Badlands (10 page)

When he reached the outcropping Roach had been resting under, the shade was gone. And so was his target.

Cursing, Owen ducked behind a rock and searched his surroundings. Roach wasn’t on the trail leading toward the summit. It was blazing hot, and he was lazy. He’d gone back downhill in search of shelter. Owen’s expectations for success went with him. He thought he’d waltz up, wave the gun around, and take care of business. Now he was worried. If Owen went looking for Roach and ran into Shane and Dirk, he might not be able to keep his promise to Penny.

His gaze settled on a group of potato-shaped boulders in the distance. They were adjacent to the trail, and appeared to offer a tempting bit of shade. After studying a few less likely locations, he decided to approach the boulders. Again, he avoided the direct route, choosing a rocky scramble.

He crept across the jagged earth lightly, his shoulders hunched low. It was more difficult to maintain stealth than to run upright. His muscles burned with every step, his skin on fire. He paused at a short cliff above the boulders, his ears straining. He couldn’t see into the shadows, and the wind was blowing the wrong direction. If anyone was crouched there, they could probably hear Owen. Every scrape of his shoe, every sliding pebble.

Fuck it.

There wasn’t enough room for three men to hide, and he could handle one. He might have given himself away already. It was time to attack.

He jumped from the cliff to the top of the boulder, hoping to regain the element of surprise. It was about a six-foot drop to the ground below. Sure enough, Roach was sitting there. Owen drew his weapon before his eyes had a chance to adjust to the shade. “Don’t move,” he said, aiming in Roach’s general direction.

Roach dove sideways, out of range.

Shit.

Owen leaped down to Roach’s level, forced to pursue. The impact with the ground was more jarring than he’d expected. He lurched forward drunkenly and almost lost his balance. With a growing sense of panic, he realized that the odds were piling up in Roach’s favor. The clumsy ambush had tipped off his opponent. The fact that Owen hadn’t fired his weapon yet had also broadcast his intentions.

Roach was no dummy. He took advantage of these mistakes. Before Owen recovered from the near stumble, Roach went on the offensive.

Instead of running, he turned to fight.

Owen raised his gun a second too late. Several seconds too late; the safety was still on. When Roach grabbed Owen’s wrist and slammed his hand against the boulder, the weapon didn’t even discharge. It dropped from his slack grip and landed in the sandy dirt. Roach followed up with a hard right, connecting with the sore spot on Owen’s jaw.

Pain rocketed through his cheek. Owen pushed off the side of the boulder and spun away, struggling to stay upright. He’d anticipated an easy target, like Brett. Maybe Roach had learned a few things from video games. His lack of muscle tone was deceiving. He had quick reflexes and good striking power.

Keeping his center of gravity low, Owen waited for Roach’s next move. Roach glanced at the gun but didn’t make a grab for it. He reached into his back pocket and drew out a wicked-looking knife.

Owen couldn’t waste another second. He tackled Roach full force. They rolled like tumbleweeds down the side of the canyon, over sharp rocks and clusters of cactus. Dust filled Owen’s nose and mouth, choking him. His knees and elbows banged against the hard ground. They slowed to a stop, each scrambling for the top position.

Roach won it. He straddled Owen’s waist and lifted his arm high. Sunlight glinted off the blade, blinding Owen. He blocked the first stab, barely. The cutting edge glanced off his forearm, slicing through his shirt. His skin also, judging by the searing sensation and warm trickle. Owen’s adrenaline was pumping so high he didn’t feel the pain. Before Roach could slash him again, Owen landed a left hook across his chin.

Roach leaned to one side, dazed. Owen shoved him over and climbed on top. He gripped Roach’s wrist, twisting it cruelly. Roach let go of the knife, but he didn’t give up. He dislodged Owen with a bucking motion and took a wild swing. His fist glanced off Owen’s ear.

Then the situation got ugly. Real ugly.

They fought over the knife, punching and clawing and crawling across the sandy ground. In the end, Owen came up with it. He hadn’t intended to use deadly force in this altercation. He’d planned to knock Roach out, tie him up and take his boots. A man with a concussion and no shoes couldn’t follow them.

