Notorious

by Carey Baldwin

  Win-­win.

  There were so very many ways to win in this scenario.

  The man who knows how to embrace death will always emerge the victor.

  WITH THE WINDOWS boarded up, and so little light in the room, it was difficult to judge how long the Thresher had been gone. But Caitlin’s bladder throbbed, and her dry throat clamored for water. Had it been hours or merely a few minutes? She must’ve been dozing off and on because she had no sense of the time that had passed.

  However long it’d been, though, whatever drug he’d used on her seemed to have cleared her system and left her quite the hangover. Her head ached from the inside out, as if Zeus had taken up residence in her skull and was using its walls for target practice. When she shifted her upper body, even a little, the barbs on the wire ripped into her skin. But it was that mechanical whirring that really had her worried.

  She swiveled her head, trying to see the source of the mysterious sound, and again the wire dug deeper into her skin. Due to her squirming, her shirt was now fixed to her skin by the barbs of her “belt.”

  The noise sounded like some kind of motor. A generator maybe. She could barely distinguish one motor from another if she was looking right at them. How was she supposed to identify this machine by sound alone?

  Whatever it was, she had to know.

  She exhaled and held it, succeeding in making her chest smaller. That in turn made her bindings looser by the width of a breath . . . literally. Finally, she was able to twist her head, along with one shoulder. And that’s when she saw them.

  Two giant red reels enclosed in a metal base. A steel cable extended from each reel. One cable hooked to her barbed-­wire “belt,” and though she couldn’t see the end of it, the other appeared to be running to her barbed-­wire “necklace.”

  This contraption looked like the kind of thing she’d seen used to reel in garden hoses. But she didn’t see any hand crank. These must be automatic winders, like the kind used in industrial shops.

  Oh dear God.

  Her stomach quivered. Her pulse pounded so hard in her ears, she thought her eardrums would burst.

  She allowed herself one split second of sheer terror, then shut it down. Shut it all down. She didn’t have time to panic. Gritting her teeth, she jerked her cuffed hands back and forth until she located a cold twist of wire coming off the belt. She gripped it between her thumb and forefinger and set to work.

  SPENSE SHOT DUTCH a quick glance, an involuntary reaction to the Thresher’s insistence that they lead him to the diary. Spense could only hope the hit man hadn’t understood the meaning of the look that passed between him and his brother. They’d been trying to figure a way to lead him to that decoy, and he was playing right into their hands—­in some respects. If Spense hadn’t been out of his head over the fact this son-­bitch had Caity, he might’ve smiled and given away the whole plan.

  It was just like Caity to come up with a scheme that would wind up saving the day. Only . . . she was never supposed to be bait. The Thresher’s taking her hostage had never been part the plan. A plan that had better work because now it wasn’t only about getting to the man who’d killed Cindy and about clearing Dutch’s name. Now Caity’s life was in immediate danger. So as much as it galled Spense not to jump this bastard and kick the life breath out of him, he had to stay in control.

  The best thing for Caity was for him to stay sane and keep to the original plan as much as possible. At a moment like this, sanity was a tall order, and one he’d never have been able to fill without his years of training in the Bureau. He hauled in a breath and drew on that training now.

  With another fast glance, he checked in on Dutch and got a brief nod that let him know his brother was on the same page. They would stick with the script as far as possible. But Spense knew adjustments would have to be made.

  They’d lead the Thresher to the diary. Then, if he didn’t release Caity, they could track her via the device implanted in the diary’s binding—­assuming he’d go back to finish what he started or to cover his tracks. With a little bit of luck, though, the Thresher might keep his word and set Caity free. Then they could track the decoy all the way back to the monster behind the monster per the original plan.

  If all else failed, there was always plan B: Beat the living hell out of the guy until he gave it all up.

  Spense counted to ten, then forced a cold calmness into his voice, allowing just a hint of his rage to come through. This guy was too smart to believe they trusted him. He had to know Spense would rip his heart out of his chest, barehanded, if he could and still get Caity back unharmed. “If we take you to the diary, what guarantee do we have that you’ll keep your word? That you’ll let her go?”

