Texas Takedown (6 page)

This whole situation sounded all her internal warning bells. She'd known this guy had meant business from the start.

Regret engulfed her.

Dylan shouldn't be there. He shouldn't be involved. His daughter shouldn't be scared and alone right now because of Samantha.

“Get up,” Dylan said harshly.

“What for?”

“We can't sit around here all day.”

“What exactly do you plan to do? We no longer have a car, remember?”

“Don't need one.”

“But—”

“If I had my way, you would stay right here until I could send someone for you. I doubt you'd let me get away with it. So you're either in or out, and I'm leaving. You have to decide if you're coming with me. Either way, I'll walk away with a clean conscience knowing I gave you the choice. Choose wrong and that's on your head, not mine.”

This was the Dylan she remembered, rough around the edges but real. He wasn't the type to go behind a person's back and exact revenge. If Dylan saw someone mistreating a puppy, a senior citizen or a kid, he'd walk straight up to them and tell them what he planned to do right before he punched them in the teeth. He'd even let them know which fist was coming. No cleaning the toilet with an offender's toothbrush while he was out of the house. Dylan would wash out the guy's mouth with soap. No apologies.

“Okay. I'm coming with you. At least tell me where we're going.”

“I'm going to find the bastard who kidnapped my daughter.” Dylan shouldered his duffel, turned and walked out the door.

Chapter Five

“I know what I said before but we should go to the police now.” Samantha followed Dylan out the door and onto the side street. He pulled a hat from his duffel and then tossed it back to her.

“No. I won't discuss your father with them.” He shook his head as if for emphasis.

His phone had been buzzing the entire time. Word must be spreading. Dylan would deal with that when he got home.

He called the sheriff and gave a statement.

“Call him back,” she pleaded. “I can tell them everything I know and that might help them find her.”

“Absolutely not.” He kept charging forward, setting a pace she could barely keep up with.

She jogged up to him and touched his shoulder. “I think—”

He spun around on her so fast she froze.

“As long as we find them first, I have a chance to get my daughter back unharmed. We make one wrong move and she's dead. The police have done nothing but make mistakes when it comes to anything connected to the Mason Ridge Abductor. I can't risk it with Maribel.”

If anything happened to Dylan's little girl...

Samantha couldn't allow herself to think about it. She had to be positive.

“Contact whoever took her. Tell them we'll trade me for your daughter. I'm the one they want. She's innocent and shouldn't be involved in any of this.”

“We do that and you're dead. I won't exchange one life for another no matter how desperate this situation seems. Besides, we don't know who's behind this or where they're keeping my daughter,” he said.

“There's one way we might be able to find out. You said you have a friend who can hack into any device?”

Dylan nodded. His lips were so thin they almost disappeared.

“Then, have him do whatever he needs to in order to get into my father's phone. He isn't calling me back and that's not good. There might be a clue in his log.”

“I already thought of that.” He dismissed her suggestion with a wave of his hand as he turned. “It won't work. My contact already tapped into your line. The caller went to great lengths to hide his identity. He's not stupid.”

There had to be some way to figure out who was behind this.

Dylan stopped. He surveyed the area, eyeing a motorcycle near the kitchen entrance to a restaurant. The metal-and-mesh screen door no doubt had been left open to let out heat from the ovens.

He motioned for Samantha to stay put, slipped inside and then returned a few minutes later with a helmet in hand. She had no idea how a man of his size could go unnoticed and was pretty certain the ability had been honed in his darker days. The idea of stealing didn't sit well with her, either.

“Get on.”

She slid the helmet over her head and buckled the strap. It was a little too big for her but she didn't figure this was the time to argue with Dylan about who should be the one to wear it. Besides, even she knew that her state didn't require a helmet. Texas figured if a man was dumb enough to ride a motorcycle without one, they'd like to thin the herd.

“Take a stolen motorcycle out on the road and we'll be in jail before dinner,” she said, tightening the strap.

“I bought it.”

“Someone sold you their motorcycle just like that?”

“I can be very convincing when I need to be.”

She had no doubt.

Dylan slid onto the seat in front of her. She leaned into him and wrapped her arms around his chest, remembering how frightened she'd been when he'd been shot earlier. Fear that had been all too familiar since this whole ordeal had begun. This past week had been the longest in her life, and the last thing she wanted to do was bring someone else into her problems. And yet having Dylan there brought a sense of calm to all this insanity.