That wasn’t what happened. Gripping the knife’s handle, Owen flipped onto his back and pointed it skyward. Roach jumped on him, unaware of the danger. The blade’s sharp tip penetrated his chest and sank to the hilt.

Roach let out a grunt of shock. He wore a startled expression, as if he knew this was it. Blood gushed over Owen’s hands, soaking his clothes. Roach’s gaze turned glassy. He slumped forward, his muscles slack.

As Roach lost his life, Owen flashed back to another time. Another limp body, another brutal violation.

When the memories faded, he returned to the present, which was no less horrific. He shoved the corpse aside, his heart hammering inside his chest. He didn’t vomit, though the violence he’d just done sickened him. His thoughts scattered, and he shivered uncontrollably, letting out a strangled sob. The blood turned tacky on his fingertips as he studied the man he’d killed without comprehension.

Roach offered no answers, no forgiveness. His dead eyes stared up at the blazing sun, unblinking.

CHAPTER TEN

P
ENNY
LOST
SIGHT
of Owen a few minutes after he walked away.

Pulse pounding with dread, she lifted the binoculars to watch the man in the shade. When the shadows receded, he left, probably in search of a better hideout. He traveled downhill and around the canyon, out of view.

Then there was nothing to look at. She studied the stark contrast of dirty beige hills against the vivid blue horizon. Flecks of yellow-green dotted the landscape. Some were barrel cactus, short and squat. Others looked like spiky teddy bears with rounded ears and bent arms. She wished for a view of the Salton Sea. It sounded unpleasant, but she wanted to see it for herself. Up close and personal, not just from a safe distance.

Dropping the binoculars, she glanced at Cruz. He was still asleep.

The heat had reached a plateau. Her dress fluttered in the wind, dry as a bone. Restless and worried, she thought of Owen’s kiss. It had been too reserved, too chaste. As always, she ached for something more.

An hour passed with no sign of him. She finger-combed her damp hair and braided it, tying the end with a fabric scrap from her boot. Then she caught a glimpse of a figure on the trail. She peered through the binoculars, making a sound of distress. Owen’s shirtfront was bright red with blood. He looked like he’d been shot.

She leaped to her feet, tugging on the boots she’d discarded. He continued uphill, moving at a brisk pace for a man with a bullet in his gut. She hadn’t heard gunfire, come to think of it. When he got close to the summit, she ran out to meet him.

“What happened?”

He didn’t answer, didn’t even make eye contact. “Is Cruz awake?” he asked, glancing over her shoulder.

“No.”

“Good. I don’t want him to see this.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re covered in blood.”

“It’s not mine.”

She studied the large red stain on his stomach. His shirtsleeves were drenched. If his pants weren’t black, they’d have showed more carnage. She didn’t think a person could survive after losing that amount of blood.

“He’s dead,” she said flatly.

There was no denying it. He walked past her, stripping off his ruined shirt. Wincing, he peeled the wet fabric away from a cut on his forearm. His tattooed torso was smeared red and marred by bruises.

She followed him to the pool, feeling a mixture of relief and unease. He’d killed a man, perhaps intentionally. She studied his guarded expression, remembering how he’d looked when they’d first met: tall, intimidating...scary. “You said you were going to knock him out.”

He swished his shirt around in the murky water.

This morning, he’d told her he was going to shoot a hole in the wall. Maybe he’d lied again to protect her. “What happened?”

“He pulled a knife.”

While she watched, he removed the knife from his back pocket and scrubbed the blade. Then he set the weapon aside, along with the gun. Jaw clenched, he splashed water onto his face and stomach. The Old English lettering that used to read White Pride now spelled out Irish Pride. Another big change caught her attention. The cross over his heart looked newly detailed, with a bold outline and a red banner that said
CRUZ
.

There were other, less conspicuous tattoos. Scrawls of black script on his biceps had been transformed into Celtic designs and tribal bands. The overall effect was edgy and eclectic, emphasizing an already eye-pleasing physique.

As he washed off, the wound on his arm welled with fresh beads.