  “Guarantee?” The Thresher smiled, revealing a row of orderly white teeth. This was no ordinary thug. This was a thug with a dental plan. “I can guarantee this. If I don’t have the diary in hand within twenty minutes or so, Dr. Caitlin Cassidy is going to experience an excruciatingly beautiful death.” He pulled a snip of barbed wire from his pocket. “I’ve strung a length of this fine Texas fencing around her waist and throat. I’ve also attached steel cables to the wires.” He put the barbed wires in his pocket, casually waving his gun with one hand.

  It took all Spense’s willpower not to jump the guy and choke him until he turned black and swallowed his tongue. He guessed Dutch might be having the same struggles but he didn’t dare look at his brother again.

  “I don’t suppose you know what a RoboReel is?” the Thresher asked.

  The adrenaline coursing through Spense had his heart pounding against his ribs and sweat dumping out his pores, but his voice came out cool and dry. “No.”

  “It’s a common device found in many automotive shops. Mine is state-­of-­the-­art. With the flip of a switch, it reels in up to fifty feet of cable. Swiftly, smoothly, efficiently. Takes about sixty seconds. Now, if you were at all familiar with these machines, you’d know they have a safety device. If the cable becomes obstructed, or meets with resistance, it automatically shuts off.”

  “Get to the point. I’m tired of your strutting.”

  “In addition to my other gifts, I’m quite mechanical. I’ve made a good device even better by disabling the safety feature. No matter what, it will keep reeling and reeling and reeling . . . are you getting a visual yet? Oh, and the best part is I’ve added a timer. So you see . . .” He checked his watch. “I don’t really need to hold this gun on you boys, because in precisely twenty-­eight minutes and forty-­six seconds, the barbed wire around Dr. Cassidy’s neck and waist will tighten, steadily and painfully. It’ll take only a minute before she’s decapitated and cut in half by barbed wire. It’s going to be my most magnificent death ever.”

  Spense wanted to lunge for the bastard, but he couldn’t give in to his rage. He turned his back on the Thresher, and at the same time, on any weakness within himself. Caity needed him, and he wasn’t going to let her down. He took off running toward the last pen in the row.

  “Slow down, sir. I don’t want anyone who might happen to pass by to think there’s something wrong. They might stop to inquire what’s happening, and that would waste precious time. Hopefully you gentlemen haven’t hidden the diary so far away I won’t have time to get back to Dr. Cassidy.”

  Spense stopped running and started racewalking. He’d turned off the sound of the wind in the trees, the braying of the bulls, and yes, the sound of his own heart beating far too fast. He focused every ounce of energy on one thing, and one thing only. Getting Caity back. He assumed Dutch was following, but he didn’t have time to verify. He had to get this asshole to Big Red’s pen fast.

  Minutes later, they arrived at the scene of the crime. The very pen where he and Dutch had once taunted a champion bull and been rescued by their father.

  There in all his glory was the winner of this year’s longhorn competition.

 
Big Red weighed in at just under a ton, with horns measuring over eight feet from tip to tip. His dappled skin was freshly washed and shimmered in the sunlight. Around here, this bull was king. His pen was the size of a barn, and his handlers pampered him like a star athlete. But this bull would never carry a rider on his back. He was meant for breeding, not the sting of a spur.

  Spense swung a leg up, then vaulted into Big Red’s pen.

  “That’s quite a bull,” the Thresher said admiringly.

  “Stay back. I don’t want you to get hurt,” Dutch ordered, following Spense into the pen. “And like you said, no need to hold a pistol on us. You’ve got something much more dangerous hanging over us.”

  “Worried for my safety, are you?”

  “For the next thirty minutes, yes. But after that, if I were you, I’d watch my back.”

  Spense had always found that honest answers were the most believable, and far easier to keep track of than lies.

