Bad Boy Criminal: The Novel (17 page)

“
W
ell
, I’ll be damned.” Harrison didn’t even struggle to keep the smug self-satisfaction out of his voice. “The great disappearing Ashton Carter, Hell’s Ransom extraordinaire. The gifted, gorgeous little brother of the motorcycle club president. I thought life couldn’t get any wilder or sweeter for the likes of you?”

Certainly wilder and sweeter than the floor of the men’s room in some Las Cruces rest station, gagged by some ripped scraps of blanket, fuckwad.

But I was too tired to say any of the things my temper would normally demand that I spout. I was too…depressed.

“That’s right,” I confirmed grimly. “It’s important to me that I’m removed from the streets of Las Cruces as quickly and as publically as possible, before I…before I kill again,” I forced myself to spit. “I’ve realized the error of my ways, Connor.”

“How did you—That’s either Agent or Mr. Harrison to you, Carter,” Harrison growled. “And Agent Carson and I would be happy to acquiesce to your request. We’ll make it as immediate and public as possible; trust me. Can’t quite get a trace on this line, though.”

I smirked in spite of myself, and the fact that I was about to go away to Florence ADX for a long, long time. “That would make sense,” I allowed. “It’s a burner phone. You’re going to have to take my word for it when I tell you where I am.”

There was a strange pause on the line as Harrison seemed to consider this carefully. “Hmm,” he finally said. “Interesting. That’s going to make things a little unique for Carson and me. After all—normally we have some kind of documentation we can refer to in certain events…but…without that…anything could happen to you.” There was another pause. It was enough that I wondered myself if maybe I should have called Carson. Shouldn’t he have already been in the car? Already on his way here, leaving black streaks where his tires used to be? “I mean, hell,” he drawled, “there isn’t even record that this call took place.”

“I’m sure you can create the goddamn record,” I snapped, losing my patience. How long had it been now? And how much longer could it take? I didn’t want Alex to get antsy. He’d always had an itchy trigger finger. “Come pick me the fuck up, would you? I’m Ashton Carter. I killed Jared Wayne, remember? You got the weapon, you got the motive—rival gang, right, simple, sweet—and you got me with no alibi, don’t you? Come pick me the fuck up!”

There was another long pause, and then Harrison said, “All right. I never thought I’d say this, Carter, but you’re right. Who needs all that red tape and paperwork when they’ve got you right in front of them? We’ll deal with it later. You just tell me where you are, and we’ll come for you.”

T
he view
from the back of a squad car seldom changes, no matter what your crime. There’s always this sense that a chapter of your life has closed, and not just closed, but closed by erupting into flames. A bridge has been burnt. That job you had. That girl you had. That world you had. From the back window of a squad car—or from a plain, standard issue black sedan, as the case may be—you watch as it all crackles and curls black.

You find yourself staring out at the world beyond, already an outsider, already doomed and isolated.

But, on this particular ride, behind Agent Harrison and Agent Carson, something was different.

I was oddly invigorated. Resolute. Attentive. As if I’d done something right, for once in my life. I felt almost good. I was still going to jail for a crime that I had never committed—and not any jail, but to the highest security prison in Colorado—but at least I was going there in order to save an innocent woman’s life. A woman who, take it or leave it, like it or not, I loved. Maybe we’d be together again someday…though probably not. Probably not, because I’d be too old to even get it up anymore by the time I got out, if I could ever get out. I wouldn’t expect a woman like Izzy to just waste away in waiting during the prime of her life.

But that was okay. It was all okay.

When Harrison and Carson came to pick me up, I went quietly. That old abandoned house was on the outskirts of Las Cruces—as if I’d been subconsciously struggling away from the border rather than closer to it—and the drive back through the city was tedious. At least it was deep night now. I always do my best thinking in the thick of night.

“Did you make sure that the local news outlets were aware?” I wondered. “The police force in town, too?”

Neither Harrison nor Carson so much as glanced back at me.

“No,” Carson finally informed me, clipped, disinterested. She was too federal for her own good, more robot than human. I found it difficult to believe that she would have allowed me to be taken in prior to the proper paperwork being submitted, like Harrison had suggested. “There’s no need to brew up a media circus just yet.”

