining big-rig engine and jouncing tires. Hoofbeats. A horse. Approaching from the rear. Fast.
Outside, Chad bent low over Chester’s neck, expecting bullets any minute now. The bad guys couldn’t see him well in the dust trail the eighteen-wheeler stirred up on the unpaved track winding up into the mountains, but they’d still try. Ping! A shot ricocheted off a rock beside the road, wide right. Chad moved in more closely behind the rear of the truck.
Far behind, he heard Riley driving his four-wheel drive, minus the horse trailer, but even that vehicle wasn’t as nimble over this terrain as Chester. The cop cars, built for speed and maneuverability, had fallen way back. Chad wondered where in hell these idiots thought they were going up this rough dirt track, but then they’d had few options.
By the time they’d all realized the truck had made its own secondary exit, the big rig was a ways up the trail. It was so big it could carve its own path through the scrub, and its tough tires spewed rocks as if they were sand.
Chad had taken one look at the winding trail leading upward and quickly saddled Chester.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing, Foster?” Riley asked.
“I’m not losing Trey again, no matter what.” Chad leaped onto Chester, dug his heels into his flanks, and almost lost his seat as the stallion bolted forward. Chester was in fine fettle, tired of all the standing, and eager to run.
Riley was left literally eating dust as he hurried to unhook the trailer and use Chad’s truck to follow.
Now Chad moved to the right side of the track, keeping pace with the truck, reaching for the door release. Trey was in there. He had to be. His gloved hand almost connected with the latch, but at a curve in the path the truck spat rocks back at Chester. The stallion automatically veered away, back to the middle of the track.
Chad hesitated, afraid to use his Peacemaker to shoot out the tires, but he had no idea what was going on inside that trailer. What if the kidnappers decided to cut their losses and toss Trey out? He had to stop this rig.
Reaching behind his back to pull out his pistol, Chad used one hand to steady Chester into a smooth lope so he would be stable enough to aim. Whump! One rear tire flattened as the bullet pierced its tough hide. Whoosh! Another lost air on the same side. The truck lurched, its right rear axle grinding against gravel.
This time Chad was able to unlatch the rear door as the truck ground to a stop. He’d barely begun raising it before gunshots spit at him, but he was expecting that and leaped off Chester to the side ledge of the big rig, his booted toes barely finding purchase. He waited for the hail of bullets to die so they’d have to reload.
However, the guys in the cab weren’t going quietly. Fire erupted from that direction, too. Chad flattened himself and fired back, but his four remaining shots didn’t last long.
Meanwhile, Riley had almost reached them, and one of the Indio cops was literally riding shotgun. He fired several times toward the cab and the returning fire stopped, giving Chad time to raise the rear door enough to swing inside. He took one quick look, but had no time for shock at the sight of Jasmine. Jasmine holding someone with dirty blond hair.
He’d had no time to reload, but he hoped they hadn’t either. His buck knife bared, he kicked a pistol away from one hood, and engaged the other. The switchblade his opponent wielded was wicked but no match for his sturdy hunting knife. The other hood picked up a crowbar and approached.
Jasmine used a long leg to sweep his feet f
rom under him. He toppled, hitting his head against an engine block. He went limp.
Chad forced the gangbanger’s knife hand away from his midsection, lifted a knee and whacked the guy’s wrist against his leg several times. Wincing, the guy dropped his knife. And then the other cops were there, the two perps from the cab already cuffed, pushed in front of them.
Scarcely aware of the other cops, Chad was focused on one thing: the way Jasmine carefully cradled Trey. She bit her lip and shook her head slightly as she looked up at him, tears in her eyes. Gently, Chad turned his brother’s head away from her shoulder so he could see it. He looked unconscious and his face was a mass of swelling and bruising. As Chad watched, he spit up blood. Chad felt Riley hovering.
“Goddammit, get a rescue chopper in here, Riley.” But Riley had already leaped back outside to pick up the radio.
As gently as they could, they laid Trey flat. Chad took the first aid kit from Riley and peeled Trey’s shirt away. Trey’s ribs were a crisscross of bruises and one was obviously broken. It looked like he’d been beaten with a tire iron. Chad found little to bandage; most of the damage was internal.
Then Trey groaned. His lashes fluttered and he looked up, those blue-sky eyes smiling even in his pain. “I knew you’d come,” he whispered, his voice so hoarse Chad scarcely recognized it. “You got my message?”
Unable to talk over the lump in his throat, Chad nodded.
“They found the hole I cut near the cab and beat me really bad that last time. You still have it?”
Chad pulled the nugget from his pocket and handed it to Trey. He wanted to say a million things, how sorry he was at the way he’d acted, it was time to go home, they’d figure out what to do about the taxes without selling the land, how much he loved his brother. He could only watch helplessly as the grayness he’d felt since leaving Amarillo consumed his world, the last circle of light ringing his brother’s peaceful face.
Foster Justice Page 18