  “You hardly seem worried about that fellow. You’ve got your back to him now.” The Thresher shrugged one shoulder.

  “We’ve got experience with these animals,” Spense answered, picking up one of the shovels they’d just used to bury the diary a short while ago. ‘”Longhorns in particular are relatively docile.”

  The Thresher climbed up on the fence and looked as though he were about to jump right in.

  Spense held up his hand. “Stay put. I said relatively docile. If provoked, any animal can be dangerous, and frankly, I wouldn’t want to be on the wrong end of this one’s horns.”

  Ignoring Spense’s warning, the Thresher loped over the fence. Damn idiot. “Don’t spook him, then.”

  Again, not listening to good advice, the Thresher approached Big Red. “Would you look at those,” he cawed. Pointing at the big bull’s bright red testicles. So that’s where he gets his name.”

  “Probably a safe bet,” Dutch answered while he dug.

  “This is a fine bull. I think it would be an honor to be gored by such an animal. It would be what I like to call a magnificent death.”

  Spense couldn’t keep watch over the Thresher and dig at the same time. He had to make a choice. He chose to keep digging.

  In the distance, a wrong noise, the kind Spense was trained to listen for, broke through to him. Like firecrackers popping off in the distance. Just the kind of noise that would spook an animal.

  Spense fell to the ground, started digging deeper with his own hands. “Got it!” He raised the decoy diary high in the air, then handed it over.

  The Thresher squinted at the journal with obvious indifference. He seemed far more interested in Big Red than the diary.

  “I suppose you want to look it over,” Spense said, hoping the Thresher would pass so they could get straight back to Caity. He was fetching it for a price and had no personal stake in what was inside.

  The Thresher turned back to the bull in an almost obsessive way. For whatever reason, he seemed fixated on Big Red.

  “You got what you wanted,” Spense reminded him.

  “Don’t worry, she’s not far away. There’s plenty of time.”

  “Still, we’ve kept our end of the bargain, and you gave your word. You wanna tie us up or something, we’ll make it easy. Just let her go.”

  The Thresher pursed his lips. “Gave my word? Do you think this is some kind of honor-­among-­thieves scenario?”

  Spense had had it with playing games. He’d marshaled his self-­control and stuck to the script. But it was becoming apparent the Thresher was in no rush to get back to Caity and wasn’t likely to keep his end of the bargain. The trouble was, they needed him alive. Otherwise, they might not find her in time.

  The popping noises he’d thought were firecrackers got louder and closer. It finally registered with Spense—­they weren’t firecrackers at all. This was one of those fake gun battles or bank robberies, with the sheriff chasing the bad guys through the stockyard’s streets.

  Big Red snorted, and in true, champion-­bull fashion, stamped his front hooves. Watching three men in his pen, digging up his yard seemed to make him nervous. The fake gunfire might put him over the top. Sure enough, Big Red, began loping around the perimeter of the pen.

  “We need to get out of here,” Spense said.

  The Thresher stood rooted to the ground, mesmerized by the longhorn’s antics. Spense jerked his head at Dutch. They both clambered over the fence, betting the Thresher would follow. Surely he wasn’t planning to just let them go. If anything could pull his attention off the bull, their impending escape should do the trick.

  “Leaving so soon, gentlemen?” he barely turned to look at them.

  What the fuck was going on in this guy’s head? “Where the hell is Caity?”

  “I got what I came for, so why should I tell you?”

  In a flash, Spense drew his backup weapon from his boot. On the opposite side of the pen, Dutch mirrored his actions. “Are two pistols trained on you good enough reasons?”

  The Thresher raised his gun, swinging his aim back and forth between Dutch and Spense.

  Spense growled. “You can’t shoot both of us before one of us shoots you.”

  “But if I die, you’ll never see that girl of yours alive again. So who wants to die first?”

  Spense’s thigh muscles contracted, ready to pounce. Dutch would back him up, and this guy was soft and stupid. Spense could easily take him. But the Thresher was right about one thing. They had to take him alive. “I’ll go first.” He gave Dutch the side eye. “Just give me three seconds to say good-­bye to my brother.” That was the signal. On a silent count of three, they go.

