Texas Takedown (13 page)

“Just know that we're here for you, no matter what.” Rebecca nodded her understanding, but her eyebrow lifted so slightly that Samantha thought she might've imagined it.

She'd told the truth. Even though she felt like the biggest liar, she had to protect her father. He owed them an explanation. A piece of her couldn't think that he'd knowingly done anything illegal.

Samantha hated secrets.

If her father hadn't kept his, none of this would have been happening right now.

Oh, Daddy, what have you gotten us into?

“I better get back to the house,” Rebecca said, looking Samantha in the eye. “You gonna be okay?”

“Yeah. Thank you for dinner. And everything else.” Samantha hugged her friend.

For now, all that mattered was bringing her father home alive. Dylan and his daughter, too, for that matter. Samantha glanced at the clock. It was nine thirty. He'd been gone four hours and twenty-seven minutes.

Where was he?

“No problem. If you need anything, use the phone in here to call the house. It's just me and Brody, so one of us will answer.” Rebecca rose and started toward the door. She stopped short. “And be careful.”

“Of course I will.”

“Not just with what's going on. I'm talking about with Dylan.”

Had Rebecca picked up on the fact that Samantha had feelings for Dylan? Had she been
that
transparent?

“Don't worry. We're good. It's nice to have a friend who has your back,” she managed to get out, hoping the emphasis on friendship would throw Rebecca off the trail. Samantha wasn't sure why she wanted to keep her feelings for Dylan private, but she knew that telling everyone wouldn't change the fact that a relationship between them wasn't going to happen.

Samantha sat quietly for a long while after the door closed. She tried to get food down, remembering what Dylan had said about how important it was to keep nourished. It was no use. She couldn't manage more than a couple of bites.

She'd been pacing for a solid hour when she decided to venture outside, knowing full well she'd face his wrath if he caught her.

It didn't matter. The thought of him lying in a ditch somewhere, bleeding out, spurred her to make the decision. She'd deal with the consequences of her actions when she had to.

Chapter Twelve

Dylan was sure he'd been hit by a semi. That was the only logical explanation for the degree to which his head pounded, other than Bearded, of course, who'd gone to town with the butt of his gun on Dylan's face.
That's gonna leave a mark.

He had to be amused. He'd had no plans to fight back. All he'd done was protect his head and vital organs as best he could.

The toe of Bearded's boot could have done a lot of damage to Dylan's spleen or any number of other essential organs. And after Dylan had split the guy's nose, revenge was fresh on Bearded's mind.

Dylan wanted the guys to take him with them, hazarding it was his best chance to get answers or get closer to Maribel. He'd made a promise to himself that she'd sleep in her own bed before first light, and he had every intention of following through on that commitment. He didn't care how determined these guys seemed to be that this would go down another way.

There'd most likely be more beatings tonight. They'd want to try to scare him to find out if he knew where Samantha was hiding. And he'd act the part.

And then when he was ready to walk out the front door with his Maribel, he had every intention of doing just that, too.

Timing and discipline were two of Dylan's best virtues.

For now, he needed information, so he'd let the bad guys think they'd won. He'd played the role of the broken victim, needing to know more. His fear was that this operation was bigger than anyone had imagined. Texas was the perfect place to move “product.” And that meant innocent kids. His hands involuntarily fisted and he realized his nails were digging into his flesh. Not good to let them get at him emotionally.

Dylan needed to remain calm and cool, ready to play his part when they came back to teach him another “lesson.” And they would come back. But first he needed to survey his surroundings. They most likely wouldn't take him straight to the boss, whom he fully expected to be Charles Alcorn.

That would be a stupid move.

However, they might take him to a warehouse on the outskirts of town. He blinked his eyes open, squinting through the burn. He tried to move his arms, but they were bound behind his back at the wrists. Had they subdued him enough to throw him into something... A locked room? Maybe an office?

This was not the time to be thinking about the feel of Samantha's body against his, her silky skin or the lilac smell of her hair. He especially shouldn't be thinking about those intelligent dark eyes staring into his. Or the sexy way her lips parted for his.

Distractions had no business on a mission.

Footsteps echoed from down the hall.

Dylan wiggled around on his side. He blinked to try to get his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

His legs were loosely bound and he was on top of some kind of wooden table. He rolled onto his back, ignoring the piercing pain screaming between his shoulder blades, and looked up. A single bulb hung from a socket. There were plastic-looking panels on the ceiling. When it was light outside, sun would stream through the half wall of windows. How many hours had he been knocked out?

