Abducted:Reconnaissance Team (Texas Rangers: Special Ops) (26 page)

“Get out of the way,” the agent ordered.

R.W. scooted around him and Masters slid closer to the door. “Jason,” he called in a loud whisper. No one answered. “Is there another way out of the house?” Masters’ demanded in a whisper.

“A back door off the kitchen and a sliding glass door off the den,” R.W. replied.

“We’re on the top of a damn mountain,” Masters muttered. “We go out there and we’ll be even bigger targets than we are in here. You have some place you can hide her in the house?”

“What—” Liz began. Her phone rang.

She grabbed the phone from her back pocket and looked at the screen. The word private blinked. Liz tapped the ignore button and stuffed the phone back into her pocket. Lightning flashed and she glimpsed Masters, gun held at shoulder level, barrel pointed skyward as he yanked his head back around the doorjamb.

Masters cursed. “Let’s get her to safety, then we’ll search the house.”

“What about Agent Braxton?” Liz said.

He hesitated. “You’re the priority.”

She discerned movement and, an instant later, the door clicked shut, then locked.

R.W. grasped her arm. “Here.” He thrust the flashlight into her hand. “Hold onto this.” He shifted and she realized he had one hand on the wall as he started forward in the darkness. After ten steps, they made a left turn and started upstairs. Agent Masters followed so close behind she could feel the heat from his body.

They reached the second floor and after half a dozen steps, R.W. stopped and shoved her against the wall.

“Here,” he whispered. The next instant, a door creaked before he said, “Come on.”

The agent grasped her shoulder and gently pushed. Liz felt her way along the wall and around the doorjamb into a room. A hand on her arm caused her to jump before she realized it was R.W.. He pulled her and Agent Masters forward, then opened another door and urged her inside.

“Keep the flashlight,” he said. “And this.” He groped her arm, then grasped her hand, lifted it, and wrapped her fingers around the cold steel of a gun. “You ever shot before?”

“What the hell are you doing?” Masters snapped.

“Giving her protection. You ever shot before, Liz?” R.W. repeated.

“Sure. My dad taught me, and I used to shoot with my husband.”

She felt as much as heard the slight pause, and ire rose to the surface. She knew what he was thinking but wasn’t going to correct the thoughts—or answer the questions.

“That’s the safety.” He placed her thumb on the switch. “It’s on. You see anyone other than us boys, you shoot first and ask questions later. You stay here until I come for you. I don’t come, you don’t move until the police show up. Now burrow back behind those clothes.” He eased her back until her shoulders came into contact with hanging clothes.

Liz wanted to do anything except hide, but knew she couldn’t endanger these men’s lives like she had Ben’s when she stumbled into his investigation.

Ben turned the sharp curve on the mountain road, then slowed when the silhouette of the darkened house came into view a hundred feet ahead. Lights had shone in the houses on the hill as he’d driven up. Had the storm knocked out the electricity in seconds it’d taken to navigate the turn? Lightning flashed and he glimpsed a car parked in front of the house—and the open driver’s side door. He cut off his headlights and slowed. Rain pelted the car with thick drops that made it almost impossible to see even with the wipers on full blast.

He pulled the SUV over and switched off the engine. He couldn’t distinguish the car in the rain and dark, but he hadn’t recognized it during the lightning flash. Sanchez wasn’t likely to park out front. It had to be the FBI. They were dumb enough to be so obvious. But how had they found Liz?

Ben stuffed the phone in his back pocket, then grabbed the small flashlight stored in the glove box. He reached beneath the seat and found the Rugar hidden under the seat, then paused. They often kept a Bullpup in the back of all Ranger vehicles. Might he need the rifle? Lightning zig zagged in the distance and the sky brightened for an instant—and Ben decided on the Bullpup. He shoved the pistol into his waistband, then pulled up on the door handle. His shoulder protested with a sharp pain that lanced down his arm and back.   Ben gritted his teeth and slipped out of the car. Seconds later, he slung the rifle over his shoulder as thunder roared.

Rain slapped his face in stinging drops. He threw an arm in front of his face to shield his eyes and crept up the graveled driveway toward the abandoned car. Thunder rolled and Ben cursed another burst of lightning that lit the yard like daylight. He reached the car. No interior light burned. Like him, someone had turned it off. Definitely FBI. As expected, the car was deserted.

Lightning flashed again and Ben ducked down beside the car. Poised, he counted twelve seconds to the next clap of thunder then shoved into a run. A wave of dizziness slowed him as he neared the house and he veered left before righting himself. He reached the front porch and flattened himself against the wall near the door, breathing harder than he liked.

