Dirty Little Lies (23 page)

The guy who’d attacked her in the hall wasn’t the same sort of punk who’d ambushed them last night, but he was only a slight upgrade. She could smell hired muscle, and this jerk stank. But who had hired him? Did he work for Yizenia? Parker? Some third unknown party they still knew nothing about?

She hurried to the back door and caught sight of movement inside the barn. Her main firepower was in the car, so Marisela cut around to the front of the house. She sprinted across the yard only to find the Corvette door locked, and Frankie, wherever the hell he was, had the only key.

If she’d had her tools, she’d be inside by now. She could break in, but in the time it took for her to crack through the glass and retrieve her big guns, she could be ambushed. She’d have to improvise.

She promised Tracy a diversion, but thought better of it with no one visible in the front yard. The animals weren’t happy in the barn, however, giving Marisela a clue to where the real action was going down. She dashed around the house to the bathroom window, knocked vigorously so Tracy would leave, then cut across the yard until her back was pressed flat against the outside of the barn.

She anticipated that the sound of Tracy’s engine revving might bring the attackers out of hiding, so she waited while Tracy hopped into the cab, turned the ignition, and sent the truck flying backward in a cloud of gravel and dust. Just as she ground the pickup into drive, someone flew out of the barn. Marisela waited the split second to make sure it wasn’t Frankie, then she kicked the guy in the small of the back, sending him sprawling onto the dirt and gravel road.

“Move and I’ll blast your fucking head off,” she screamed, gun aimed and ready, though she had no intention of killing the man. This day wouldn’t end in more questions. She wanted answers.

He looked about ready to jump to his feet when the sun glinted off her weapon. He held up his hands. “Don’t shoot!”

“What? And ruin my fun?”

She cocked the hammer.

He froze like a popsicle.

“That’s more like it,” she said, her tone even. “Toss down your weapon.”

“I’m clean,” he insisted, hands high. “I swear!”

She arched a brow, but wasn’t going to chance patting the guy down. “You came here unarmed? That’s not too bright. Who are you?”

“Look, lady. We’re just here to make you stop.”

“Stop what? Picking berries? Where’s my partner?”

The man’s eyes widened. His lips twitched. “What partner?”

His gaze shifted suddenly and Marisela dove over him, certain she felt a presence behind her. By the time she rolled back to her feet, she saw her instincts were right. She fired, but the guy she’d vaulted over kicked the weapon out of her hand before she could make her mark, sending the LadySmith flying into the nearby grass.

Marisela’s mouth dried. Her fingers throbbed just enough to fill her with the rage she needed to take on these two
pendejos
and anyone else they might have lurking in the shadows.

She raised her hands, balanced her stance, ready to strike. When the guy on the ground started to stand, she kicked out, sending gravel and dirt into his eyes. He screamed, giving her a split second to charge his cohort, grab his shoulders, and in his surprise, yank his torso down as she kicked up with her knee. Bone connected with his chin and he stumbled back, dazed.

Marisela spun, hammer-fisted the jerk in the back of the neck, and sent him to the ground. She kicked him twice in the gut, retrieved her gun, and then ran into the barn.

As she dashed through the structure, she came up short when she heard a very human groan coming from the largest stall. She doubled back and caught Frankie half buried in the hay, only moments from being stomped by a very large, very angry horse.

Marisela yanked on the latch.

“It’s okay, um, horsie.” What was that animal’s name? “Shhh. Trust me, he doesn’t want to be in your space any more than you want him there.”

The beast snorted and stamped at the straw with his front hooves. Frankie was dazed, but coming to. Marisela fought with the latch until she won, threw open the door and with her hands stretched out in surrender, tried to soothe the animal with soft knickers and nonsense words.

She even tried Spanish. What the hell? Worked on Tracy.

The horse backed up.

“You okay?” she asked Frankie.

“Three…bastards…jumped me.”

But they hadn’t shot him, which had to mean something.

“Only three? You’re losing your touch.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Just give me a minute.”

“Mr. Ed doesn’t like you hanging in his crib.”

Frankie managed to lift himself as far as his knees. “Remind me to hurry your ass after you’ve been bashed on the head with a tire iron.”