There was one thing this place would be good for.
Torture.

Dylan thought about all the scenarios that could possibly go down. He visualized his movements in each, prepping for the very real possibility he'd be fighting all three men or more.

He wanted time to investigate the building, figure out if this was a holding cell for their product. He hadn't heard a noise in the few minutes he'd been conscious, and that led him to believe he might be the only one there.

As he tried to finagle his arms free, something stirred down the hall. He stopped and listened carefully.

The sound moving toward him was boot on concrete. It would be Bearded or one of the other guys. Maybe all three.

Dylan's senses were dulled by the ache splitting his head into two pieces. Damn. If only he had time, he'd be more than happy to return the favor to Bearded. A few punches in the gut should do the trick. It wasn't as though the guys were in shape. Dylan was almost embarrassed about letting the guys get the drop on him. Their skills weren't exactly what he was used to coming up against in the military. But then, that had played to his advantage, so he'd swallowed his pride and let them think they had him.

Getting Maribel back was the goal.

That was the only thing that mattered.

He imagined gently placing his sleepy girl into her bed, tucking her under the covers and retreating to the corner to watch her sleep. When he got her back, he had no plans to let her out of his sight again.

The metal door creaked and groaned as it opened. No doubt whoever was there intended to torture Dylan. He could only wonder what they would use. Waterboarding? Nah. That was probably too sophisticated for these small-time criminals.

The ceiling was high, but they could still manage to throw a rope around the exposed beam and tie him up, beat him with a pipe or other metal object, use pliers to pull his fingernails or use wire cutters on him. They could shoot his feet so he couldn't try to run, blindfold him and perform the ever-popular mock execution. That generally got the blood pumping.

Either way, they wouldn't be able to get him to tell them where Samantha was hiding.

“Sit up.” The deep-boom voice belonged to Bearded.

“I'm a little tied up at the moment.” Dylan quirked a smile as he raised his head.

His smart-alecky retort was rewarded with a punch to his face. His head popped back but he kept on smirking.

“That all you got?” Dylan turned his head to the side and spit blood. All he needed to do was keep them off balance just a little. Have them thinking about how much they hated him rather than wondering why he'd give up so easily in the first place. He moved his jaw from side to side, his hands still bound behind his back as he tried to work the bindings. He wasn't getting anywhere on freeing himself. Rolling to the side earlier, he'd realized that they'd taken his cell. That was a bugger.

Bearded reared his balled fist back to take another swing, but one of the other guys grabbed him at the elbow.

“Save it for later. He's just being a jerk. We've been told what to do with him.”

That sounded ominous.

The other guy who had been silently standing near Bearded had moved behind Dylan.

What the heck was he up to?

Dylan coiled into a tight ball to protect his organs. There wasn't much he could do about his head being exposed. But he could salvage other important things. He hadn't been able to work the binding—what he figured was duct tape—around his wrists enough to free himself. With his knees at his chin, he could buck and take out at least one of them, maybe two.

As he waited for the right moment to strike, he was suddenly hauled up to a sitting position from behind. Something was shoved over his head, plunging him into complete blackness again. A canvas bag? The next thing he knew, there was pressure against his larynx. He could feel anxiety tightening inside his chest.
Count backward from ten...nine...eight...seven...
The object pressed harder against his throat...
Six...five...four...
A few more seconds and he'd be fine...
Three...two...one.
There—his pulse returned to normal. The military had taught Dylan to adjust his body's response to stress. He took in a deep breath. The pressure around his neck eased. Whatever they'd used was too soft and too thick to be a cord. He was most likely dealing with a rope of some sort. And that was about the best news he'd gotten so far. He continued working his hands against the tape, trying to break free.

Still no luck there.

The next thing he knew, he was being pushed off the table and onto his feet. His knees buckled. Hands on his elbows righted him and kept him upright. With a bag over his head and his arms bound behind his back, he immediately thought that he was being prepared for execution. Nothing Dylan hadn't been exposed to before. Dylan walked through the scenario in his mind to prep himself for it. They'd most likely take him out to the field and then force him onto his knees. There'd be bright lights in his face once the bag came off again, loud cursing and threats.

His adrenaline spiked thinking about it. Good. He'd rather have that happen now while he was being forced to walk than once the bag was off. They'd probably get in a few more jabs, especially if Bearded had anything to say about it.

