The horrible pressure in her chest tightened. She forced her head to nod, the only part of her that seemed capable of movement. “I guess you have lots of contacts at the border. I haven’t been to Mexico in years. Can’t even remember if I need a passport,” she babbled. “But this is going to be fun.”
She felt his assessing gaze and forced a vacuous smile even as she scanned the driveway, praying she’d see someone, anyone. But this road was deserted, out of bounds to students.
No wonder Garrett had moved Braun. He hadn’t wanted Scott anywhere near the cowshed.
Despite the car’s air conditioning, sweat beaded every inch of her body.
They crunched into the parking lot beside Ramon’s truck, now hooked up to the gleaming horse trailer. “Oh, you’re all ready,” she said. “That’s great. If you unlock these cuffs, I’ll help load the horses.”
“Miguel can handle the horses.” Ramon cut the engine and stepped out. He walked around the back of the car and opened her door. “Come inside and wait for Garrett.”
She didn’t want to wait. Garrett would be much harder to trick, but Ramon took her arm and guided her into the arena. However, his grip wasn’t as tight as when he first shoved her into the car. Does he really believe I’m so gullible?
“Come with me,” Ramon said. “I have to start the baler.”
“Okay.” She gave an enthusiastic nod. Icy clarity now replaced her earlier bout of panic. They were going to kill her, somewhere between here and the Baja Tinda—unless she escaped. She trotted beside Ramon, as though he were her best friend and she didn’t want to ever leave his side.
“It must be hard to bale money,” she said.
“Not with the modifications. They bring the money already bagged. I just have to drop it between the flakes before the bales are tied.”
“That’s so clever.” She forced an admiring smile, and he even gave her a tentative smile back. Ironic, she thought. Finally she was able to get him to smile. And now she understood why the loose alfalfa was in the arena, why Garrett hadn’t wanted her to use it.
Somehow Joey had figured it out, maybe when he was helping Ramon fix the baler. He’d probably dropped his iPod then. Knowing her brother, he’d been fighting for his life, not trembling like a coward. A tear slid down her cheek. She raised her cuffed hands and wiped it away.
Ramon hit the starter and the machine rumbled to life. He forked hay into the feeder. A square bale slid out the other end. It was fast and efficient, an excellent baler. But Ramon scowled. “Dias. I thought that was fixed.”
She edged closer, studying the banana-shaped bale. The left side of the twine hadn’t fastened, leaving only one string and an extremely vulnerable bale. “That’s just the bill hook,” she said. “When it only ties on one side, that’s often the problem.”
Ramon kicked the bale and it burst apart. “But it worked yesterday,” he said.
“Aw, that sucks.” She strained to hear beyond the arena, praying Garrett wouldn’t arrive with her truck.
Ramon rubbed the sheen of sweat on his forehead, then grabbed a wrench, as though oblivious to her presence. “They won’t like this,” he muttered.
“Who won’t?” She glanced over her shoulder, following his nervous gaze.
“It’s Sanchez money,” Ramon admitted. “We only move it for a cut.”
“Oh.” Her heart sunk. The Sanchez cartel—people with less reluctance to kill than both Ramon and Garrett. And Ramon’s obvious apprehension made her knees knock. She had to run before they arrived.
“I can fix it for you,” she said. “Joey showed me.”
Ramon snorted. “Joey caused our problems. The baler hasn’t worked since he tinkered with it.”
Good for you, Joey. “Yeah,” she shook her head knowingly. “I always had to fix equipment after him. We had a John Deere and our machine wouldn’t tie on the left either. It was a broken pin in the bill hook. If the tension isn’t right, the string never ties.” She reached down and tugged the useless twine hanging from the banana bale. “Believe me. That’s your problem.”
“Can you fix it?”
“Sure.” She leaned over the baler, trying to act confident. She didn’t know enough to fix the bill hook, but she certainly knew enough to sabotage it. And if Joey had caused a problem, it must have been deliberate. He was a born mechanic. All the neighbors had called him whenever they needed help.
“Pass me the wrench,” she said, trying to sound like an authority.
