Chosen Prey (5 page)

He ordered the dogs to stay, then took Lyra to a shelter that housed his vehicles. He had a whole range of work trucks, an SUV, and one empty stall where the truck he'd driven to her house belonged. The assholes had slashed the tires. He'd have to have his foreman and one of his ranch hands take care of it when they returned Manny's car.

The night was cool as they strode across the hard-packed earth to the SUV. Even though his strides weren't hurried, he noticed Lyra had to double her steps to keep up with him.

The SUV was night black with dark tinted windows. A midsize model that he'd had specially equipped. Everything in it was high-tech, including the GPS.

Dare threw his duffle into the backseat, then held the passenger door open for her. "Get in."

She tossed her backpack onto the backseat beside his duffle, then buckled her seat belt as he shut the door with a solid thunk.

Dare strode to the driver's side door and, after removing his Stetson, swung his bulk into the seat and turned to set his black western hat on top of the leather bag in the backseat. He gave Lyra a long look before starting the vehicle. She appeared so strong yet vulnerable all in one.

He started the vehicle, then headed down the dusty road from his ranch. They reached the two-lane paved road and Dare swung the SUV onto it, heading north. Earlier they'd driven from the opposite direction. He glanced in his rearview mirror before looking back to the road ahead of him. No headlights behind, just pure darkness.

His own headlights flowed over mesquite and dry grass lining the road. A few red and white Hereford cattle grazed on the opposite side of a barbed-wire fence, their eyes glowing red in the lights of the SUV.

"No one's following us." Lyra had been looking over her shoulder. She turned back around and let out an audible sigh of relief before her words came out sharp and bitter.

"For now."

Neal paced the length of his large quarters and ground his teeth. He couldn't let his emotions get the better of him. Adam had just called again to say they couldn't find the PI's home. They'd only met a couple of people who knew him and said he lived on some kind of ranch, but they didn't know where it was in the valley. According to Adam, the valley was massive and it would be hell to track down one person's home or ranch.

Neal growled, then sucked in a deep breath. Scents of sandalwood and patchouli incense mingled with the smell of the vanilla candles burning at the small altar at one corner of his room. He released his breath and he moved toward the altar.

As he knelt before it, he bowed his head. "Forgiveness, Jericho, Lord of the Prophets, for my anger." A water glass always stood ready beside the pitcher next to the altar. He filled it and swallowed a hit of LSD, also known as Sacrament.

While he waited for the drug to bring him to his meditative state, he reached for the vessel of the Prophets and a baggie of what further helped him communicate with Jericho.

Marijuana, in its purest and most potent form.

Once Neal had filled a bong half-full with water from the small pitcher, he tamped the dry leaves into its quarter-sized bowl and lit it. He brought the water pipe to his mouth and inhaled. Smoke filled his lungs, burned his throat, and he tasted the bittersweet taste of the weed on his tongue.

After holding the smoke as long as he could, he exhaled. A white stream poured through his lips and the scent of the leaf grew stronger in his room. He sucked on the bong again, then twice more.

He set the bong aside and sat back on his haunches, his hands folded in reverence for the Light. His muscles relaxed and his mind drifted to where Jericho would grant a vision to him, as he always had.

The First Prophet Jericho had been Neal's father's father. As Jericho had been fond of explaining, he had brought The People together when free love reigned and minds opened, allowing all who joined the commune to recognize the will of the Light. Jericho had taken multiple wives and fathered nearly thirty children, but his eldest son, Abraham, had been unworthy of succeeding his father. Jericho himself had taught Neal the way of the Light instead of teaching Abraham.

Jericho had passed on to the Light itself but still guided Neal through meditations and had instructed him on what his next step should be. Neal's father, Abraham, died not long after, during his own meditations.

Neal smiled. The strength of strychnine he'd laced the pot and the LSD with had been more than enough to rid The People of his incapable father.

The responsibilities of guiding The People had fallen to Neal. He above anyone should rightly be Prophet over all within his control and those who soon would be.

Colors began flashing in his mind as the present came into view and the room swirled around him. He had reached his meditative state.

It took only moments before he saw a younger version of Lyra—the first time he had laid eyes upon her. He'd been recruiting new sheep for his fold and had met Lyra and her mother, Sara, at a Portland arts festival during one of his many magnificent sermons in an amphitheater. He had spoken with Sara afterward, but it was the beautiful Lyra who had captured his attention.

The almost-fifteen-year-old girl's brilliant green gaze had held a spark that attracted him at once. That very night he had used the tools of the Prophets and foreseen Lyra as his new First Wife after she turned eighteen.