“Isn’t there, though?” I hissed. “People are out looking for Isabelle Turner right now—”

“You mean the woman who held a gun to me, and helped you tie me up at that gas station?!” Harrison hollered, his icy composure breaking suddenly and deeply. If he’d been my father or my friend or something else like that, I’d have lost a lot of respect for him just then. As it stood, though, I had no respect left to lose. “Yeah, Carter, people are out looking for her, all right. And when we find her, you can be sure she’ll be sitting pretty in the back of a car much like this one.”

I decided that I should, perhaps, keep my mouth shut about the situation brewing somewhere in Las Cruces regarding Izzy and Cantrell. Even if Harrison or Carson would be willing to help—which I kind of doubted—her lot wouldn’t be very increased by their aid. At least, if I kept my mouth shut, she had a chance of getting out of there on her own, a chance at a life, even if she was a fugitive…hell, maybe she’d swear me off in court, claim that I forced her to do everything she did. I wouldn’t blame her.

I swallowed down the knot in my throat. I only wanted her to be okay. I only wanted her to be alive, and have a chance at a real life. I couldn’t look at myself in the mirror and know that I had ruined the future of the woman I loved. If I had, then I was guilty of murder, in one way at least.

Carson, the one driving, flicked a look to Harrison before averting her eyes, back toward the road. “Really wish you’d let me make those calls before we left,” she muttered bitterly.

“We didn’t have the time to lose,” Harrison replied starchly. It appeared that I’d stumbled onto some disagreement between the partners.

“Oh, really?” Carson wondered blithely. “I guess you’re right. Carter is being a real handful back there. He was clearly on the verge of running after turning himself in.”

Harrison sighed. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m the one being dramatic?” she shrilled incredulously. “Me? I was just the one who wanted to do my job the right way. You were the one who wasn’t even going to let me do it at all, if I didn’t do it your way. That’s ridiculous, Connor; you know that? It’s the kind of thing that makes me wonder if you might need to take a sabbatical.” She flicked another glare of scrutiny in his direction. “It happens, you know. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Good agents burn out more often than the bad ones do.”

“Knock it off, Carter,” Harrison snapped.

“Is that all you have to say?” Carter demanded of him. “We could both lose our jobs! Protocol is emphasized for a reason!”

“You know what you need?” Harrison suggested, suddenly cool again. “I picked up this green tea at the hotel lounge, right before we left. Citrus in it. Stuff is packed to the gills with vitamins. You want a drink of it? Relaxed the hell out of me.”

I frowned, but said nothing. It was just…odd. People like Harrison didn’t just make offers out of the good of their hearts. There was always something in it for them. I’d met too many in my life to fail at recognizing one now.

Carson sighed. “Yeah?” she grumbled. “You must’ve really chugged that shit right before getting the phone call from this one over here, then, huh?”

Harrison paused. “Well,” he said, “if you don’t want any, that’s fine. I was just offering, Linda. I actually picked it up for you, because you seemed so stressed, and I felt guilty. If you must know.”

Agent Carson hesitated. “Well,” she said. “Well, then, all right. I guess I could have a drink. It’s no big deal.”

“Is that how they say thank you in Baltimore?”

Carson grimaced. I had to confess that I almost admired the emotional pyrotechnics Harrison was willing to employ in what seemed like a casual, albeit tense, disagreement.

But it was while Carson was driving, awaiting her bottle of green tea, that I saw the true reason for Harrison’s insistence that she drink. His arm moved in an interesting way. Very briefly, his elbow cocked up, and I knew—with a kind of subconscious certainty, I knew—that he had just put something in her drink.

Why?

There was no way for me to know, no way for me to understand, but I felt in my gut that he was poisoning her.

I gulped, but forged ahead. I did the right thing a lot more than people thought I did. “Linda,” I said as Harrison passed her the bottle, my tone urgent. Harrison shot me a quick glare before looking back out the windshield again.

“Agent Carson,” she corrected me, not noticing the exchange between myself and Harrison, or noticing my tone.

“Agent Carson,” I pled. “I wouldn’t drink that tea if I were you.”

