“He was the man, wasn’t he? The one who interrupted the attack. I thought those assholes were making it up.” Trying to cover their own asses. Failure meant they wouldn’t get paid. It was the law of the jungle. You didn’t catch your prize, you didn’t eat.
“No, it was Jacobson. Security cameras for the food bank down the street show his SUV leaving the parking lot just moments after it happened. He wasn’t alone. There were at least three other people with him, including a woman who was most likely unconscious at the time.”
“How did you find all this? I’ve been trying to find her for days.” For two separate reasons. Izadora, so she could be removed from causing problems completely—to get back at that damned Jake MacNamara, too.
Allen Jacobson because Wallace was absolutely convinced Jacobson had those damned precious journals Wallace was going on and on about.
Jennifer stood where she was while Kyle came toward her. His hands slipped around her waist and he pulled her against his hard body. He had always prided himself on being fit. She’d enjoyed exactly what that meant for her. Younger men—they had all the energy she loved. “Easy, darling, when you have the right sources. And know the right way to play them.”
Jenny accepted the subtle dig for what it was. Kyle had never let her get away with anything; he called her out on her faults when it was needed. Yes, she been reckless, careless, earlier. But she had learned her lesson.
“The journals Wallace is obsessing over?”
“I’m working on that. Rumors say that Jacobson was spotted carrying a bag of what looked like purple books out of the hospital that very afternoon. He most likely has them with him.”
“So where are they going?”
“In a van, traveling south. A Mercedes, I believe. Probably toward Mexico. Rumor has it the mayor may have something to do with getting them out of the country soon. That’s what my source at the hospital and at city hall both said.”
“We’ll need to stop them. I need those journals.” If it was the only thing that bought Wallace’s sanity, then she’d pay the price for them in a heartbeat.
Kyle had a cold, calculating look in his blue eyes that she didn’t quite trust.
Because she knew him to the bottom of his feet. In every way.
Whereas she’d been Dennis Lee’s protégée, this was hers. She had trained him well.
“I am already on it. Expect reports of their bodies very soon. I’ve decided…it’s just easier to have them meet with an accident or a mugging—travel can be so hard on unsuspecting tourists, after all. Then we’re through with them. If something happens to her hundreds of miles away—well, that’s better for you, isn’t it?”
Yes, she had trained him well.
Very well indeed.
Sometimes, even she feared the monster she’d created.
78
It was a long stretch of highway between Corpus Christi and Brownsville. They filled the silence with talk about anything and everything. He had a droll sense of humor that Izzie found meshed well with her own. She could snark at him and feel perfectly comfortable about doing it.
It was nice. Easy. Familiar.
Oliver spent most of the time crawling on her lap or sleeping. They’d fastened his leash to the table behind Allen, so the puppy couldn’t tangle in Allen’s feet as he drove, but Oliver could still reach her if needed. It was almost idyllic—like a real vacation or retreat.
They were halfway to their destination when Allen laughed.
“What is it?” she asked, scratching Oliver’s ears until he settled back down on her lap. He was getting restless. They’d have to find a spot to let him go outside. Puppies had far more accidents than cats, by far. That had been one thing she’d learned fast.
Then she saw it. A long black limousine pulled off alongside the highway at the only rest stop they’d seen for a long while. The driver was changing a tire.
“Should we stop and help?”
“We both know that’s not going to happen.” Izzie said, and then she looked closer. The man changing a tire on the long limousine with a familiar white logo was someone she had seen before. In the company of Turner’s cousin Houghton. Izzie had met the occupants of that limousine many times before. A sudden pang of homesickness hit her so hard it surprised her at its ferocity. “Do you think that it is someone we know?”
He nodded. “Probably. They are opening the Barratt—South Padre Island this weekend. Members of the board at Barratt try to make these things. It might be Houghton or Turner in there right now.”
“Maybe it’s Turner and Annie.”
“Possibly. Most likely, it’s Houghton and his wife, though. They tend to be the most visible Barratts lately.”
“It’s because everyone has gone doofy over Mel for some reason. Cinderella story with the wounded cop and the hot billionaire, she said. She uses it to her advantage, though.” Mel had a habit of spending her husband’s money on whatever charities she could find. Houghton supported her in that every step of the way. “She might be able to help you with setting up the scholarship.”
She wanted to see if it was Mel. Wanted to know if it was Annie. To feel some part of her normal again.
“When we get to South Padre, I’ll call Annie. See for certain.” They wouldn’t be able to meet up with her friend, but it would be nice to know they were nearby. If she and Allen needed something. Or even just to talk. She was used to talking to Annie almost every day. All of that had changed lately—even before the abduction attempt.
It had all changed when Turner entered the picture. The storm. That had changed everything for all of them. “I haven’t been away from Annie this long since she and her mother moved away briefly when we were nine. They were back six months later.”
She was about to say something else when Allen cursed.
“What is it?”
“We’re being followed. White truck. Looks a little too familiar to me. Put him in your lap and tighten your seatbelt.”
Allen hit the gas.