Ramon turned to the toolbox and she quickly leaned over the frame, snagging her cuffs around the billhook pin. She yanked as hard as she could, praying the hook would twist and screw up the tension. For good measure, she’d also remove some nuts.
She turned and raised her hands. “The space is too small. Just unlock these cuffs so I can reach in.”
Ramon passed her the wrench, studying her with his familiar dispassionate expression.
“Come on, Ramon,” she said. “You don’t want to be working on this when the big guys arrive with the money.”
“I am a big guy. Hugo is my cousin.” But he pulled the key from his pocket. The cuffs fell off with a satisfying clink.
She bent over the baler, shifting so he couldn’t see her trembling hands, and loosened a bolt. It dropped silently into the deep dirt. “Do you have another pin?” She glanced innocently over her shoulder. “This one is broken and the tucker finger isn’t giving enough tension.”
“We’re not baling a damn field.” Ramon’s dark eyes narrowed. “It only needs to tie eight bales.”
It’s not going to tie one bale. She subtly palmed another nut. “Here we go,” she said. “That should work. Now I’ll grab another pitchfork and help you load the hay.”
“No. Stay here.” Ramon pulled the wrench from her hand. He turned and picked up the pitchfork, his back to her.
She bolted for the door.
Ramon cursed and thudded after her, but fear gave her wings. She blasted across the arena and into the sunlight—into the chest of Miguel.
“In a hurry, puta.” He laughed with a complete absence of humor, yanked her arm behind her back and duckwalked her back to Ramon. “You idiot. Garrett said you had her.”
”She’s obedient,” Ramon mumbled.
A hand grabbed her hair, and she squealed at the painful jerk. “Does it look like she’s obedient? Do I have to do every fucking thing here?”
They switched to an angry flurry of Spanish, but the grip on her arm and hair remained tight. Her head was tilted back at an impossible angle. It was difficult to see Miguel, but she could smell his breath, heavy with coffee, along with the stink of stale sweat and cologne. She didn’t move, just stood there while they argued, her neck exposed and vulnerable.
Ramon didn’t talk as much as Miguel now. His voice was low, almost resigned. Miguel abruptly kicked her feet out, shoving her to the ground. “Watch her,” he said, and stalked to the stalls.
Ramon stared down without meeting her eyes. She tried to rise to one knee but he pushed her down with his boot. Her breath shuddered out, her insides shriveling.
“If you kill me,” her voice quavered, “you’ll never get that baler working.”
“What?”
“You heard me.” She cleared her throat, sensed she was fighting for her life. “I bet your cousin won’t like that.”
Ramon’s nostrils flared. Miguel strode back through the doorway, a thin lead line gripped in his hand.
Ramon gestured at the baler and muttered in Spanish. Miguel’s face darkened. He jerked to a stop, staring at her in frustration. At that moment, he looked so much like a petulant kid—a spoiled boy who toyed with innocents like Tami—that her ball of fear burst.
“Your daddy can buy all the horses and women you want,” she said, “but you’ll never ride worth shit.”
He shot forward, cursing. Wrapped the rope around her neck.
She rose on her toes, jerking backwards, fighting the vise around her throat. Part of her hadn
’t believed he’d really do it.
She heard Ramon’s urgent voice and a rumbling—her truck? She hadn’t realized her muffler was so loud. Then she could suck in air again. She was pushed into the dirt, sprawling and gasping for breath, just grateful that the horrible rope was off her neck.
Garrett’s voice cut her haze. He spoke rapidly to the two men and even though he was a lying scumball, she was glad he was here.
He crouched down but stayed on his feet, careful not to get dirt on his pants. “What did you do to the baler, Megan?” he asked.
His face was spotty. Her breath came in painful bursts and her throat was too sore to speak.
“I don’t think you understand your situation,” he went on, his voice grim. “We have company arriving. And we need that baler.”
“I thought,” she sputtered, still clasping her throat, “I thought I fixed it… Hard to remember anything…since that creep with the cheap cologne tried to strangle me.”
Miguel shot forward with a torrent of Spanish, but Garrett motioned him back. His voice lowered. “My power is limited and Miguel has a temper. For Scott’s sake, let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be.”