Both Carson and Harrison shared a laugh at my expense, as if my well-intentioned warning actually united them in the bonds of partnership again. Now that I had spoken up, they remembered exactly why they did this job in the first place.

“Okay, Carter,” she smirked, pointedly snatching the bottle from Harrison’s hand and taking several long, deep chugs. “Thanks for the heads up.”

In less than ten minutes, an oddly pleasant Agent Harrison noted that we were approaching a rest area, and he’d like to stop. I remembered the place immediately. That was the one where Izzy and I had tied him up on the floor of the men’s room. Why stop there again? Just to…re-live it?

“Sounds like a good idea,” Carson grumbled. “I’m feeling a little woozy. Get some fresh air. Clear my head. Maybe a water.”

“Don’t know if a water will help,” I commented, mostly to myself. “Not after all that green tea.”

Carson shot me a look and parked the car, stepping out. I saw that her hands were shaking. I saw that her gait was uncharacteristically loose.

“I’m going to head to the bathroom,” she muttered, listing off in that direction. Next, there came the chirp of the locks, sealing me into the vehicle. Then, Agent Harrison followed her around the corner.

And somehow—somehow, I knew. Somehow I knew that she wouldn’t be coming back.

W
hen Harrison emerged
from the corner of the gas station, grinning, sweating, almost leering, I knew. I recognized that look. He’d taken Agent Carson out of the game. I couldn’t even be sure what game we were playing…but there was a game afoot, and, in some queer way, Agent Carson had actually been on my side. I hadn’t even known it until it was too late—and neither had she.

The keys wrenched in the driver’s side lock. Huh. Carson had had the keys before. But Harrison must have taken them.

He collapsed behind the steering wheel, grinned at me—as if he knew that I knew—and jammed the key into the ignition, turning the engine over.

I cleared my throat and went ahead and asked…even though I knew what the answer would be.

“Where’s Agent Carson?”

Harrison’s eyes met mine in the rear view mirror. He was sweating profusely, and I’d never seen his pale, shallow eyes so lit. They were like puddles catching afternoon sunlight. No depth to them. Impossibly bright.

“She won’t be joining us this evening after all,” he said, no real trace of remorse. “Just you and me tonight,
padre.
”

E
ven though they
did live on a defunct industrial strip on the outskirts of Las Cruces, the elderly couple who allowed me into their home were really quite kind. They spoke broken English—enough to understand that I was experiencing a real emergency—and they offered me some hot tea with a shot of whiskey for my nerves.

The woman watched me closely as I sipped from the cup, still lightly shaking. What if this was like some slasher horror flick, after all? What if Alex just kept coming and coming, breaking down walls and shooting through windows, killing innocent bystanders and helpful police officers—anything to get to me? However, even as that scenario played through my traumatized psyche, a more mature and composed part of me doubted it. Alex didn’t seem like the kind of guy to invest that much effort into anything, even rampant violence.

“A man?” the old woman asked me. I’d seen the family name on some envelopes around the house: Martinez. The home was humble, but maintained. They clearly carried on lives which, though simple, mattered greatly to them.

“A man,” I agreed, nodding.

Just then, a knock came at the door and I about jumped clean out of my skin.

Mr. Martinez went to answer the door, though it didn’t exactly fill me with confidence. He was a very small and slow man.

He cracked the door a thin inch. An even thinner chain was supposed to keep it from being forced open. “Hello?” he asked.

“Hey, there,” a familiar voice drawled. My heart leapt with relief. I recognized that voice, and it was the voice of a man who had already rescued me once before, in a way. “We’re here to pick up Isabelle.”

Mr. Martinez unlatched the chain and stepped to the side, allowing the door to fall open for half a dozen burly bikers: the Utah chapter of Hell’s Ransom, who had been in Moab the last time I’d seen them.

I rushed forward and scanned over their shoulders for any sign of Ash, but—Where was he?

“Ash,” I blurted, which was, in retrospect, incredibly rude. “Where’s Ash?”

“We were going to ask you the same thing, babe,” Juan informed me. “We figured he was the one who called Jade. We thought we were going to be his back-up…not the Calvary itself.”