79
Allen slammed the gas pedal to the floorboard, but it wouldn’t be enough. Despite the sleek custom engine in the van—Barry had always liked his toys—it wasn’t as powerful as that behemoth of a truck on their heels. There wasn’t much traffic on the road now, the TSP had set up roadblocks a mile back to help with some sort of major event headed toward the island—he suspected the Barratts had something to do with it—and he pushed the van as hard as he could.
The truck was still gaining on them.
“Hold on. Tighten your belt and put Oliver on your lap. Hold him down.”
She didn’t protest.
The truck slammed into the rear of the van, sending them careening toward the shoulder.
He heard Izzie bite off a scream. Allen just prayed and kept his hands tight on the wheel.
The truck slammed into them again.
This time, he had no choice. Allen fought to keep the van on the road, but it was impossible.
The van slid off onto the shoulder. He slammed on the brakes seconds before they hit a patch of gravel.
The truck was still there. Far too close. Coming for them.
“Get down!” he yelled, reaching for the gun he’d had in the pocket of the dash.
It was far too late.
Gunfire sounded.
Glass along the driver’s side shattered. Fire lanced straight through his left shoulder, just inches away from the stitches Izzie had put in.
Allen couldn’t help it.
He fell.
His face struck the dinette on the way down.
He forced himself to his knees as he heard Izzie cry out his name.
Then she was moving. Jumping over him and the crying puppy somehow. Oliver was licking Allen’s cheek when Izzie put the van into gear and yanked it back onto the road. Allen hoped it hadn’t been damaged too badly.
“Allen!”
“Just drive!”
He pulled himself to his knees in time to look out t
he rear window behind the bed. The truck was nowhere to be seen—but half a dozen semis were bearing down on them at full speed. “Go faster!”
Izzie did just that.
Allen collapsed into the captain’s chair next to the dinette—which was now stained red with his own blood.
He had no clue what they were going to do now.
80
Waiting was the hardest part. Jennifer forced herself to remain calm. Kyle had come through. He’d found them. With some wheedling, he’d told exactly how he’d done it.
He’d always been a bit of a braggart.
With his information and a cell phone, she’d had everything moving nicely.
It had taken her people a while to drive south and another day or so to find who they were looking for. That was the benefit of having TSP contacts ranging all over the state.
She’d learned everything she could about Allen Jacobson, then his family.
From there…
There had been one report of a man matching Allen’s description at a store in Beeville. Security video had provided proof—it was him, and that woman was with him.
Dennis Lee’s leftovers at the TSP had done all the rest.
Jennifer smiled in complete satisfaction.
It was only a matter of time before the men she’d sent out had Wallace’s journals in hand—and had that little bitch Izadora MacNamara dead.
That’s all she really wanted.
It hadn’t mattered that Kyle had pointed out that Wallace would be the prime suspect in anything that happened to that girl.
Not if it was a robbery gone wrong, he wouldn’t.
Or a carjacking in Brownsville. Why, how was Wallace to know where Izadora had gone with her lover?
With her keeping Wallace where everyone could see him, that was only working in her favor.
Wallace was in no real shape to do much of anything.
She’d let him stay with her in her condo. Maybe that had been a mistake, but she wanted to know what he was up to.
He’d gone around, mumbling about Elizabeth. He had done that before. Especially in times of great distress.
He always brought up the baby when he was hurting. Like after his own mother had died.
Elizabeth had been named after Wallace’s mother.
Now, he was worrying her. Guilt. He never had handled it well.
She kept herself calm as she finished the early lunch she’d prepared for the two of them.
It had been simple. She’d had a contact at the TSP put out an alert to watch for a recreational vehicle with the plate number her sources had said would be associated with Allen Jacobson. It had taken her quite a while to get that number.
About three times as long as it had Kyle, but he hadn’t let her know that right away. He’d confirmed that the information he had was correct.
Jacobson’s sister owned an RV. A small one, capable of disappearing into the night so easily.
Then it had taken her a while to find it. That’s where all of Dennis Lee’s sources she’d made a point to schmooze with came in handy.
It was nice having half a dozen TSP officers on her unofficial payroll now.
Kyle was getting a bit too smug for her liking lately. She’d have to bring him back down to earth again, soon.
Finally, after far longer than it should have taken, came a text.
Jennifer cursed.
Wallace looked at her. “What? Can I help?”
Hell, no. Ultimately, he was the reason she was in this mess in the first place. “No. Just someone who was supposed to do a job for me and screwed up. Finish eating. I’m going in my office to deal with this.”
Wallace did exactly as he was told.
As if he was afraid she’d tell him enough was enough and to get out.
Of course, she wouldn’t.
Not until she’d cleaned up his latest mess.
81
Izzie knew this was a gamble. The only information she had to go on was the Snotty Garlic and the slim possibility that whoever had been in that Barratt-Handley limo had been Mel or her husband. Not exactly reliable.
They needed help. With what had happened, there was no way she would ever risk taking Allen to the local hospitals. She’d tried.
The instant she’d pulled into the largest hospital ER in Brownsville, she’d seen the truck.
Waiting.
Only one man this time. That had been enough. There had even been paint scratches all over the front bumper.