He hadn't understood Jericho's orders that Neal wait until she reached that age, but he never questioned the will of the High Prophet.

More important, Jericho told Neal that Lyra would bear the new Messiah who would reach out to more people to gather them to the Temple of Light. The Messiah would help Neal save the world from its demons. When the new Messiah was of age, he would heal The People and spread the realm of the Light around the world.

It had been necessary to bring the girl to the Light. Immediately.

Of course it had taken some manipulation, but Neal had brought her and her mother into the fold.

For three years Lyra had lived in the commune, knowing one day she would serve the Light and The People as Neal's new First Wife. He'd had his other wives train Lyra in her responsibilities, instruct her in what would be expected of her as wife and servant to the Prophet. Neal had taken a firm hand in her training as well.

But she had vanished when she turned eighteen, mere days before he would have joined with her. "Escape" wasn't the right word for Lyra's disappearance. No one escaped the Light. The Light was always with them and protected the compound from potential intruders and protected The People from themselves.

But Lyra… Neal's body tensed as he remembered the day Lyra had… vanished. He'd been servicing one of his wives that evening and had followed with deep meditations when she left him to return to her tent. Hours later he went to Lyra's room to watch her sleep, perhaps to wake her and continue her education.

But she hadn't been in her bed.

At first he'd thought perhaps she had wandered to another part of the Temple, even though it was late. Yet within him he knew something was very wrong.

Within minutes he'd assembled a massive team of all the men in the commune. They'd searched every tent, every building, every square inch of the compound. It wasn't until Jeffrey returned with the dope that Neal determined where she'd gone. One of his tapestries from the Prayer Room was in the back of the truck with the drugs. And Lyra was gone.

Jeffrey had paid dearly.

More colors and light flashed through Neal's head as he meditated. The memories of that night and the days following swirled into nothingness as the present came to the forefront.

He saw Lyra as she must be now, five years later. A beautiful, mature woman ready to receive his semen and fulfill the Prophecy.

He saw everything so clearly. Lyra would come to him, not willingly, but she would come to him no less. He would join with her, then fuck her, filling her with his come. He would fuck her as many times as he had to until the new Messiah grew in her belly.

Neal smiled, feeling completely at peace. Lyra would come to him.

Soon.

Everything had begun to feel surreal to Lyra, especially as she sat next to a virtual stranger and approached the town of Tombstone. The twinkle of lights was fairly sparse in the surrounding desert.

Her thoughts raced. She had to find someone to check in on Mrs. Y and make sure she got everything she needed. And Dixie—someone had to make sure she had her cat food the next time she ran out. Lyra would have to call Becca, who was probably the only one she could count on right now. But it was late and Lyra didn't want to wake anyone up.

While they traveled from the ranch to Tombstone, Lyra and Dare ate the roast beef and cheese sandwiches he'd thrown together before they'd left. She was surprised she was actually hungry and ate a whole sandwich. He ate two. She downed a good-size bottle of water, and he did the same.

Dare drove the SUV slowly through the small tourist town that was barely a blip on the map. She'd never been to historic Allen Street, and now it didn't look like she'd ever get a chance.

Lyra felt like she could crawl right out of her skin, she was so jittery and jumpy at the thought of The People spotting them. She forced herself to breathe. She was in a different town—albeit a really, really small town—and they were just going to spend
one
night at a motel, under assumed names. In the morning she'd head out and hitchhike to Tucson, where she could catch a bus to just about anywhere.

Dare guided the SUV into the parking lot of a U-shaped gathering of bungalows where a big, glowing yellow sign proclaimed
Tombstone Getaway
.

After they parked, Dare put on his Stetson, took her by the hand, and led her into the tiny lobby of the motel. She was surprised her palm didn't really hurt when he grasped it.

Instead it tingled and she felt that strange connection with him that had her shaking her head. When they opened and closed the glass door of the lobby a bell jingled, startling Lyra.

An older man with a well-creased face, deeply tanned skin, large ears, and liver-spotted hands moved to the counter. "Lancaster," he said, before running his gaze over Lyra, then back to Dare.

He dug into his wallet and pulled out several bills. "Tonight it's Jameson." He handed the cash to the man, then stuffed the wallet into his pocket.

It was then that Lyra noticed Dare's gun tucked into the back of his waistband, against his black shirt. Jeez, why hadn't she noticed it earlier?

The man fished a brass key out from beneath the counter, then tossed the key to Dare.