Carefully he grasped the doorknob and pressed down. Locked. That was better than a deserted car
and
an open door. He leaned his head against the wood paneling of the house and took a slow, deep breath in an effort to slow his heart. He pulled his phone from his back pocket and tried R.W.’s number. This time, the phone rang, but went to voicemail after three rings. The storm had to be interfering with the signal. He put the phone back in his pocket.

The only other entrances were the sliding glass door at the patio and the kitchen door. If they were both locked, he would break in, then beat R.W. for not answering his phone, then Hal for not carrying one.

He straightened from the side of the house and was forced to blink his surroundings into focus. Dammit, what was wrong with him? He hadn’t been this disoriented when he walked from the hospital or on the drive here. Ben checked an impulse to touch his wound to see if it was bleeding. Blood or rain, they’d both feel the same.  

The open car door bothered him. So did the fact that the house was deathly quiet.

* * *

Liz’s phone rang. She jumped, then pulled the phone from her back pocket and fumbled it. She scooped it off the floor. The word ‘private’ flashed on the screen. The jingle that identified his call hadn’t rung, but what if he had a different phone? With a shaky hand, she tapped the screen.

“Hello? Ben?” 

“I am sorry to disappoint you, Ms. Monahan.” 

Liz’s heart pounded wildly. Carlos Sanchez?

“Who is this?”

“I think you know who I am.”  

Panic made the darkness swirl around her. She scrambled backwards to the farthest corner of the closet and yanked her knees up to her chest. How had Carlos Sanchez gotten her number? What should she do? A clap of thunder caused her to jump.

“I understand there was a fire at your Dallas office,” he said. “I hope no one was hurt.” 

Liz began to shake. “You’re going to jail, Mr. Sanchez.” 

“And who is going to put me there, your friend Ranger Hunter? I do not fear dead men.” 

She started to say Ben wasn’t dead, he had called her only minutes ago, but stopped short. What if he’d killed Ben in the few minutes since she’d spoken with him? Tears burned the corners of her eyes.

“You will answer for the murder of the woman who died in the fire at the Remmeys’ home.” 

“There was a fire there as well?” he said. “I am sorry to hear that.” 

Dread wound in a cold thread through her. “How did you get this number? Why are you calling me?” 

“I believe you and I can come to an agreement that will benefit us both.” 

“I won’t agree to dying.”

He laughed. “I can kill you. However, I do not want to. But I must be sure you will not cause me any further trouble.”

What did he want? Liz didn’t believe for a moment he planned to let her live. “I just want to get on with my life.” 

“Then I suggest we meet and talk.” 

Her mind raced. Could she promise to meet the human traffics dealer and have the police there to apprehend him?

“How can I know you won’t kill me?” she said.

“Easy. I can, if I choose, kill you at any time. If you do not try to harm me, I will not hurt you. I simply needed Ranger Hunter was out of the way first.”

“Out of the way
?” she blurted, then checked her panic. “The Juarez District Attorney promised to keep him safe.”

“Senor Gomez cannot keep him safe in an El Paso hospital. He died there only minutes ago.”

Shock rolled over Liz. How did Sanchez know Ben was in the hospital? That was the plan, she forcibly reminded herself. He was supposed to know Ben was there. But Ben wasn’t at the hospital. That meant Sanchez was lying. He was trying to rattle her. He couldn’t have killed Ben in the short space of time since Ben had called—and Captain Medina said Ben wasn’t at the hospital. They didn’t know where he was. Did that mean—more thunder clapped.

“Why do you care if he is dead?” Sanchez said.  

“He’s a good man.” 

“Good men die every day. Men like R.W. Hunter.”

Liz went cold.

“Don’t do anything, Liz!” R.W.’s shout reverberated through the phone.

She heard a grunt and realized he’d been hit.

“Do you want to be responsible for another good man’s death?” Sanchez said.

Liz closed her eyes. “What do you want?”

“I want to talk with you, face to face.”

“When?” she asked.

“Why not now?”

Her heart thudded. “Where?”

“How about here?”

“What?”

The door swung open and a flashlight beam blinded her. Liz yanked up the gun and fired.

* * *

A single gunshot roared. For an instant, Ben told himself the sound had been thunder. Then he broke into a sprint through the rain alongside the house. With each jolt, pain radiated down his arm. Lightning brightened the sky as he reached the corner. He forced himself to stop and peer around the edge at the balcony. His heart thundered and the rain pounded so hard on him and the siding that it seemed his ears roared. He heard nothing, saw nothing. He took the three steps to the balcony and vaulted the stone wall, landing in a crouch.

Ben stared into the darkened room and discerned no movement. Still crouching, he scurried to the door, then tried pulling back the heavy glass. It didn’t give. Fear rammed through him, causing his heart to work overtime. Liz was inside. He had to get to her. Had to find out what was going on. Who had fired that shot? And where the hell were R.W. and Hal? He checked the desire—compulsion—to pull the Bullpup off his shoulder and shoot his way in.