“If you let me go, I won’t say anything.” She hated the squeak in her voice, hated that she was pleading. She clamped her arms around her chest, trying to hide her trembling. “Besides, I won’t ever see Scott again.”
Garrett’s smile looked pained. “That’s what I thought. But he’s not giving this up. He’s already called twice. And he’s too good at his job.”
“But he’ll wonder where I am. He’ll look for me.” She tried to sound confident but wasn’t sure Scott would even care.
“It won’t be a surprise when he can’t find you.” Garrett shrugged. “Drug dealers often disappear. He’s just grateful I promised not to involve the police. I told him you left with Joey.”
“Where is Joey?”
“Somewhere in Mexico. Frankly, my dear, I don’t want to know where they dumped him.”
A burning pain exploded in her chest and she was glad she was already on the ground. She’d sensed Joey was dead, but to have Garrett so casually confirm it was devastating.
“Why?” Her voice cracked.
“He was helping Ramon with the baler. Came back with some special screws at a very bad time.”
“But he went to Mexico?”
“That’s right. We didn’t want any trouble so close to the school, not when our license was up for renewal.”
Megan couldn’t breathe. Joey had died three months ago. Had been dumped like garbage. She wanted to launch herself at Garrett’s head, but her body felt impossibly numb. And cold, so very cold.
“You don’t understand,” Garrett said, his voice slightly aggrieved. “It’s impossible to cross these people. I didn’t want to ship this month, not while Scott was around, but you saw what Miguel did to my dog. Now, please, fix the baler.”
“Why bother,” she said dully. Her adrenaline rush had flattened and now she only felt Joey’s loss along with an incredible weariness. “You’re going to kill me anyway.”
“There are many ways to die,” Garrett said. “The men that are coming are experts. Best to choose the easy route.”
Miguel rattled off a string of angry words. His boots loomed closer but Garrett snapped something, and Miguel stopped. “See.” Garrett turned his attention back to her. “I won’t let Miguel hurt you. I respect Scott far too much for that.”
Oh, that’s rich. She drew her legs to her shivering chest, appalled her choices were to die quickly now, or slowly later. Even more terrifying—she was actually weighing the pros and cons.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Scott whipped his car around a sharp corner then hit the brakes. He bumped onto the shoulder of the road. Gravel peppered the bottom of his car.
Goddammit. He slammed the dash in frustration, still struggling to accept the facts. Megan was a drug dealer. Drug dealers were scum. He’d fallen in love with scum.
He’d always considered traffickers to be bottom feeders, sucking victims into a web of despair. After Amanda’s downward spiral, his tolerance had turned razor thin. It had been easier to leave the LAPD than to read dealers their rights—especially when he really wanted to crack their skulls for taking away the only woman he’d ever loved.
Until now.
Groaning, he dropped his head in his hands. Didn’t know how long he sat, or at what point he turned his car around. But he couldn’t drive away. Couldn’t just leave her. He’d failed someone before. Maybe this time he could make a difference.
Garrett had promised he wouldn’t involve the police. Besides, it was probably Megan’s brother who was the biggest criminal. All Scott knew was that he had to help.
She’d left a half hour ago with Joey, heading south, but he knew her license plate. He could call in a few favors, track her down before she disappeared in Mexico.
It had all happened so blurringly fast. He should have asked more questions. She was inherently kind. Maybe she was trying to raise money for tsunami victims or buy a kidney or help more horses like Rambo. Didn’t matter. If he had to cuff her to his side, he’d do it. He’d do whatever it took to help straighten out her life.
He wheeled his car around, tires screeching but this time they burned rubber on the opposite side of the blacktop. He hugged a vaguely familiar corner and recognized the spot where they’d first met, the place where she’d stopped to help, where she’d wiggled beneath his car and pulled him from the ditch. He’d known then she had a big heart.
The question was would she choose to go clean?
Buzz. The number on his screen was unfamiliar, and he almost didn’t answer.
“Taylor,” he said.
“Hi.” The voice was high pitched and breathy. “Is this Scott?”