Marisela watched behind her. The two guys hadn’t yet come back into the barn. Had they left? And what about the third guy she’d locked in the closet? Had he worked himself free yet?

“What do they want?” she asked.

“They didn’t stop to chat.”

“What, no threats? No deep-throated laughter as they explained their evil plot?”

“You and your
telenovelas
. I was talking to Brynn on the cell. Two came at me from the barn, one behind me with the iron. They knocked the crap out of me and tossed me in here. With the horse shit.”

Marisela took a sniff. “Not only am I driving the Vette on the way out of here, you’re riding on the roof?”

The horse’s anxiety spiked again. He charged forward, but Frankie was finally able to find his legs. “Where’s Tracy?” he asked.

“I got her out. Maybe we’ve missed something. What if Yizenia is out to hit everyone who was on that island that night? That puts Tracy in danger, too?”

Frankie shook his head, but Marisela couldn’t tell if it was from disagreement or from his futile attempts to regain his equilibrium. “So Tracy was there?”

Marisela didn’t have time to reply. Two men approached them from the tall, wide front entrance to the barn and the third man, likely released by his pals, came from the back, a crowbar clutched in his hands. The other two preferred rage as their weapons—and they looked like they knew how to use it.

Marisela had her gun, but Frankie forced his hand over hers, silently insisting she put away the weapon. Killing was a Titan option, but shooting was never the first choice—particularly since she and Frankie both had criminal records. They had to keep this clean if they could—and they needed information, not more dead bodies. Marisela shoved the LadySmith in the back of her jeans. These guys clearly didn’t want to kill them or they would have by now.

Frankie glanced upward and then turned toward the guys in the front. Marisela followed his quick gaze and caught sight of a collection of ropes, chains, and pulleys dangling above their heads. She could never jump that high. Not without help.

The men rushed forward. Frankie yelled, lunged to the side, and caught Marisela’s foot as she shoved it toward his hands. Frankie flung her high and she grabbed the looped chain and hoped to hell she didn’t crash to the ground for her trouble.

The chain held. Frankie latched onto her legs and gave her a swing so that by the time the big guy with the crowbar was inches away, her foot connected with his chin. Marisela twisted in the air, then gave him a swift kick on the way back. He crashed down, passed out cold.

That left two.

With a grunt, Marisela swung herself up onto the half-wall of the pig’s stall, reached down and grabbed the closest farm tool with the longest handle, which ended up being a four-pronged pitchfork. She shouted in triumph, which caught Frankie’s attention, giving her the chance to toss him the tool just as the guy with the gravel-cut face charged. The men struggled over the handle, and when his friend attempted to join in, Marisela dropped on top of him.

The man cursed as they struggled, but Marisela pressed hard against his throat before he flipped her off him.

“You fight like a girl,” she taunted, scrambling to her feet.

“I’m just getting warmed up,” he spat.

She shifted her weight, hands loose, eyes alert, feet balanced.

She didn’t have to wait long. The guy rushed her, but Marisela shifted and avoided his tackle. She struck out with the side of her fist and connected with his ear as he rushed by.

She turned to see Frankie pin his assailant to the barn wall with the handle of the pitchfork stretched tight across his neck. The choking sounds intermingled with the clucks, neighs, and bleats from the farm animals. Before she could intervene, she was attacked with a head-butt to her midsection. She curved her body as she fell, allowing the momentum of the blow to facilitate her kick into his stomach.

The air squeezed out of him, Frankie’s attacker fell to the ground, unconscious. Frankie tossed her the tool, and before Marisela’s assailant could get to his feet, she had the sharp prongs leveled across his chest.

“Stop! Wait!”

“For what?” She raised the fork an inch, clearly needing a little more space to make a clean slice through his skin, muscle, and bone.

“Boss told us to scare you off, not kill you.”

Frankie walked up behind her. “Could have fooled us,
muchacho
,” he groused. “Who sent you?”

“I don’t know!”

Frankie cursed. “Don’t you guys ever know who hired you?”

“He was just some guy. Paid us cash. We do jobs for him sometimes on the side.”

“You work for him regular and he has no name?” The man’s eyes darted from side to side.