  One . . . two. . .

  The sound of fake gunshots peppered the air.

  Pop. Pop. Pop.

  Big Red pawed the ground, swung his horns, and brayed loud and long.

  Instead of getting out of the bull’s way, the Thresher clapped his hands over his ears.

  “Look out!” Too late, Spense leapt into the pen.

  Head down, Big Red charged, an otherworldly noise trumpeting out his flared nostrils. There was a blur of motion, followed by a terrible cry. The scream coming from the Thresher didn’t sound human.

  The long, curved horn of the bull jammed into the Thresher’s neck, then up and out his mouth, straight through his tongue. Big Red had impaled the hit man on his prizewinning horns. Enraged, the bull flailed, beating the Thresher’s limp body against the fence. Blood spewed up and out of his mouth like a fountain, drenching his face and clothes.

  Spense rushed Big Red—­in spite of his fear. If there was any chance to save the Thresher’s life, he had to take it. If the Thresher died, Caity’s hopes died with him.

  Somehow, he got his arms around the bull’s neck. Spense made soft, soothing sounds and held on tight, as the bull reared, lifting Spense off the ground, bucking against his ribs, raging against the world. Spense locked his arms and dug his fingers into the soft fur, hanging on for the ride. Finally, the bull managed to dislodge the hit man from its horn. The body flew like a rag doll through the air.

  The popping stopped.

  The gunfight had drawn to an end. Big Red let out a long bray, then quieted. As Spense’s feet touched ground again, he continued to soothe the bull while Dutch rushed to check the Thresher, lying prone in the pen.

  “He’s gone.” Dutch threw his hat in the dirt.

  Spense let out a long wail.

  The tracking device and the decoy diary were of no use to them now. It wouldn’t lead them to Caity, or to Cindy’s killer. Spense released Big Red, and the bull began trotting around his pen as if calming himself.

  Spense fell to his knees, exhausted.

  His brother wrapped an arm around him in a half hug, then lifted him back to his feet. “We have to get out of here.”

  “We’ll kick down every door in the sto
ckyards,” Spense managed to choke out as they dragged each other out of the pen.

  They had to find Caity.

  She only had minutes to live.

  Chapter Twenty-­Three

  Saturday, October 19

  3:10 P.M.

  Fort Worth, Texas

  CAITLIN WAS NOT going to sit back quietly, waiting to be sliced and diced. She hadn’t heard a single set of footsteps pass by, so wherever the Thresher had taken her, it must be well off the main path. With the windows boarded over, screaming would be a waste of time and energy—­though she vowed to let loose at the top of her lungs if she heard someone approaching. For now, she wasn’t going to simply hope for someone else to come along and rescue her.

  The old expression, do or die, had never been more true.

  It didn’t matter that her every breath was constricted by her bonds, or that dread floated like sewage in her blood, contaminating every part of her with fear. Nor did it matter that her handcuffs had already chafed the skin right off her wrists, or that the barbed wire she’d been manipulating had punctured the delicate pads of her fingertips.

  None of that was important.

  It didn’t seem so terrible to die. Everyone did—­circle of life and all. It wasn’t even the anticipation of the slow agony of being lacerated into pieces that drove her to work the wire between her fingers until she nearly fainted from the pain. No, it wasn’t the fear of a horrible death that drove her.

  It was the fear of an unfinished life.

  All those moments that would never be. If she succumbed to death, here in this darkened room before she’d really lived, really loved—­that would be a tragedy. She didn’t want to miss out on the days of studying Spense’s profile, watching his sudden smile when he hit upon the solution to a puzzle; or the Thanksgiving she’d promised her mother. The one where they would not sit stiffly at the table, making strained conversation, like they had every year since her father’s execution. This year was to be their new beginning. She ground her teeth and twisted the wire another turn. The Thresher wasn’t going to take those things away from her.