HORSES AND HEROIN (Romantic Mystery) (35 page)

“She was driving her own truck? What was Joey driving?”

Garrett’s hesitation was palpable. “I’m not sure,” he finally said. “Joey stayed by the gate. She called him on her phone. You know he’s not welcome here. They’re probably halfway to Mexico by now.

“Hey, the vet called,” Garrett added. “I can pick Rex up this weekend.”

“That’s nice,” Scott said, but he knew Garrett’s tactics and wasn’t going to be diverted. “So Megan just packed up her bags, got in her truck and drove off? That’s the end of it? No police involvement?”

“Yes. Like I said, that’s it. Where are you now?”

Now it was Scott’s turn to hesitate. He’d never lied to Garrett in his life, but his instincts were screaming. “About three hours from L.A.,” he said. “Is that a horse I hear? Are you in the cowshed?”

“Yeah. Let me step outside.” A horse neighed, more muffled now. It sounded like Garrett was walking, his voice slightly breathless. “We’re loading the horses for the Baja Tinda.”

“You taking them down yourself?” Scott asked, already loping toward his car.

“No, Ramon does that.”

“Must be a lot of paperwork,” Scott said, quietly easing his car door shut. “Crossing the border with animals.”

“Not with racehorses. They have their papers and health certificates. And the officials know us so we’re fast tracked.” Garrett sounded smug now. “They like what we’re doing. Supplying horses, training their students. It’s good for both sides.”

Someone spoke in the background. “Gotta go. I’ll call you next week.” Garrett said. “Thanks for the help down here, buddy.”

Then he was gone, and something sharp and sour spread in Scott’s chest. His hand was shaking when he called Megan. A happy voice, almost bizarre in the situation, invited him to leave a message. He pulled his Glock out from beneath the seat, laid it on his lap and called Snake.

***

“Damn.” Garrett strode back into the arena, his phone gripped in his hand. “They’re already here. Ramon, open those end doors and let them in. Miguel, put that last horse on the trailer.”

Miguel’s hand tightened around Megan’s hair, his touch sending creepy crawlers down her neck. “Get Ramon to load the horse,” Miguel said. “This
puta
has to fix the baler.”

“Megan, fix it. Now!” Garrett shoved his phone back in his pocket and wrung his hands. “Don’t you understand? I can’t help you anymore.”

Thud
.

She cringed as Ramon dropped the bar securing the far end doors. Seconds later, a blue Monte Carlo with two Hispanic men cruised into the arena. The driver lowered the window, his eyes flat. He said something in Spanish to Miguel, then frowned at the reply. When he scowled, the scar by his mouth distorted his cheek. He did a careful unhurried sweep of the arena before opening his door and stepping out.

Her breath turned shallow. Came in gasps.

Garrett abruptly moved. Something hard pressed against her head. Oh, God.

“Fix it, Megan.” His voice was urgent, and the way his hand shook scared her almost as much as the gun. “They do the wet work. And enjoy it. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

“Too fucking late,” Miguel snarled. He yanked her up and pushed her against the car. Her knee slammed into the fender, but she was too paralyzed with fear to feel any pain. If he hadn’t been holding her arm, she would have fallen.

The man from the passenger’s side didn’t even look at her—just opened the trunk and began removing neat bundles of money—but the man with the scar reached into the trunk, past a selection of guns, and picked up a black-handled knife. The anticipatory gleam in his eyes turned her legs boneless. Miguel gripped her hair and yanked her head back.

“My friend says a string won’t tie.” Scarface spoke in clipped and perfect English. “I don’t like it when the bales aren’t tight.”

The knife loomed closer. She squeaked, jerking away, but the cold blade flattened against her neck. For a terrifying moment, she stopped breathing.

The man glanced over her head at Garrett, his eyes flat. “This is the second time we’ve had a problem here.”

“I could have made her cooperate.” Miguel’s voice rasped in her ear. He yanked her head further back. “But
he
wouldn’t let me.”

Scarface’s gaze shifted to Miguel. “Your father wants you to keep your nose clean this side of the border.” The knife skimmed along her neck. She wanted to tell him she’d gladly fix the baler but her mouth was so dry, she could only whimper.

“But I want to do this one.” Miguel squeezed her breast. She jerked. The knife sliced into her skin and she immediately stilled. No pain, only warm liquid on her neck.