She stabbed the pitchfork downward, pinching through his shirt.

“Wait! Please! I swear. The guy knows my boss, okay. He ordered us to follow you. Told us to keep you away from the girl, but we lost you on the highway.”

Marisela clucked her tongue. “I told you, Frankie, you drive like a maniac.”

“You knew where we were going,” Frankie said, ignoring her crack. “Why wait so long to grab us?”

“The girl was with you. The boss said to make sure you didn’t touch her. Told us to warn you to back off. To tell you to leave the past alone.”

Incensed, Marisela leaned forward just enough so that the guy was going to have four bloody indentations across his chest when he took off his oversized Tommy Hilfiger T-shirt. “You sure it wasn’t a woman who hired you?”

The man looked at her, confused. “A woman? No.”

“Then tell your boss that we don’t take orders from nameless, faceless creeps who can’t do their own dirty work. Now, get up! ¡
Rápido
!”

Marisela backed off just enough to give him room to move, and he winced, clutching his chest as he half crawled, half dragged himself in the direction Marisela indicated with the pitchfork. Frankie snagged the other guy, still unconscious, by the collar and lugged him toward an empty horse stall with walls straight to the ceiling. He tossed the guy inside and Marisela forced his friend to follow. Together, they pitched in the third man, still dazed and confused. Once they had them caged, Frankie clicked on a large padlock he’d found hanging on the wall.

They walked out into the sunshine. Marisela leaned against the barn and tried not to think about the aches and pains she was going to feel in the morning, while Frankie found the keys to the Vette and retrieved his cell phone, which had been buzzing incessantly. He answered, talked quickly, then returned to Marisela.

“Backup is on the way,” he informed her. “They left as soon as I lost my connection with Brynn.”

“Think those creeps are good for any more information?”

“Give me a minute,” he said, rubbing the tangerine-sized lump on the back of his head. “To catch my breath. We’ll find out what they know.”

“I’ve got to go get Tracy. She was terrified.”

Frankie pulled out a 9 mm from the storage compartment and tossed her the keys. “I’ve got these guys covered. Tracy tell you anything interesting before these
pendejos
crashed our party?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said, heading toward the car. “But she only just got started. She knows what happened to her sister. The trick now is to get her to tell me.”

* * *

Marisela was greeted by a three-hundred-pound, flannel-clad, former marine farmer with a twelve-gauge shotgun. After cruising up and down the dirt road that connected the farms in Natick, searching for Tracy, she’d finally spotted the tail end of Tracy’s truck tucked behind a rusted green tractor at the farm west of Tracy’s orchard. She’d pulled the Vette up to the main house and quickly exited, anxious for Tracy to provide the rest of the story about the night of Rebecca’s death. If Evan Cole hadn’t been there that night, why had he been killed? Why had Rebecca dragged her little sister and Bradley’s brother to that island in the middle of the night, and what exactly had Tracy seen there that had haunted her all these years? Had she seen her sister murdered?

So many questions swam through her brain that she decided not to challenge the big guy with the gun. She even complied with his order to raise her hands high over her head without flinching.

Tracy ran out of the screen door. “It’s okay, Bobby. That’s the woman who saved me.”

Bobby didn’t look too convinced, but he lowered his gun.

“Marisela, this is Bobby Dawson,” Tracy introduced.

“Call the cops?” she asked Tracy’s protector.

“Should have,” Bobby said gruffly, his eyes darting to Tracy, who shook her head.

“
Gracias
,” Marisela said, the Spanish evoking an even more confused look from Tracy’s neighbor.

“Tracy says you’re some sort of cop?” he questioned, the shotgun still gripped tightly in his beefy hands.

Marisela gingerly lowered her arms, then reached into her back pocket for her business card. “I’m a private investigator.”

Bobby took the card and read every word. Twice.

“What do you want with Tracy? She’s a nice woman. Don’t do no harm to no one. She don’t need trouble.”

Tracy laid her hand softly on Bobby’s massive shoulder. “I’ve already got trouble, Bobby. But I think I can get out of it, finally, with a little help from Marisela, okay?”

Marisela smiled. She liked Tracy. For all this woman’s troubles, she wasn’t stupid.