He pictured himself being calm, watching for an opportunity to fight back. If any one of them got too close with a gun, Dylan could disarm the guy in two seconds flat. If there were still only three of them, the odds were decent that he'd be able to take them down.

Without the free use of his arms and hands, that would be tricky but not impossible. He tried to move his hands again. Nothing. His wrists were wrapped up too tightly.

Most likely, this was all a big bluff. Dylan had to consider every possibility. He had to prepare for the scenario that they were actually going to execute him, as well. He thought about why they'd shoot, and his muscles coiled as anger burned through him. They would have to have Samantha. That would be the only reason they no longer needed him. Plus, since he'd seen their faces, they'd have no choice but to do away with him. He'd committed all three to memory. Bearded was the tallest and scruffiest. The other two looked as though they could be brothers. There was only an inch of height difference between them. Both had bright red hair and blue eyes. Bright Guy One had tattoo arm sleeves and his theme seemed musical. There were staffs filled with notes running up his right forearm. On his left were instruments linked together. The other Bright Guy had a snake eating a bird while wrapped around a tree.

Dylan could identify all three men and testify against each one. If a smart prosecutor did enough digging, it couldn't be that difficult to tie them to their boss.

So, basically, whatever was about to happen wasn't looking good for Dylan. He needed to think his way out of this situation. Based on the grip they had on his arms and the fact that no one had said anything yet, he didn't figure these guys would be much on conversation.

With one on either side of him, flanking him, he guessed the third was walking behind and had his gun pointed at Dylan's head. If that man happened to be Bearded, then he wouldn't need much encouragement to pull the trigger.

But they'd said they had orders.
Great.

He'd given up on the chance that he'd be taken to the guy in charge.

A door opened and then shut behind them.

The ground underneath his shoes was forgiving, which told him that he was no longer walking on concrete. So they'd taken him outside and not into another room. Okay, this was bad, but Dylan had been in precarious situations before and managed to get out alive.

“On your knees,” one of the guys shouted. “Where is she?”

Yeah, this was about to be a picnic for four.

Dylan shrugged.

“Boss just wants to have a conversation with her.”

“He ever hear of a cell phone?” Dylan shot back.

Any second now they'd be jerking off his head covering and then he'd be blinking his eyes to adjust to the bright light. Guns would be pointed at him, so he needed to ready himself for that.

Since they hadn't shot him already, he held on to the hope that Samantha was still at the barn and didn't answer.

He didn't want to think about how much he missed her. Or the fact that he couldn't get her out of his thoughts. Maribel was already his kryptonite, so he didn't want to have to worry about another human being. Bel was enough to think about.

Dylan tensed and relaxed, trying to get his muscles to stop from knotting up on him. His arms were already cramping. Even if he could get the bindings off, he doubted it would do any good. Then again, adrenaline did funny things to the body. And just thinking about Samantha's and Maribel's safety had his pumping.

“You think you're funny?” The toe of a boot nailed Dylan in the ribs.

“I'm a freakin' comedian.”

“I bet she's gone. He doesn't know anything,” one of the men said.

Ready for the bag to be pulled off, he tensed when hands gripped his biceps and he was hauled up and then tossed onto hard metal. A latch clicked, like a gate.

The sound of doors opening and then closing came next. Car? Truck?

He couldn't be sure until the engine roared to life. Then he was certain that he was in the back of a Bright Guy's truck.

Excitement trilled through Dylan's body. There were two scenarios possible here. Either he was being taken out of town for a body drop or he was going to meet the guy in charge. He kept working the bindings against his wrists, trying to get a little wiggle room.

Nothing was happening there.

Dang. Whatever material they'd used was unyielding. It was wide, covering at least three inches of his wrists. It was sticky, so his earlier assumption that it was duct tape was probably spot-on.

So far, the roads were bumpy. The truck had kicked up dust, so the warehouse he'd been taken to had to be on the outskirts of town.

Dylan made mental notes about everything he remembered. Didn't help that his head was still splitting from one helluva headache. Everything might be riding on what he thought, heard or felt.

So he shoved his pain to the back burner and listened. They were traveling fast down the rutty road. Air cooled his skin. Even though it was the hot part of summer—eighty degrees when he went to bed, eighty degrees when he woke the next morning—the draft was nice.

He counted in order to track how long they'd been driving.

By the time they stopped, they'd been on the road at least thirty-five minutes. The roads had smoothed and then gotten bumpy again.

They could've been anywhere. He hadn't heard anything to distinguish the area they were taking him to. No noises typical of a city at night either, so they must've stuck with the country.