The driver hadn’t even tried to hide what they were doing.
There was no way she was risking another ER.
They needed a hiding place and someone capable of bringing the medical help they needed to them. Instead of the other way around.
That meant she needed someone with resources. Someone she could trust.
Allen was holding on, but he was in a lot of pain. They were running out of time; he needed help. She had no clue if the bullet had damaged an artery or not. She didn’t think it had, but she was not going to risk it. A through and through, but it was still bleeding. Steadily, but not copiously. The last time she’d checked, it had slowed, at little. She’d done everything she could think of and was reassured there wasn’t major damage to his shoulder.
What concerned her the most was the head wound. He’d hit his left cheek bone hard enough to do some serious damage, and his forehead had bounced off the floor. She had no clue how he’d fallen forward, but he had. As to how much damage he’d done, she had no way to tell. She wouldn’t know until the swelling went down.
After she’d been certain they weren’t being followed, she’d stopped the van at a gas station and helped him onto the bed, and put Oliver in his kennel.
Her only option for help was on South Padre Island. There was no real hospital there.
There was a hotel there that might have people she knew, though.
The Barratt entourage had been huge. Someone had to be around somewhere. If nothing else, she’d plead and do whatever she had to get someone to even call Mel for help.
She had absolute faith that Mel would help in a heartbeat.
It was what friends did for each other.
She needed help, and she needed it fast. The last thing she wanted to do was leave him in a damned parking lot.
The only safe place she could think to leave him was near the SPI police station in a Dollar General parking lot. She wrote him a quick note and put it next to the bed. Just in case.
The Barratt—SPI was four blocks away.
Izzie moved as fast as she could toward it.
The island had free public transportation.
There it was. The newest South Padre Island hotel.
The Barratt—South Padre.
With a familiar black limousine still parked out in front, one door open while the driver unloaded luggage.
It was the one with purple interior. She’d even ridden in that car.
Hopefully, help would be waiting inside. If not, she would be renting a room in her real name and then calling in the TSP. Calling Jake.
They had already been found.
That was the only plan she really had.
She walked up to the information desk, feeling completely out of place in her cutoff denims from the secondhand store and an old FCU T-shirt of Allen’s.
“May I help you, miss?” the concierge asked. He was too well-trained to say anything, but Izzie knew what he believed. The last place she looked like she belonged was at a Barratt. Even one fifty feet from the beach.
“I’m a friend of Melody Barratt and her husband. I understand they are here today, or Houghton’s cousins. I need to speak with one of them. Please. It’s urgent.”
He frowned. “I’m afraid I cannot release that information. We have a strict privacy policy for all of our guests—and staff.”
“Can you…call her? Tell her Izzie is in the lobby? It’s an emergency. I’ll go over there and won’t even look at you while you do it. But if there’s a Ba
rratt in this hotel, I need…I really. Just please…I need to speak to someone in charge.”
He hesitated.
If she got thrown out, she couldn’t get the help they needed.
His gaze fastened on the blood on her cast and T-shirt. “Is someone hurting you?”
“They will. If I don’t get to see Mel.” Izzie made a point of meeting the older man’s eyes. There was concern there; she hadn’t missed it. “Mel and I have been friends for years. Her sister Jillian and I work together, too. My best friend is engaged to Turner Barratt, too. Please, just let someone know I’m here. I’ll wait. But please hurry. It’s an emergency.”
“Let me make a phone call. I’ll find someone to help you.”
Izzie nodded, half suspecting he was going to call hotel security and toss her right outside on her ass. Or call the police. The TSP didn’t have a branch on the island, but there were city police.
It’s what she would have done.
Houghton had some seriously tight security on Mel at all times. And her family. To protect them. She wouldn’t want to live like that, but Mel loved him. She’d told Izzie once what had happened to Houghton’s mother. His greatest fear was losing Mel.
Like Izzie’s was not making it back to Allen in time. How much that terrified her was something she couldn’t put into words.
Fifteen minutes of watching every entrance for the men who had attacked them earlier, and someone said her name from behind her.
Izzie jerked her head around.
Her eyes met green. Familiar green eyes.
“Chance!” Jillian’s brother-in-law stood there, a worried expression on his too handsome face. “Thank God. We need help.”
“What’s going on? Who hurt you? Who is we, Iz?” He stepped closer after nodding at the concierge once. The older man shot Izzie a kind look then went back to his business. “Izzie, what happened to you?”
“Allen needs help. Right now. He’s been shot again. We were on Highway 550 and were ambushed. They ran us off the road near a guardrail. Allen was trying to get to his gun when they shot at us. He was hit, and he fell. I tried to get the bleeding stopped, but I couldn’t. Now our van is making strange noises, and I think it’s got bullets in the engine somewhere. We can’t go much further. Allen hit his face when he fell down. I can’t fix this myself. I…we can’t go to the hospital. The truck, the men who shot him were in the ER parking lot. I need help, and I didn’t know where else to go, and we were headed to Brownsville and now…”
We All Sleep Alone (Finley Creek Book 11) Page 25
