by Becki Willis
“Hey, I missed it, too. Don’t beat yourself up over it. And to be honest, I’m not sure you’re wrong about—”
“Uh, Brash,” Madison interrupted in a nervous tone. “What are those flashing lights ahead? And why is that car coming up behind us so fast?”
“I’m not sure.” His voice was a bit too tight for her comfort. He put both hands on the wheel and alternated his attention between the front window and the rear-view mirror. “Let me guess. That Tasty’s app has access to your microphone, right?”
“I—I don’t know, why?” She glanced down at her phone and pulled up the app’s details.
“Those aren’t regulation lights. The color pattern is off. And whoever this is behind us is making no attempt to go around.”
“Okay, yes, the microphone was accessed, but—”
“But that’s another trick they have up their sleeves. Just like that TossUp app, when people pull up to the drive-through, they can access their microphones and listen in to private conversations. People might talk about what they bought, even where they’re going to hide the presents until Christmas Day.” Brash kept his speed steady, even though they were quickly approaching the vehicle sitting in the middle of the road, emergency lights flashing. “Which means they know we’re onto them. Delete the app from your phone. Now.”
Her hands shook as she did as told. He dialed his own phone and barked off orders. Forced to slow his speed, Brash instructed her to open the glove compartment. “There’s a small gun inside. Get it out and slip it into my boot.”
With clumsy fingers, Madison retrieved the tiniest pistol she had ever seen. “It looks like a toy.”
“It’s a .380. Slip it inside my boot and under my sock. Pull my pants leg back down.”
“Wh—What’s going on, Brash?” She didn’t have to say she was frightened; the tremor in her voice said it for her.
“I think the Christmas Crimes have been nothing more than a ploy, a distraction to pull our attention away from the drug and gambling ring. I think we were onto something earlier, and they heard us. It’s starting to make sense now, to pull together into one big web.”
“What web? What sense?”
“Just follow my lead, sweetheart. It’s going to be okay. I love you.”
“I—I love you, too, but why do you feel the need to tell me that at this particular moment?” Her voice rose with panic as they were forced to slow down even more.
“It’s always a good time to tell you I love you, sweetheart.” The words would have been more convincing if he had looked at her as he spoke. Instead, his eyes were peeled on the man stepping from the stopped vehicle. In the dark night, the flashing lights were blinding, but he immediately detected the crumpled game warden’s uniform and the wrong-style hat upon Dickey Fowler’s head.
“Not again!” Madison wailed. “And in almost the exact same place!”
“Hold on, sweetheart, this might get rough,” Brash warned, “because we’re not stopping!”
He jerked the steering wheel to the right and gunned the engine, plunging his truck off the shoulder of the road, through the bar ditch, and fishtailing his way back toward the pavement. Madison hung on for dear life, feeling like a rag doll in a dog’s mouth. The seatbelt bit into her chest and her head banged against the side window glass. She bit back a scream as the truck lunged up and over the rim of pavement. Just for a moment, they were airborne. The tires slammed back onto asphalt and her stomach turned over.
“You okay?” Brash yelled, fighting for control of the powerful vehicle.
“Y—Yes!”
“It’s not over yet.” His voice was deceptively calm, but she knew he was worried. He glanced in the mirror. “They’re coming after us.”
“Can’t we go any faster?”
“It’s a curvy road and a dark night, but I’m going as fast as I can.” He pressed the gas pedal down as far as he dared.
“I think we’re losing them,” Madison said, turning in her seat to look out the back window. “I’ll call Cutter.” She wheeled back around as she spoke. “He’ll—Brash! Watch out!”
Almost invisible against the dark pavement, a huge black feral hog and five baby piglets trotted across the road. The truck was tall enough to skim over the piglets, but Brash knew the sow was big enough, and solid enough, to do major damage. He jerked the wheel and felt the truck go into a skid. The mother hog chose that moment to bolt, running straight into the path of the spinning truck.
The seatbelts locked and the airbags inflated, as the truck came to a sharp and abrupt halt.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Are you all right?” Brash demanded.