“P-please…I’ll fix it,” she squeaked but Miguel was talking and Garrett was protesting and such nausea swept her, she thought she’d vomit.

Scarface waved a dismissive hand at Garrett who immediately silenced. He looked back at Miguel. “My son would like to be a jockey,” Scarface said. “Can you arrange that?”

“Of course,” Miguel said. “Your son will be accepted in the fall classes.”

Scarface stared at Miguel for a long moment. “All right.” He lowered his knife. “But gag her first. And don’t let her scratch your face. Fifteen minutes. No more.”

“
Gracias
,” Miguel said. His erection pressed into her and she could smell his pulsing eagerness.

“No, please—” But an oil-stained rag cut off her words. Someone roughly tied her wrists behind her back. Not Miguel because he was standing in front of her now, yanking down the zipper of her jeans. His rough hands reached between her legs.

He gave a coarse laugh. “Now I’ll show you how I can ride,
puta
—”

“Step back! Hands behind your head.”

She was released so quickly she dropped to the ground. Scott stepped through the end door, his face as grim as the gun in his hand. A relieved sob caught against the rag in her mouth.

But, God, he was alone. One man against five.

She tried not to move, willing them to do what he asked.
Please, just raise your hands.
But they had guns too, much bigger than his, and there were more guns in the trunk. Already Miguel edged toward them.

“Get your goddamn hands up!” Scott snapped.

Scarface showed no emotion. Then slowly, so slowly, he lifted his hands and flattened them over the back of his head. Garrett stared at Scott, his gun at his side, face ashen.

“You too, Garrett. Step away from the trunk, Miguel.” Scott’s voice was as menacing as Scarface’s, his face so ruthless it was almost unrecognizable. She would have put her hands in the air too if they hadn’t been tied.

Maybe it was going to be okay. Even though Scott was outnumbered, he looked supremely confident. Formidable. Her eyes darted from Scott to the five men standing by the car. And then she realized—there were only four.

She thrashed and yelled beneath the gag, trying to warn him. Jerked her head at the horse stalls, frantically rolling her eyes.

But it was too late.

Ramon stepped from the darkened aisle.
“Suelta el arma!”
he said. Sweat dripped down his forehead. His gun hand trembled.

“It’s over, Ramon.” Scott kept his gun trained on the four men in front of him. “Police are on their way.”

“Shoot the fucker,” Scarface yelled, his hand creeping to his side.

“No! I’ll take care of him.” Garrett stepped forward, raising his gun. “He’ll go quietly.”

Scott and Garrett’s gazes locked over their guns. They seemed to stare at each other forever. The arena was silent except for the ticking of the car engine.

Scarface cursed and grabbed for the gun in his waistband. Garrett abruptly twisted and shot at Ramon, and all around her the air exploded.

She gave a muffled squeal. But Scarface was down and motionless. So was his quiet partner. Movement flashed as Miguel snatched a gun from the trunk. She kicked at his legs but he shot over her head, the pop surprisingly quiet.

Whump
. Miguel jerked back with the sound. Red blossomed over his chest.

He slumped at an odd angle, one arm draped against the back tire of the car. A trickle of blood snaked from his mouth. His eyes met hers then bulged and lost focus.

She was sobbing and shivering and frantic. Ramon held his thigh and cursed. Everyone else was down except Scott who moved smoothly, taking Ramon’s gun and kicking everyone else’s away. He squeezed her shoulder, hard, then knelt beside Garrett.

“I always was a lousy shot,” Garrett said, so faint she could barely hear, even though he was only ten feet away.

“Just hang on,” Scott said. He pressed his hands over Garrett’s chest, but his fingers turned redder and redder.

Uniformed men swarmed through the doorways. A grim-eyed man with an earring helped her up, removed the rag and untied her hands. Someone draped a blanket over her shoulders and wiped her neck but she gagged and couldn’t stop shaking, and she was glad when they put her in a warm car.

“Better take her to the hospital first,” someone said through the window. The driver nodded, but she told them she wasn’t hurt and zipped up her jeans.

They drove to a police station. She waited in a bare room with very hard chairs. A nice lady with a calm voice brought her a coffee and asked lots of questions, and even though the coffee was black and strong, she drank three cups. She told them about Joey and the lady asked more questions and then she signed some papers and they moved her to another room with windows, and she was surprised to see it was already dark.