“Let me,” she said, kneeling beside him. She used her moistened scarf to sponge the blood from his skin. Red-tinged water streamed down his chest and into the waistband of his pants. When she touched the cloth to his abdomen, his muscles tensed. Although it seemed inappropriate to admire his blood-streaked body, she couldn’t help herself. Maybe lust was a normal survival response.

She flushed, trying to ignore her primitive reaction to his warriorlike sex appeal. After cleaning the wound, she wrapped several dry strips around his forearm and tied them in knots. “You need stitches, but this is better than nothing.”

He made a fist, rotating his wrist. “Thanks.”

Her gaze moved from the bandage to the cross on his chest. She lifted her hand, tracing the red banner with her fingertip. His heart thumped hard underneath the ink, his flat male nipple just inches away. “When did you get this?”

“About a year ago.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Shrugging, he glanced away. He seemed traumatized by the violence he’d done, his eyes haunted. She wished he’d let her in, rather than hiding his feelings from her. His contract with her father wasn’t the only obstacle between them. He was keeping his distance, physically
and
emotionally.

He’d allowed her to care for his wound, though. That was progress.

She removed her hand from his chest, her pulse racing. If she had more nerve, she’d venture lower, splaying her fingers over the lettering that arched across his stomach. Not to tease him; they were in dire straits, and this was no time for games. But she wanted him to accept her comfort and acknowledge her desire.

“You don’t have to protect me from everything,” she said.

“Protecting you is my job.”

“Is that the only reason you do it?”

“No,” he admitted. But didn’t elaborate.

“I told you I could handle the truth.”

“I haven’t lied to you in years.”

She wasn’t so sure. “You share very little of yourself. It makes me wonder if you think I have anything to offer you in return.”

His brows rose with surprise. “I don’t have anything to offer
you.
”

“Because I have money, and you don’t?”

“Penny—” He broke off, shaking his head.

“What?”

“I just want what’s best for you.”

She knew what that meant. Anyone but him. “You sound like my father.”

When he flinched, she suspected that they’d discussed her. They’d made decisions without her input.

She fell silent, frustrated with the men in her life. And with herself for letting them set the tone in their relationships. Tyler had taken her virginity, gotten her pregnant and left without a backward glance. Her father loved her, but he’d tried to shape her into a mold that didn’t fit. Her son, by no fault of his own, had become the center of her world.

She had no control over anything. Least of all Owen, who’d put her in the friend zone. He’d kissed her on his terms, not hers. Now he’d retreated again, protecting her from himself. She didn’t appreciate the gesture.

“Just be honest with me,” she said. “Keeping me in the dark is like telling me not to worry my pretty little head about it.”

He stood abruptly, wringing out his wet shirt. “I lied about shooting a hole in the wall of the mud cave. But that was for Cruz’s benefit, not yours. I didn’t plan what happened with Roach. I messed up the ambush and dropped the gun. He came at me. If I could have escaped without killing him, I would have.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, nodding. “I believe you.”

“Good.”

“It wasn’t easy for me to watch you leave,” she said, her voice hoarse with emotion. “I was a nervous wreck the whole time you were gone. When you came back, covered in blood...I assumed the worst.”

His expression softened. “I’m sorry.”

“I hope you don’t blame yourself.”

“Who should I blame?”

“Them.”

He struggled into his wet shirt. The fabric was stained and torn, but no longer red. Most of the buttons were missing. “If I attack first, it’s not self-defense.”

“I attacked Gardener,” she pointed out.

“Gardener is still alive.”

“If he wasn’t, would you blame me?”

“No. You did what you had to do.”

“So did you.”

The comparison gave him pause. He seemed to consider her actions fair, while his were reprehensible.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said softly, touching his arm. He frowned at the sight of her hand on his skin, but he didn’t argue or pull away. She was glad they’d talked. It was a step in the right direction.

“We need to get going,” he said. “I want to make it to the railroad by sundown.”

“Won’t they follow us?”

“They might, but we’ll have a good head start, and there are lots of places to hide along the tracks.”

“I’ll wake up Cruz.”

When she crouched down next to him, he rolled over on the rustling palm fronds. “Mommy?”