“I—I think so. You?”
“Yeah.” He sounded more disgusted than hurt. He swore quietly, a habit he was trying hard to break.
“I think this situation warrants strong words,” she commiserated. She waved at the dark particles that choked the air around them. “Is this… this isn’t smoke, is it?” Her voice rose in alarm.
“No, it’s from the airbags,” he assured her. “Can you get out of your seatbelt?”
“I think so. If my fingers will work.”
“We need to get out of here.”
The words had barely left his lips when both front doors jerked open. Two men stood on either side of the truck. One wore a long, shaggy beard and a limp game warden uniform. The other three wore Santa suits, complete with snowy white beards and mustaches.
“You two have been mighty naughty this year,” one of the Santas sneered. He was so skinny the black belt circled twice around his waist, in a desperate attempt to keep his red flocked pants from falling down. If not for the gun in his hand, the situation might have been comical.
“So have you, Havlicek,” Brash drawled.
The scrawny Santa stepped back in surprise, unprepared for the possibility of being recognized. “Get out!” he spat, motioning with his gun.
Brash tried to reason with them. “Don’t do something we’ll all regret. If you boys will just back off, you can get back in your vehicles and drive away. I won’t even write up a report.”
Bernie was having none of it. “You’re just full of Christmas wishes, now ain’t cha?”
“He’s full of something!” Dickey Fowler giggled. His eyes were too bright, their glassy sheen a dead giveaway to his condition. The man was higher than a kite.
Brash studied the other men, trying to determine their identities behind the fake beards. He thought one was Bernie’s younger brother Doug, but he couldn’t see the fourth man well. He stood behind Bernie, half-hidden in shadow. That, alone, raised Brash’s suspicion.
“Don’t make me repeat myself. I said get out of the truck.”
Brash reached for Maddy’s hand. “She’s getting out on my side,” he said, his voice brooking no argument. It meant she would have to crawl over the center console, but he wasn’t letting her away from his side, gun or no gun.
“Leave your phones,” Bernie called.
“Mine’s wedged in the dash.” Maddy tossed the words over her shoulder as she scrambled toward Brash.
Bernie tried to retrieve the turquoise case from between the dashboard and windshield, but it refused to budge. “Well, dang, that sucker is stuffed in there tight,” he muttered. He gave up after one more try. “Just as well. Won’t be needing it no more.”
“And yours, Chief?” Santa Doug asked, holding his hand out to receive it as Brash slid from the seat. Despite his best efforts, the man shrank back as the policeman loomed over him. The Havliceks were of slight build and wiry muscle.
“No idea,” Brash shrugged. “Lost it when we went into a skid.”
“Then find it.”
Seeing the message in his eyes, Madison waited in the driver’s seat while Brash bent to look for his phone. She shifted her legs so that the men on the other side of the truck had an obstructed view of his search. He fumbled around for a few minutes, his efforts exaggerated. Madison had no idea what he was doing, but she susp
ected he was up to something.
“Hand over the damn phone!” Doug said, growing impatient.
Brash turned to glare at the man, matching him tone for tone. “I would, if I could find it. Bernie, see if it slid over that way. Things were rolling every which way during that wild ride.”
While Bernie searched under the passenger seat and through bags and debris thrown against the floorboards, Madison felt something slip into the top of her ankle boot. It was all she could do not to jump from the sensation of cold metal against her skin. Something vibrated under the seat, but Brash’s hooded expression warned her not to react.
“Oh, here it is,” Brash said abruptly. He tossed the device upward toward Dickey, whose reflexes were dulled by the drugs. He grabbed for the phone and managed to juggle it for several seconds. When Doug decided to snatch it from his partner’s bumbling hands, Brash whisked the gun away from his own inept hold.
“Not so fast,” the fourth Santa said, his voice so unnaturally low it could only be a disguise. He had silently moved from one side of the truck to the other. Still mostly hidden in shadow, but Brash had no problem detecting the high-powered rifle in his hands. “Give the gun back to Santa.”