“Use your head,” he muttered.

There had to be another way inside. Something that wouldn’t give away his presence. Then he remembered a window in the half bath off the hallway. The window overlooked this same side of the mountain.

Ben reached the wall in two strides. He wanted to jump this side of the balcony as he had the other, but couldn’t be sure where he would land. He swung one leg over, then the other, and dropped to the ground. Stinging rain caused him to grimace, but he crept forward in the dark, afraid to turn on the flashlight. He reached the place he estimated the window to be and reached up, feeling along the wood. His fingers contacted a screen.

Lightning flashed. Ben swung the Bullpup from his shoulder then poised the butt inches from the window and waited. When thunder boomed, he smashed the window. He barely heard the glass break and hoped no one inside heard. Carefully, he reached up, felt the window, found the screen, then yanked it free of the sill. Glass tumbled down on him. He turned his head aside, and a piece grazed his neck. He tossed the screen, then knocked the remaining glass free and onto the ground.

He hoisted himself up and forced back the pain that seared through his left shoulder where the bullet had passed through. Up and over, he dropped, twisting so that he landed on his right shoulder. He hit with a thud and the Bullpup clattered on the tile floor. Ben felt as if he’d been rammed with a bat to the solar plexus and lay, drawing in half a dozen deep breaths.

The pain subsided to a dull roar and his eyes adjusted enough that he could discern shadows in the room. Ben groped for the Bullpup and found it. He shoved to his feet, then crept to the door. Slowly, he turned the knob and eased the door open, then peered into the hallway. 

None of the shadows moved. The house was too quiet. There should be candles or hurricane lamps, even flashlight beams, something to show the occupants were alive. Fear rammed through him like a drug. It wasn’t possible that something had happened. No one knew Liz was here. R.W. and Hal were two of the toughest men he knew.

So was Carlos Sanchez.

* * *

Liz shoved to her feet and hurled herself past the fallen figure straight into what felt like a brick wall. One iron arm locked her in a bear hug while a large hand seized the gun and twisted. She cried out in pain and lost her grip. He ripped the gun from her grasps and clamped a hand over her mouth. Liz twisted and kicked while clawing at the hand covering her mouth. She screamed through the hand, but the pounding of the rain against the house swallowed the sound.

“Fuck,” snarled a familiar voice in her ear. “Keep up this shit and I’ll gut you
before
I fuck you.”

Fear froze Liz.
Sanchez’s American thug.

“You shot me, bitch,” another male voice said.

The man also spoke with an American accent, but she didn’t recognize the voice. A flashlight beam swept across the room and the man holding the flashlight stepped into view.

“She got my arm,” he growled.

He shifted and looked in her direction. Liz couldn’t discern his features in the dark. She lunged toward the door. The American’s grip slipped and she broke free.

“Dumb bitch,” he cursed.

Her hair suddenly yanked her hair and she twisted aside. The American seized her shoulders and drove her backwards. She hit the wall and he slammed into her, crushing the air from her lungs. Liz gasped for breath.

“I’ve been thinking about you.” He ground his groin against her.

Her stomach took a sickening turn.

“This time, I get to do anything to you I want,” he said. “All Sanchez wants is you alive.”

He fisted her blouse and yanked. Liz cried out as the top buttons ripped free. He grabbed a breast and she clawed at the hand that painfully kneaded the tender flesh. Her head spun. Where was R.W.? What about Agent Masters? A sob filled her throat. What about Hal? He must have heard the gunfire.

“Did you hear that?” the other man hissed.

The American stilled.

“Sounded like broken glass,” the other man whispered.

“You’re hearing things. It’s the rain.” The American crushed his mouth against Liz’s. She wrenched her head aside.

“Come on,” the other man said. “I don’t like this. Let’s go.” He shined the light on the American’s face.

The American cursed, but yanked her so close she could taste his breath. “Make a peep and I’ll beat you so hard even your own mother wouldn’t recognize you. Then I’ll kill your R.W. friend.”

Liz gave a small gasp.

“That’s right,” he said. “He’s alive. But only if you do what I say.”

The other man started for the door and he followed, dragging her alongside. Her heart raced. R.W. wasn’t dead? Where was he? With Sanchez. Sanchez had R.W. Why keep him alive, why not kill him? And what about Hal? No one had mentioned Hal.

The thug railroaded her out the door and down the hall to the stairs.  She stumbled on the stairs and he held her upright. They reached the first floor and started around the stairs toward the kitchen. Liz swallowed against a throat that felt like sandpaper. How many men did Carlos Sanchez have at the house? She wished Ben was there, then wished he wasn’t. He was far away, safe. Right? Tears pressed against her eyelids. She didn’t know if anyone was dead. Maybe—God, they couldn’t be dead.