“Hey, sleepyhead,” she said, smoothing his disheveled hair. “It’s time to leave. We’re going to see an old railroad.”

Cruz loved trains, so this sounded like a grand adventure to him. While Penny helped him get ready, putting on his shoes and socks, he asked Owen a dozen questions. “Will there be a train to ride on?”

“Not an operating train,” Owen said. “The tracks have been closed for years. But there are some abandoned railcars and rusted parts.”

“Cool!”

She reapplied the ChapStick to Cruz’s lips and face as well as her own. The dry wind sucked every ounce of moisture from their skin. Owen filled the canteen with water from the bottles. The sun was still brutal, burning hotter than ever. They put their headgear back on and set off into the distance like desert vagabonds.

* * *

S
HANE
RETRIEVED
THE
J
EEP
from the parking garage and grabbed some lunch with Dirk before heading back to camp.

He clenched his hands around the wheel as he navigated the bumpy dirt roads, his anxiety growing. This job had been a clusterfuck from the start. He hadn’t wanted to take the kid, but they couldn’t just leave him behind. He’d put Gardener in charge of the girl because he was a dickless chump. Shane hadn’t trusted the other men with her.

His mistakes with Owen were even more pronounced. Shane hadn’t felt like hitting his brother last night. He’d unlocked Owen’s cuffs this morning, assuming an unarmed man wouldn’t attack an armed one. Maybe he was getting soft.

Since when did he care about women, or kids or brothers? He’d spent most of the past ten years in prison. He was scrubbed clean of feelings, empty to the core. His sole concern, other than getting paid, was getting out of this godforsaken desert alive.

Fuck Salton. Fuck Owen. Fuck everything.

“What did Ace say?” Dirk asked.

“About what?”

“Isn’t he mad?”

“I told him I had it under control.”

Dirk wasn’t stupid enough to dispute that, though he looked skeptical. Like Shane, he’d never even met Ace, but that didn’t stop him from making presumptions. Shane was tired of Dirk questioning his decisions and mouthing off. Dirk never knew when to shut up. Shane didn’t appreciate having his authority challenged.

Shane turned his focus back to the road, annoyed. If things continued to go south, he’d blame Dirk—aka Derek Peters—and his dumb-ass brother. Dirk had recommended Jerome Gardener. Both Gardener and Brett were inexperienced and incompetent. Roach was Ace’s buddy, maybe his spy.

Shane assumed that Roach would give Ace all of the details eventually. If Shane executed the plan, it wouldn’t matter. If he didn’t, he’d be screwed anyway. He entertained a brief fantasy of ditching Dirk and crossing the border.

But, no. He couldn’t run.

He could try to reel Sandoval in without the bait. That would be more difficult, because people liked to see what they were getting for their money. The main problem with failing to recapture the escapees was that they might not survive the desert. Owen was strong, much stronger than Shane had given him credit for, but a little kid and a spoiled rich girl didn’t have a chance out here. Water was scarce, and there wasn’t a damned thing to eat. Unable to provide sustenance, Owen would have to keep them moving. The heat was deadly, the sun brutal, and the terrain rugged.

They didn’t call this the badlands for nothing.

If the boy or his mother didn’t make it, Shane could be charged with murder. He refused to spend the rest of his life in prison, so surrendering wasn’t an option. Neither was running; Ace would hunt him down and kill him. He might even go after Janelle and Jamie. Shane’s choices were pretty much limited to death or success.

When they got closer to camp, Shane tried to call Roach on his walkie-talkie. There was no answer, and no GPS signal registered.

The lack of response didn’t surprise him. Nothing worked in this Bermuda-Triangle shit hole. Cell phones were useless. Even high-end communication devices didn’t function at full capacity in mountainous areas, and these walkie-talkies were middle grade.

He tried again near the mud caves, to no avail. The batteries might be low or the transmissions were jammed. He wasn’t an expert in technology. Phones had changed so much in the past decade, he felt like an old man. The chick he’d visited last weekend had brought him up to speed in more ways than one. She wasn’t as hot as the picture she’d sent him in prison, but he hadn’t minded. She’d been energetic and eager to please. He’d worn her ass out.