A man with a clipboard appeared and told her it was okay to leave. She only stared, not even sure where her truck was, and then a scowling man with a shaved head and a flaming viper tattoo strode in.

She tried not to cringe but he turned to her with a smile that transformed his face.

“I’m Snake,” he said. “Scott sent me. Your stuff is already in my car. Come on.”

She nodded but didn’t move. He took her hand and guided her to his black Hummer, and he was so big and the Hummer so solid, she fell asleep and stopped worrying.

When she woke, she was in her driveway and her truck was parked by her bungalow. Maybe jockey school had been a bad dream. But then she looked at Snake sitting patiently behind the wheel, gun in his lap, and she knew it was real.

“You should have a lawyer,” he said, his coffee eyes serious. “Scott hopes they won’t need your testimony and is working at getting you removed from the witness list but until then I’m going to be around.”

“Where is he?” She rubbed her eyes. Despite the coffee, she felt exhausted.

“At the hospital. With Garrett.”

“What about…everyone else?” Her mouth twisted with revulsion. It was impossible to say Miguel’s name.

“Two dead, three injured. One of the injured, Miguel Torres, is Hugo Torres’ son.” Snake’s wary eyes swept his mirrors. “We’re not sure what Torres’ reaction will be. We’d like to keep you out of it.”

She stared into the black night, too drained to be afraid. “But they killed my brother. I want to help.”

“Yeah. Guess I’d feel the same way.” He paused but she could feel his careful scrutiny. His voice lowered, so soft she could barely hear him. “And I understand now why Scott didn’t miss the office.”

He shoved the gun against the hollow of his back and clicked open the door. “Let’s get you inside. You’ve had a helluva day.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

“You’re not scaring her, are you?” Scott asked.

“No, boss,” Snake said. “She’s gutsy. Understands the situation. She went to visit her mother once but mainly stays inside, making jewelry.”

“So the house is secure?”

“She goes jogging in the morning.”

“But you’re with her?” Scott’s gut tightened with dread. “When she goes out?”

“Yeah, but it’s isolated here. Ramon is the one who needs to worry.”

“You still have to watch her.” Scott’s fingers tightened around his phone. Ramon had agreed to testify in exchange for a reduced sentence. He was the only one able to talk since Miguel had died on the way to the hospital, and Garrett…

He glanced at the unconscious man lying on the hospital bed. His throat thickened with a mixture of rage and regret. Goddammit. He’d entrusted Garrett with Megan. Yet, she’d been brutalized, almost murdered. He couldn’t say her name without feeling a crushing guilt.

Snake’s sigh sounded loud. “She doesn’t blame you.”

“Yeah, well, she should.” A pulse throbbed above Scott’s left eye and he paced the tiny hospital room. “I’ll be here awhile. Just watch her until this is sorted out. I’m sending you some help.”

“Maybe you should get your ass back here and take care of your woman yourself.”

“Not yet. There’s been infighting. The Baja Tinda cell is vulnerable. ”

“If Torres is on the way out, why am I sitting here watching Megan’s grass grow?”

“I have to make sure.” Scott dragged a hand over his jaw. “Can’t fail her again.”

“You didn’t fail her. And why the hell are you waiting on Garrett? You want to kill him when he wakes up?”

Scott studied the man in the bed, confused by his ambivalence. Garrett’s face looked unfamiliar, the beeping monitors the only sign of life. The bastard had set up Megan, then saved their lives. He wanted to throttle Garrett, thank him, then throttle him again.

Megan had wanted to keep their relationship and his investigation of Joey private. Despite that, he’d revealed it all to Garrett—with tragic repercussions. He’d mishandled everything. He was hell on women.

“I have to clean up some loose ends,” he muttered.

“You want me pass on any messages, you know, while you’re so busy down there?”

The disapproval in Snake’s voice was obvious, but Scott didn’t much approve of himself either.

“Just keep her safe,” he said, and cut the connection.

***

Megan angled the blue topaz over the thin silver wire and glanced up from her work board. A panel van pulled into the driveway. Snake materialized—for a big man, he moved quickly—and leaned over the van’s side window. The two men looked friendly and she relaxed, reaching for her pliers to secure the link.