“Yeah.”
“Oh, hi,” the voice said, happy now, and then he recognized the youthful bounce.
“Hi, Tami,” he said, watching the twisty road for an old blue truck. Maybe Megan would change her mind and return to L.A. Garrett said Megan was heading for Mexico, but he didn’t believe that. Didn’t want to believe it.
“It was hard to find your number,” Tami said. “I didn’t want to ask Garrett, of course, and your office refused to give it to me. But then I remembered Megan had sent you some pictures. Do you have a massage business?”
“What is it, Tami?” He clutched the wheel, hope rising at the approaching sound of a noisy muffler. But it was only an ancient sun-bleached Chevy, chugging around the bend, trailing a plume of dark exhaust.
“Megan said if she didn’t call back in half an hour, she was in big trouble.”
“I know,” he said, “but we’re going to sort out her problems. I’m trying to catch her truck now.”
“But she’s not in her truck. She was hiding in Garrett’s bathroom. And she hasn’t called back. I’m not sure what that means—”
“Slow down. When did she call?”
“Almost an hour ago. It took me a really long time to find your number.” Tami’s voice turned reproachful. “That lady who answers your phone wasn’t at all helpful.”
“Did you see Megan when she gathered her things?”
“No. Lydia did it. She tossed everything in Megan’s duffle bag.”
Scott winced. Garrett hadn’t even let Megan pack. “What about when she picked up her truck?” he asked. “Did you see her then?”
“No, and she would have called to say good-bye. You know she would have.”
“Yeah.” He dragged a hand over his jaw. Megan was extremely loyal to her friends. To her brother. “All right,” he said slowly. “I’ll call Garrett again. See what’s happening.”
When he disconnected, Tami was still complaining, saying that Lydia had confiscated all their chocolate bars. He cut her off, his mind crunching this new scenario. Hiding in the bathroom? What the hell? A chill slid down his neck.
Seconds later, the phone rang again and he guessed it
was Tami calling back. But the display showed Snake.
“Got some news, boss,” Snake said. “That tattoo you sent belongs to a splinter group of the Sanchez cartel. They control a piece of the west coast. Headed by Hugo Torres.”
Scott squeezed his eyes shut. Jesus. That explained the lab quality of the heroin. Megan was swimming with the big boys. Those people were ruthless. No one was safe dealing with them.
Miguel was obviously the key. He’d set up dealers like Megan and Joey, right under Garrett’s nose. But no…that didn’t make sense. Scott gave his head a shake, feeling out of sync. Megan had sent him the pictures. She was the one who’d asked him to check out Miguel’s tattoos.
“I’m thinking Miguel is at the center of this, not Megan,” he said slowly.
“Oh, yeah,” Snake said. “The girl is clean. She’s the lady behind the Megan Spence Collection. All Internet jewelry. Belinda said she owns a Spence necklace, custom made stuff with silver feathers and some kind of blue rocks—”
“What! She really does make jewelry?”
“Yeah. But she donates most of her profits to troubled teens. There’s a bunch of organizations on her list. All legit. Belinda already checked for laundering.”
Scott squeezed the wheel so tightly a knot settled between his shoulder blades. Megan had claimed Miguel was lying. But he hadn’t listened. He’d chosen the coward’s route and when Garrett had urged him to go, he’d fled.
At least she was away from Miguel. Safe with Joey. “What’s your take on Joey Collins?” he asked, surprised his voice sounded level.
“Kid had some addiction troubles. Looks to be clean now. But if he crossed this bunch, it’s not surprising he disappeared. That Miguel dude is bad news. Cops got nothing on him, but the ink says enough. The star indicates his rank, the teardrops his kills. There’s a lot of intercartal rivalry, and the Torres name pops up everywhere.”
Scott’s knuckles turned bloodless. “I have to call Garrett. Christ, he’s sending horses to those people.”
“Boss.” Snake cleared his throat. “It doesn’t appear that horses are the Baja Tinda’s main industry. The place is a fortress, not a training track.”
HORSES AND HEROIN (Romantic Mystery) Page 27
