Deborah Brown - Madison Westin 07 - Kidnapped in Paradise (17 page)

I thought for a moment. No chipper at the house or The Cottages, so pretty sure I wouldn’t find Jones there.

“Artie was a bastard,” she smiled. “Drop me off in Kenansville, my son
’s meeting us. It’
s a highway town just south of Orlando, slide right off the turnpike. It
’
s next to the wildlife area.” She cracked her knuckles, putting her hands behind her head.

Great-the middle of nowhere.
If I weren’t so unnerved, I might clap at getting rid of her sooner than expected. Her smile was creepier than Fab
’
s.

I peered over my shoulder in time to see her put my purse back on the floor as she picked up Fab
’
s leather tote. I motioned to Fab, pointing to the back seat. She looked in the rearview and jerked the wheel, pulling onto the shoulder. 

I jumped out, shoving my Glock in the waist band of my jean skirt, and threw open the back door.

“Get in the front or get out. Your choice. It
’
s rude to ransack our purses.”

She gave me a hatred-filled look, which swiftly changed to a blank stare.

Before getting back in the passenger seat, she stood and scanned the highway. I hoped she
’
d take off––I wouldn’t go after her.

I texted Brick the location where his client wanted to be dropped off and sent a message to Creole about the change of plans. I moved behind Fab in the back seat and didn’t take my eyes off the woman. It was a long, silent ride; I hoped I wouldn’t nod off. The good part about sitting behind Fab was that I couldn’t see while she drove the turnpike like a racecar driver.

Kenansville appeared on my phone as a faint dot on the map. It boasted being an old ghost town. A small ad popped up for a café, guaranteeing down-home cooking. 

“Next exit, there
’
s a gas station. Drop me off.” Ellie pointed up ahead.

Fab hadn’t come to a complete stop when the older woman jumped out.

“Thanks for the ride,” she yelled as she bounced across the street.

The truck stop, convenience store, and restaurant were located off the main two-lane highway with nothing but miles of trees in each direction.

“You better check your purse and see if anything is missing.” I climbed over the seat. I breathed a happy sigh. We were rid of her and feeling no guilt about dumping her in the boonies, since she’d asked. “I already made sure she didn’t lift our wallets or money. Let
’
s get gas and get out of here.”

“Should we really leave her here?” Fab asked looking up and down the highway.

An old beat-up pickup rolled noisily into the driveway, back fired, and came to a stop. Two scruffy-looking men wearing dirty t-shirts and shredded jeans, both seeming nervous, hung their heads out the window before jumping out of the truck. Ellie came out of the store and launched herself into one of their arms and then the other. She pointed to us and the trio came across the driveway.

“I wanted to say thank you and have you meet my sons.” Ellie pointed the two in our direction and stood between the twins.

Neither of them appeared to be very high on the IQ scale, if they even scored at all. They both mumbled, “Hullo,” in a sullen tone.

One stepped forward as if to shake hands with Fab, but instead brandished a gun, pointing it dead center to my chest.

“Get in,” he said, motioning me into the back seat of the SUV. “You,” he waved the gun at Fab, “get in the driver’s seat. Don’t do anything stupid, and I won’t shoot you two and leave you both for the animals to eat.” He grinned, a piece of tobacco stuck in his front tooth, obviously marking him as a chewer.

The other man took off in the truck, leaving a trail of black smoke in its wake.

With Fab forced behind the wheel and me in the back, Ellie slipped into the passenger seat with a smile. The gunman slid in next to me.

Chewer cocked his gun, tapping Fab on the shoulder, a reminder that he was ready to fire. “Drive out, nice and normal. No funny stuff.”

“What do you want?” I asked. “Let
’
s make a deal and part ways all friendly.”

He ignored me.

“Turn right.” He indicated a dirt road that weaved between a row of trees.

“Pull over.” He threw open the door and reached across the seat to drag me by my hair, pitching me to the ground. “Get up and start running,” he pointed deeper into the woods. “Report this to anyone, and you
’
ll never see your friend again. Cops come after us and I’ll shoot her. I have nothing to lose. I
’
m not going back to prison. Besides, a shootout will make me famous. I’ll get my mug on the six o
’
clock news.”

Fab stuck her head out the window and winked at me.

Just great, fun and games for her. I’m stuck in the wilderness.

He switched seats with his mother and climbed in next to Fab, with Ellie in the back. Fab pulled a U-turn and headed back to the main road in a cloud of dust. I covered my face until the dirt cleared, then turned and ran after them, although they
’
d already disappeared. I smiled as my fingers felt the cell phone in my back pocket, a smile that faded when I looked at the screen and couldn’t get a signal. Too many trees.

Why couldn’t Fab just shoot those two idiots dead?

I wouldn’t be walking down the highway by myself, not a car or truck in sight. I headed back in the direction of the truck stop. It couldn’t be more than a few miles. We hadn’t gone far before Dimwit had us turn off the road. I had no doubt that Fab would be victorious, but how long would it take? I couldn’t stand on the side of the road.