The engine roared to life.

Dylan put his head down, shades on, and then weaved into the always heavy downtown Austin traffic.

Her body finally felt the weight of everything she'd been through in the past week. She didn't want to remember the last time she'd really slept, or had a decent meal, for that matter. She'd been surviving on power bars and water. The protein was enough to keep her going, and staying hydrated just seemed to make sense, but it was all robotic.

Lack of rest settled over her like a steel blanket, pressing down over already exhausted limbs.

* * *

B
Y
 
THE
 
TIME
 
Dylan pulled into town, it was dark. Samantha figured no one would expect them to roll in on a motorcycle. The ride had been long but, thankfully, without incident. Kramer, or whoever was behind this, would have expected them to take I-35, but Dylan had taken 190 to I-45 and come up as though from Houston instead of Austin. His plan had proved brilliant even though it had added time they both knew they didn't have.

She recognized the storage facility on the edge of town where he stashed the Honda 500 as being fairly close to his small ranch.

“We can walk it from here,” Dylan said, which were the first words that had passed between them in more than five hours. If he blamed her for Maribel's kidnapping, he didn't let on. His green eyes were sharper now, determined.

Her body ached from lack of sleep and little food. Even though her stomach growled, she couldn't imagine being able to hold down food. Not with what was at stake. Knowing a little girl's life—Dylan's little girl, at that—hung in the balance pretty much ensured Samantha couldn't have eaten or slept if she'd tried.

With the dark circles cradling Dylan's eyes, that was most likely all he could think about, too. Talking about how desperate the situation felt wouldn't change anything, wouldn't help matters. In fact, he needed a distraction.

“How far is your place?”

“About thirty minutes or so from here,” he said.

He knew this area like the back of his hand, so she would rely on his skills to get them there safely.

The half-hour hike wasn't bad even through burning thighs. Dylan's silence was far more unnerving. Having grown up with three brothers, she knew that a quiet man was not a good sign.

It was black as pitch outside with no sign of light.

She listened for the sound of Dylan's footsteps and stopped a little too late, running into his back.

His hand found hers for the rest of the walk.

She couldn't have seen a tree if it was right in front of her face. His phone light appeared every once in a while, guiding them through the night.

They pushed through trees and brush, eventually making their way to the edge of a clearing. This had to be his place. An outside light was on over his carport and there were two others lighting the front of the small ranch-style house.

“We'll slip in through the back,” he said. “Keep the lights off so we don't give anything away.”

Samantha kept close even though he'd released her hand. She missed his warmth as soon as they disconnected.

They crept in through the back door.

The outdoor light permeated the large windows in the living room. With open blinds, she could see well enough not to walk into furniture. A few children's books along with several toys were on the sofa. Most everything else had a place and the room was in order, reminding her that Dylan was ex-military.

The place was full of simple, comfortable-looking furniture. A few framed snapshots of Dylan and Maribel had been placed on the fireplace mantel. Others were on side tables.

“Make yourself at home,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Shower's down the hall. There's a night-light always on in there and that should provide enough light for you to see. Fresh linens are in the closet. You need something to wear?”

She didn't want to ask why he would have women's clothes available, but the idea of a shower was too good to pass up. “I could stand to clean up. Fresh clothes would be nice.”

“Go ahead. I'll put something on the counter.” He paused a beat. “I'm sorry about earlier. I got heated and I shouldn't have—”

“You don't have to apologize. Under the circumstances, I thought you were pretty restrained, actually.” She knew Dylan well enough to realize he wouldn't hurt her no matter how angry he was. Just like in high school, he needed space to think. The long drive home had most likely been what he'd needed to get his bearings again after the devastating news about Maribel.

“There's where you're wrong. I do have to say I'm sorry. I'm trying to be a better man since becoming a father.”

“I hear what you're saying, Dylan. But I know you. You always were a good person even when you got in trouble before. I never doubted you for a second.” She walked straight up to him, pressed up on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek.

He stood there for a second looking dumbfounded.

“Don't look so surprised. It's not as if I haven't known you since we were eleven years old.” With that, Samantha walked out of the room, down the hall and into the bathroom.