"Casita two, Jameson."

Dare touched the brim of his Stetson and Lyra followed him into the night. The parking lot was softly lit only by the big yellow sign. He unlocked and opened one door of the SUV and handed Lyra her backpack, which she hitched over one shoulder. He grabbed his duffle, shut the door, and locked it. The vehicle didn't chirp when he locked it—no doubt as a PI he wouldn't want to announce himself in any way. He took her by the hand and headed toward the casita that had a worn brass number 2 nailed to it.

"Wait." She brought them to a stop. "You got one room."

He gave her an impatient look before continuing to draw her along with him. "I'm not letting you out of my sight, honey. For one thing, I intend to guard you, and two, I don't trust you not to run."

Lyra ground her teeth. The man was too intuitive and protective. "How much do I owe you for the room?"

"Nothing."

"I pay my way," she said. "I don't mooch."

"I'm paying, so get over it," he said with an angry expression that caused her to snap her mouth shut. "This mess is my fault, so it's the least I can do."

When Dare opened the casita the door swung open and he flipped on the lights. Lyra wrinkled her nose at the smell of old carpeting and stale cigarettes.

"There's only one bed." She looked from the queen-size bed to Dare. "Where are you sleeping?"

The corner of his mouth quirked into a smile. "You'd make me sleep on the floor?"

"Or in the tub." After all that had happened to them in the last six hours or so, she was surprised she could return his smile.

He reached up and caressed her cheek with his knuckles. "You have the most beautiful smile."

A deep thrill ran through Lyra's belly and she fought the urge to move closer to him, to let him embrace her like he had earlier. Instead she stepped back and he let his fingers slip down her face before he tossed his duffle onto a chair.

Her hands trembled as she turned her back on him and set her pack onto another straight-back chair beside the door. She was alone in a room with a freaking stranger! A stranger who made her feel something more than she should be feeling right now.

With a huff of air that caused her bangs to flutter at her forehead, she unfastened and raised the flap of her canvas backpack and tried to ignore her awareness of the man. It had to be a reaction caused by the day's events.

She jerked a T-shirt out and turned to find Dare with no shirt on, his Stetson, boots, and belt tossed onto the chair with his duffle, and the top button of his Wranglers undone.

Her gaze moved up from his waistband to his well-muscled chest. He had a large scar on his right shoulder. She could just imagine how it would feel to run her palms over his smooth, tanned skin as she kissed that scar. She'd move her fingers up higher to his neck and into his dark hair—

Her eyes met Dare's and her heart beat faster. She bit her lower lip and clenched her T-shirt in her hands. He raised his hand and slipped his fingers into his hair, ruffling it in a way that made him look even sexier.

She cleared her throat. "I think you'd better sleep in the bathtub."

Sirens screamed.

Too far away!

Dare rounded one side of the warehouse while his partner crouched behind the open door on the driver's side of the cruiser.

"Get your ass over here, Lancaster," Franklin said just low enough that only Dare could have heard.

He and Franklin had responded to a simple trespassing call at an old building on the south side of Tucson and had come upon what looked like a serious drug deal. The moment they'd realized what was going down, Franklin called for backup.

They'd managed to keep from being seen and eased away from the doorway to the building. Franklin made it back to the cruiser before Dare.

"Cops!" came a shout from inside the warehouse.

"Shit," Dare said under his breath.

He heard a shot behind him. He swung around into a crouch, his arms straight out, gripping his Glock with both hands.

At the same time he recognized two facts: Franklin was lying facedown in a pool of blood, and a man was swinging his aim from Franklin to Dare.

Without a moment's hesitation, Dare shot the bastard in the heart.

The man dropped.

Dare shouted into his shoulder radio, "Officer down! Officer down!"

Keeping low, he bolted toward Franklin. Adrenaline pumped through Dare's body and he dived for the cruiser.

Shots whizzed over his head.

Before he reached Franklin, something slammed into Dare's shoulder with enough power to knock him flat on his back.

Excruciating pain tore through him, almost blinding him.

Despite the pain, he held his arm close to his chest and managed to scoot behind the cruiser's door, beside Franklin.

The screeching of tires coming to a halt on the asphalt, the earsplitting wail of sirens, and the shouts of men and women officers told him the cavalry had arrived.

But as he looked down at his partner, the hole in Franklin's head and the man's blank stare told Dare it was too late.

Dare opened his eyes to find his body covered in sweat. He brought his right hand up to rub his left shoulder. The pain radiating through his old wound made it feel as if it had happened yesterday rather than seven years ago. His disorientation cleared almost immediately, but the recurring nightmare lingered on.