I frowned deeply. It didn’t make any sense. If Jade got the word out to the Hell’s Ransom brothers as far as Utah…Ash would’ve
had
to have heard, wouldn’t he?

Unless…

I swallowed.

“Cantrell,” I said. “Alex Cantrell…from The Valiant. He—he kidnapped me to force Ash to turn himself in.”

Juan grimaced. “I know,” he said. “Dom told us.”

“You…you don’t think he would’ve actually done it, do you?”

“What, kill you? Absolutely. Without a second thought. He only kept you alive as his bargaining ch—” Juan cast a look at the older couple, said something to them in Spanish, and placed his hand onto the small of my back, guiding me forward. I gave my thanks to the Martinez family and was expelled into the night, harbored under a protective umbrella of motorcycle men.

“I meant,” I hissed, climbing naturally onto the back of Juan’s cycle as I spoke, “do you think that Ash would actually turn himself in? For me?”

Juan shook his head and passed me a helmet. “Of course he would,” he said. “Why wouldn’t you think so?”

That was an interesting thing to say.

“Why
would
you think so?” I retorted. “Is turning oneself in to the FBI not considered a big deal for a Hell’s Ransom member?”

“Hm. You don’t imagine yourself to be worth it, I guess. But keep in mind,
bonita,
he was willing to turn his bike around and head back over to that road block at the state line. At least…that’s what it looked like to me. His hands were in the air, weren’t they?”

I pursed my lips, dredging up the traumatic memory.

…“All right, all right,” he said to Alex. He didn’t look back at me. I couldn’t see his face; but I had seen him raise his hands, palms up, into the air. “No reason to drag the girl into this. She didn’t do anything; she’s just my hostage.”

Alex slanted a critical and demeaning glance back at me, stranded alone on Ash’s cycle. “Sure she is,” he agreed sarcastically. “I think I’ll turn you both in, just the same, and let the feds decide…”

And, when the Utah chapter of Hell’s Ransom had rumbled up, showing their own guns, asking what the problem was, Alex had promised that it wasn’t over yet.

Why hadn’t we heeded the warning? Instead, Ash had been gregarious and flippant within minutes, victorious, dismissive. Would it be a mistake to feel that way again? What if it still wasn’t over? What if…what if it would never be over, until Ash was behind bars? Until I had died for him?

I shuddered and wrapped my arms around Juan’s torso, wishing ardently that he was someone else. Someone a little more whittled at the hips, a shade paler, and fifteen years younger, who smelled faintly of cigarettes, as if he was always looking to sneak one, but he was really, really trying to quit…

I sighed. “I guess you’re right,” I confessed. “Maybe—maybe he did turn himself in.”

And then, it would be over.

But, as Juan’s bike revved up and pulled off into the road, the thought filled me with even more dread than the thought of being chased by a vengeful madman for the rest of my life.

The thought of Ash not being there for it all.

The truth of the matter was—somehow, over the past few days, and states, and disasters, and triumphs—I’d rather die young with Ash than live a long, healthy life without him.

“Well,
bonita,
” Juan called back to me at the first red light we hit, “where you wanna go? Back to your place to pack up, and we can help you get out of here? Give you a nice little entourage of road warriors, itchin’ for a trip through Colorado? Or you wanna head over with us to Dom’s house, have a brew, and try to scratch out whatever the fuck happened to your boy?”

My boy.

It was like the first time I’d been presented with a cross-roads by Ash, just a few days ago.

…As I peered up at Ash’s shadowed face, the bubbling pot of my brain frothed over. Convicted of murder, but swears he’s innocent…has some female friend who “promised” to get him acquitted, says she has evidence in Juarez, but she’s wanted too… Needs an entire new identity before he can cross the border… Agent Harrison and Agent Carter, knocking on my door… Bill and Hope’s sour, judgmental faces as they peered over at him… The rescue shed where I’d sewn him up just like one of a hundred wounded animals in the past two years…

“You’ll never make it by yourself,” I had told him…

The decision was instant and natural, as if we were discussing whether or not to find my own hand…or my heart.

“Dom’s house,” I answered. “Let’s scratch out whatever the fuck.”

Juan winked and grinned. “That’s a good girl,” he said.