“Here. Doug.” Brash shoved the gun into the man’s hands, daring him to deny his identity. Satisfied with the answering tremor he saw in the man’s hands, Brash leaned back and asked, almost casually, “So what now, Doug? Where do you and Bernie plan on taking us? Please tell me Dickey won’t be driving. Or your other Santa pal, there, the one with the Browning 25-06. Nice gun, by the way. Fancy stock. What is that, maple?”
“Shut up. What do you think this is, a tailgate party?” Bernie screamed. He slammed the door so hard the glass rattled in its frame. A small squeak escaped from Madison, calling their attention to the fact that she still sat inside the vehicle.
“I see Her Highness is still on her throne,” the unidentified Santa snarked. This time, he forgot to lower his voice.
Madison sucked in a sharp breath. She made a subtle move toward Brash, as much to alert him as to draw comfort from his nearness. The reference couldn’t be a coincidence. This had to be the same man who was in the cave, the one that gave orders to dispose of her and Derron. The big boss.
“How are things up at the North Pole, Santa?” Brash asked in a lazy tone. Madison jerked her gaze to her boyfriend, wondering what he was up to. He obviously had a plan of some sort, if only a plan to throw them off their game with his amiable attitude.
He gave a one-word reply, hardly what Brash was hoping for. “Cold.”
“And the reindeer?”
His voice low and hard, the Santa with the rifle nudged it in Doug’s direction. “Santa, maybe you should remind our friend this isn’t that tailgate party, after all. He seems to be confused.”
When Doug would have punched Brash in the stomach, the more agile officer easily deflected the move. He actually grinned at the slower man. “What are you talking about? This isn’t a party? Three men in Santa suits and one in a game warden uniform stop us in the middle of the Bryan highway, and you’re telling me this isn’t a party? Dickey, here, seems to be having a party of his own, judging by that stupid grin on his face.”
“I don’t know what you’re up to,” Bernie said, “but knock it off! Get in the car, both of you.” He jerked Madison’s arm to pull her from the truck, his manner rough.
Without warning, Brash issued a harsh blow to Bernie’s mid-section, doubling the man over. Like lightning, he turned his fists to Dickey. One punch sent the younger man sprawled out on the ground. Brash had Doug in a chokehold and the pistol within his grasp when the long report of a rifle rent the still night air.
“The next bullet won’t go high,” the angry fourth Santa ground out. “Now everyone get in the car and get out of here. Move!”
Lurching into action, the other three men scrambled to follow orders. Brash helped Madison from the truck, whispering a brief, “Trust me, babe. We’ll get out of this.” He allowed Bernie to lead them to the waiting car, where the skinny Santa unceremoniously shoved them inside and then crawled in after them, shutting the door. Dickey squeezed in on the other side. Doug got behind the wheel, while the fourth Santa took his own vehicle. He shrewdly traveled behind them, his lights on bright to keep Brash from identifying his ride.
They turned down the first dirt road they came to, a county road that led to the back side of Riverton. Hearing sirens in the distance, Brash looked into the rear-view mirror and saw that the reinforcements he called for were just a few minutes late in arriving. Two patrol cars and Cutter’s personal truck sailed down the highway past them, lights and sirens at full blast.
“What the heck is that about?” Doug asked. He glared at Brash through his rearview mirror. “How’d you do it? How’d you get a message to them?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Brash lied. “I guess someone came across my truck in the middle of the road and called 9-1-1.”
“Boys, put the blindfolds on ‘em,” Doug instructed. “And tie their hands.”
“Is that really necessary?” Brash asked tediously. “We’ve cooperated with you so far. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“You punched me in the gut!” Bernie complained.
“My jaw still hurts,” Dickey said, but the goofy smile remained on his face.
“So does my throat.” Doug cleared it now, for good measure. “And it’s blindfolds or we knock you over the head. Your choice.”
“Blindfold, please,” Madison was quick to say.