She slipped out of her road-weary clothes and into the warm water.

Looking around at the couple of rubber toys and the princess bubble-bath bottle, Samantha figured this had to be Maribel's bathroom. Icy tendrils closed and squeezed around Samantha's heart, and her knees buckled. She caught herself with a hand on the wall and then said a silent prayer that Maribel would return home safely, just as Shane had. Any other outcome was unthinkable.

The shower rejuvenated her stiff muscles. She toweled off and picked up the clothes on the sink, a pair of boxers and a T-shirt. Definitely not women's wear. Why did that fact spread a glimmer of light into her heavy heart?

She put on the clothes, cinching the waist of the boxer shorts with a butterfly hair clip she found in the drawer.

No matter what else happened, Samantha was determined to help get Maribel back.

By the time she emerged from the bathroom, smells from the other room said there was food working in the kitchen. Her stomach growled in spite of the fact she couldn't imagine eating under the circumstances. It was impossible to think about doing anything normal while Dylan's daughter was missing.

Samantha made her way into the kitchen.

Dylan turned as she stepped into the room, stopped and stared. Moonlight streamed in from the window, casting dark shadows across his face.

“What?” She glanced down at her outfit self-consciously.

“Feel better?” His voice was low, gravelly.

“Much. Why? Do I look okay?”

He nodded.

“Sit down.” He pointed toward the eat-in dining table and chairs.

“I'm not hungry.”

“Eat anyway.”

Giving short answers was another bad sign. Maybe she could get him to open up and talk a little bit. It had always helped when her brothers were angry.

One look at Dylan, at his almost savage expression, told her he'd tear apart an animal with his bare hands if it meant getting his daughter back.

“What is she like? Maribel?”

“A ball of energy. More like a three-feet-tall tornado.” A brief smile crossed his lips before he seemed to catch himself. “I don't want to talk about it right now.”

Okay. She'd have to try a different tack. “Have you given any thought to our next move?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

He pointed to the chair. “Sit.”

“Okay.” She did. So much for getting him to open up.

He walked over and set down a bowl of food and a fork in front of her.

“You know how to cook pasta?”

“It's Maribel's favorite. I learned.” He picked up Samantha's arm and held it out. “You're losing weight.”

That much was true, so she didn't argue.

“And you could barely hang on to me during the ride. I was afraid you'd fall off half the time.”

She was almost surprised he'd noticed. Her grip around his broad chest had broken a time or two, but she'd quickly recovered. “Yes.”

“So make the food in that bowl disappear,” came out on a grunt.

She doubted the old Dylan would've noticed any of those things. He'd been all bad boy and, in a word, self-absorbed. But then, he'd had a lot of reasons to be. Life hadn't been easy or kind. The new Dylan, the one with a softer side, tugged at her heart even more. He'd always been handsome in that rugged, edgy, not-sure-what-to-expect way. And he'd always been unbreakable. Seeing this side to him—his Achilles' heel being his little angel—speared Samantha through the chest.

Since the reformed Dylan seemed determined to stand over her until she got a few bites down, she did so for the sake of show. The food tasted as good as it smelled, so she managed a few more. And she didn't want to like the small smile he conceded at the corners of his mouth that didn't reach his eyes—eyes that were tormented and angry.

That he seemed genuinely concerned about her well-being made her unable to disappoint him. He'd been a good friend so far. He'd put himself on the line to help her and she'd treated him like the enemy early on.

“Since we're throwing out apologies and all, I'm not sure if I thanked you earlier,” she said, then forced down another bite.

“That's not an apology.”

“Thank you anyway,” she quipped.

He turned and walked to the counter near the sink, leaned his slender hip against the cabinet and scooped pasta into a second bowl. He stabbed the fork inside and then chewed the first bite. “If you're going to be strong enough to fight back, you need to eat.”

She blinked up at him. Right again. And even though she absolutely knew that he had to be dying inside, he was just this tower of strength on the outside. His eyes gave away his pain, and she figured he was allowing her to see it. If he wanted to, he could go blank so as not to give away his advantage.

“For the record, I don't want to eat, either,” he said, anger rolling off him in palpable waves, heating the room as he forced the fork into his dish again.