He'd slept on the floor by the bathroom in the bungalow he shared with Lyra. A cramp spasmed in his lower back and his head felt like it was going to split. Lyra had given him the bedspread and three of the four pillows, and he'd found another blanket in the closet.

That had done nothing to make the floor in the least bit comfortable. Not that he'd expected them to.

Still in his jeans, he rose. He tilted his head from side to side and the bones made a light popping sound as the movement relieved the crick in his neck. He ran his palm over his stubbled jaw. He felt like hell.

Dare turned to look at the empty bed. All that was on it was a couple of twenty-dollar bills.

I pay my way
, echoed in his head.

Lyra wasn't anywhere in the small room.

Her backpack was gone.

"Fuck!" He nearly slammed his fist against the wall, just bringing his knuckles short of the painted bricks.

Instead, he strode across the room and jerked open the casita door. She hadn't quite closed it—probably to keep him from hearing her leave.

Of course she wasn't outside. Not where he could see her, anyway.

That Goddamn nightmare. It had been so intense he hadn't heard the slightest sound she'd made, which wasn't like him.

In moments he'd pulled on a T-shirt, slipped his belt through the loops, yanked on his boots, slid his Glock into the back of his waistband, and shoved his Stetson on his head.

He ignored the cash and stuffed everything else into his duffle, grabbed his SUV keys along with the room key, and stormed out of the room.

Goddamnit. He had promised himself he would protect her. Not let anything happen to her. She was going to get herself killed like Franklin. And Dare couldn't stop it.

Something settled hard and deep in the pit of his gut. He'd failed again.

But he wasn't giving up until he knew for sure he couldn't find her.

After tossing the morning clerk the room key, Dare unlocked his vehicle and climbed in.

He fired it up, backed out of the parking lot, put it in first, and stopped at the entrance.

Lyra would probably be hitching a ride to Tucson, so he'd start out heading that way. If she wasn't on the road, still trying to hitchhike, he'd never find her.

Just before pulling out of the parking lot, he glanced at the convenience store catty-corner from the motel.

Lyra was climbing into the passenger seat of a beat-up blue compact car. Relief combined with frustration made his head ache even more. He had the brief inclination to charge across the street and block the car's exit, but he didn't know what Lyra's reaction would be, and the last thing he wanted was for someone to call the cops.

Dare narrowed his eyes as he waited for the car to slip into the nonexistent traffic.

Instead of taking a right and going toward St. David and Benson, which would lead her toward Tucson, the vehicle made a left, heading in the direction they had come from last night.

Dare clenched the steering wheel.

Was Lyra going back to Bisbee?

He scowled before the thought occurred to him that Lyra might be going to Sierra Vista, backtracking a little before heading to the largest town in the county. She just might have taken the first available ride and was counting on catching a bus or hitchhiking from S.V. to Tucson. No two ways about it, she had to find a ride, maybe even to El Paso or Phoenix.

Dare guided his SUV onto the small highway meandering through Tombstone, keeping back far enough that he hoped he wouldn't be noticed but could still keep the car in sight.

He had already memorized the car's license plate number.

Not much later, the car turned at the exit that would take them to Sierra Vista. There was no way Dare was going to lose them now.

It crossed his mind that Lyra could no doubt take care of herself and would make it cross-country without his help, while running from the cult.

But that gut feeling he'd had since meeting her wouldn't let go. On so many levels he felt the need to help this woman and keep her safe. Hell, he barely knew her. But he wanted to protect her while finding some way to get the bastards off her back—for good.

Lyra leaned her head back against the headrest of the passenger seat. "I can't thank you enough for giving me a ride."

The brunette shrugged a shoulder. "No problem. You don't look like a killer, and I can always use the company." She had large brown eyes and enough freckles on her face and arms for six people.

Lyra hoped she could trust this woman, too. She sighed at the word "trust" again and clenched the straps of her backpack. "It's just as hard to hitch a ride with a total stranger, too. In the past, I've caught rides with women. I especially don't trust men."

"Don't you have that right." The brunette tossed her a smile. "What's your name?"

"Janet," Lyra said without hesitation. She'd used that name when she'd hitchhiked fifteen hundred miles to Tucson from Sandy, Oregon. Once in Tucson she'd lived on the streets until she saved up enough money from selling her artwork to hitch rides to one of the smallest towns she could find to hide in, a place that was also an artists' community where she could sell her metalwork and live off the income.