Bernie pulled a rag from the pocket of his baggy Santa pants and put it over her eyes. As he tied a knot in the back, she pulled away. “Hey, the hair. Leave some, please.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” he sneered.
“Now you sound like Barry Redmond,” she muttered.
Beside her, Bernie went perfectly still. And in that moment, Madison knew who the big boss was.
Stunned, she turned her head to Brash, but of course she could not see him. She groped for his hand and squeezed it tightly, hoping to convey her deep concern for their safety.
He squeezed back, just as tightly.
***
After a series of turns and curves and miles of travel, Brash became hopelessly disoriented. He did rather well the first several miles, guessing the roads they turned down and anticipating their next move. But after a while, he lost count in his head. He could no longer judge distance between one turn and the next. Some roads seemed unfamiliar. At one point, Doug pulled into an apparent driveway, backed out, and made a circle. By the time they started forward again, Brash wasn’t sure of the direction they traveled. He finally gave up and tried to relax.
Back at the truck, he had tried stalling as long as he could. He turned on the police-band radio beneath his seat, setting the dial to one-way transmit. He tried to give dispatch as many details as he could, including the identity of his captors. Unable to clearly identify the fourth man, he at least gave details about his weapon. That was a sweet rifle he had, most likely custom made. Maybe someone would recognize the description and know who owned it.
If only they had arrived two minutes earlier, he and Maddy might not be sitting here blindfolded, squished between two idiots. If not for the car behind them, Brash would have made a move for the door, long ago. He had no doubt he and Maddy could have gotten away from the not-so-bright trio, and handily so. He also had no doubt that the fourth Santa would have no problem in shooting either one of them, should they attempt an escape. So here he sat, his hands bound and his eyes covered, feeling uncharacteristically useless. It wasn’t a feeling he often experienced, and certainly not one he welcomed.
“Come on, Doug, don’t you think it’s time you took us home?” He tried reasoning with the Santa behind the wheel. “Now you’re adding kidnapping to the list of charges against you. Don’t you want to be around to see your kids graduate from high school? Because kidnapping carries a stiff prison sentence.”
&n
bsp; “There won’t be any kidnapping charges, you dimwit,” Bernie claimed. “Ignore him, Doug. He’s just trying to yank your chain.”
“They don’t use ball and chains in prison anymore,” Brash said, his tone conversational. “They use ankle monitors. Magnetic, so they can shut you down with a touch of a button. Can’t lift your feet, even if you’re standing in the middle of an angry prison riot, getting beat to a pulp.”
He could sense Doug’s nervousness. His foot faltered on the gas pedal, causing the car to slow down. Behind them, the rifle-toting Santa tapped on his horn. Doug sped up, but his driving skills suffered. He took turns more sharply. Hit more potholes. Scraped against overhanging tree limbs.
From the backseat, his brother spewed out a string of curse words, followed by, “Don’t let him get to you, Doug! He’s full of bull. I’m telling you, there won’t be no kidnapping charges.”
“Murder charges carry a life sentence,” Brash reminded them. He squeezed Madison’s hand as he spoke in a low, solemn voice, hoping she had fallen asleep. She no longer squirmed beside him, resting against his arm in what he hoped was slumber.
“Who—Who said anything about murder?” Bernie squeaked.
Brash heard the warble in his voice, caught the scent of fear upon the air. Bernie had orders to kill them both.
For the first time tonight, Brash worried they might be in actual danger.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
When the car finally stopped, Brash gently nudged Madison to rouse her. On his other side, Dickey softly snored.
Bernie pushed the car door open and crawled out. “What are you waitin’ on?” he grumbled with impatience. “Get out.”
Stiff from sitting in a cramped position for so long, and sore from their rough ride earlier in the truck, Brash knew it was hard for Maddy to follow the abrupt command. He murmured encouragement as she eased off the seat, which allowed him more room to unfold his own large body within the cramped confines. With Dickey still sleeping against the door, he slid the length of the seat and exited on her side. His knee popped when he straightened his legs and stood.