Once I got a hold of Creole, he could activate the GPS tracker. Hopefully Fab
hadn’t dismantled this one.  She did a good job making every unit looked like it malfunctioned.

I didn’t so much worry about Fab being with Dimwit and his mother. It worried me more that the son would do something stupid. When Fab got tired of the game, she
’
d figure a way to get them out of the SUV, and she
’
d be back to get me. 

Halfway between me and the truck stop sign up ahead, I reached an emergency road side box. I sent a silent thank you for the signal on my cell. Creole
’
s phone went to voicemail. I sent a 9-1-1 text to Creole and the same to Brick.

I tapped my foot impatiently. I hated waiting, but there was no way of knowing how far I would get up the road before I
’
d lose service again. I smiled at the sweet sound of my cell ringing.

“You okay?” Creole demanded.

I cut the retelling short, started with the meet and greet of the twins.

“I
’
m happy you
’
re okay,”
he sighed.
“Don’t worry about Fab; she
’
ll be back in one piece. They deserve whatever she dishes out.”

“I
’
m thinking I followed all of your rules today. There should be a reward or something.” I blushed, even though there was no one around.

He laughed, a deep rumble. “Go back to the truck stop. I’ll send someone for you. I
’
ve got a friend who lives out there, beard down to his belt buckle. Ask him what his favorite beverage is, and if he doesn’t say ‘moonshine’, don’t go anywhere with him. I’ll call you back.”

The phone rang again and this time it was Brick. It surprised me, as he usually went AWOL in these situations. I told him what happened, and he let loose an impressive string of profanity. This time, he didn’t disguise them by saying them in Spanish.

“I
’
m calling the cops and reporting the carjacking,” I told him. He didn’t need to know I
’
d done the next best thing––I called Creole. I waited for Brick
’
s reaction.

“No!” he barked. “I’ll get my brother on this and get her back in one piece.”

The elusive brother, who I
’
d met a time or two, was a commendation-winning detective for the Miami Police Department. To hear Brick tell it, his resume was impeccable.

“Be quick about it. I’ll do what I have to do to support Fab's claim of self-defense when she shows back up with two dead bodies. Those two imbeciles aren’t going to get out alive. Did you know your client probably wood chipped her husband?”

“They never proved that,” Brick said.

“If Fab comes back with so much as a scratch on her, I
’
m going to shoot you.” I hung up on him. I did briefly wonder what one did with wood chipped remains, but put it out of my mind.

I called Creole back, and he answered on the first ring.

“Hang in there; I
’
m sending someone to pick you up,” he said.

“Cancel that call. I
’
m not leaving the gas station until Fab shows up. Brick
’
s calling in the big guns, his brother Casio.” The sign was so close it spurred me to walk faster.

“Spoke with the boss; he put a call out to the local police. He asked that they be careful when pulling over the Hummer. The woman behind the wheel was more than capable of returning the duo in body bags with no harm to the public,” he joked.

I finally arrived at the truck stop and took a seat on a bus bench.

“Your bearded friend just rode up on his bicycle.” It was hard to tell his age with all the facial growth. He had a waist-length beard, a cigar hanging out of his mouth, and his silver hair pulled into a ponytail.

Now that’s a trick––smoking while riding a bicycle.

“Put him on,” Creole said.

He slammed on his brakes, resting the front tire of the bike against the bench in front of me.

“Hey, Red,” his lips quirked into a smirk.

I put my foot against his tire.

“Don’t bother getting off until you tell me your favorite beverage.” I lifted my skirt, showing my Glock.

He threw his head back and laughed.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not if you stay where you are and answer the question.”

“If I were younger, I
’
d drag your ass home and keep you naked for a week,” he winked.

“Stop stalling,” I fingered the handle of my gun.

“
Moonshine.
” He jumped off his bike and set the kick stand. “Happy now?”

“Here.” I held out my phone. “You
’
ve got a call.”

Judging by the one-sided conversation, I was certain Creole was extracting a promise to stay by my side. The man frowned briefly at the phone. Plans to go fishing were made, and they hung up. 

“
Name’
s Pinter. Family name, before you ask. Me and your boyfriend cooked up a plan. If your friend hasn’t shown up by dark, I
’
m taking you home.”

“On that?” I eyed his bicycle. No extra seat, not even a basket.

He sat down next to me and we stared down the highway, the occasional car going by.

“I
’
ve got a sweet 1960 Rambler at home, waiting for a road trip.” He patted my knee. “Don’t worry about your friend. Creole says she's as tough as they come.”

How is it that Pinter and Creole were good enough friends that the man would stage a bike rescue?

“You
’
re telling me your car still runs? I
’
m impressed.”

“Found it at a wrecking yard, one back in line from getting squashed. I got it for a song and restored it myself.”