Renegade (12 page)

“No,” Cash said in a tone that didn't invite comment. “Will your son have anyone else with him, besides the cousin?”

The man shook his head. “His brother is an attorney. Perhaps a fortunate thing. My other son has never given me heartache. He was always a good boy.”

“I've worked in law enforcement long enough to know that children go wrong even when their parents do everything right. It's a matter of individuals, not up bringing, for the most part,” Cash said.

“Gracias,” the bar owner replied quietly.

“See you, Viejo,” Peter said. “Thanks.”

The older man only nodded. He looked very sad.

“He is a good man,” Peter told Cash when they were in the car again. “He sacrificed to bring up those boys. Their mother died when the youngest was born. She was good people, too.”

“So is Tippy,” Cash snarled, impatient to get down to business. It was going to take a lot of stealth and guts to get her out alive. Even with help. He didn't dare think about the consequences if he wasn't in time.

“I brought along your old threads,” Peter volunteered. “It'll be a night to remember.”

“I don't doubt it,” Cash said.

 

T
HE WAREHOUSE WAS ON
a back street, and one of the streetlights had been shattered, probably with a rock. There was a group of young boys wandering around making catcalls. But when they saw Cash and Peter in their working gear, they found a reason to go in the opposite direction.

“Don't worry about them,” Peter said easily. “No body's going to interfere with us in this neighborhood. Not at any price. How do we go in?”

They'd already cased the warehouse and located all the exits.

“Over the roof and in through the ventilation sys tem,” Cash said. “Then from the second floor over the rail and down into the warehouse itself.”

“Try not to break too many bottles, okay?” Peter groaned.
“Viejo doesn't have much money, this is probably his entire fortune.”

“I'll do what I can. Let's go.”

“What about the feds?” Peter asked solemnly.

“Good thinking.” Cash took out his cell phone and made a call.

 

T
HEY CLIMBED TO THE ROOF
with the aid of grappling hooks and then quickly and quietly worked their way down through the ventilator shaft to the top floor.

With tiny receivers in place in their ears and mikes at their lips they could communicate without yelling, and at a distance. Cash went first, a length of nylon rope coiled over one shoulder, a K-bar knife in its sheath at his waist, along with a .45 automatic. He was all in black, like Peter, with a ski mask over his face.

He paused on the walkway to look down onto the warehouse floor. Among the barrels and wine racks, he caught a glimpse of a woman lying prone on a piece of cardboard. Above her, three men were arguing. One of them had a bottle. It was broken. He was waving it at one of the other men. No sound at all was coming from the woman. Cash's heart stopped in his chest as he looked down at what he could see of her. If they'd hurt her, he'd kill them. He wouldn't be able to stop himself.

He motioned to Peter to go across and around to the other side of the warehouse. The man nodded, indicating his own coiled rope. It took an eternity for Peter to silently make his way between the boxes. Once, he paused and waited until the sound of a passing truck masked the step he had to take over a piece of plastic.

Peter made it to the position and gave the thumbs-up sign to Cash. They both fastened the nylon ropes to the iron rails
of the second story. Cash pulled out his automatic. Peter did the same. Cash stood up on the railing, watching Peter follow suit, and they both rappelled down at the same time with loud yells to disconcert the men below.

“What the hell…!” the taller of the men on the ground floor exclaimed.

“Shoot. Shoot!” the second man yelled, waving a pistol. He threw off a couple of shots in Cash's direction, but Cash was an old hand at dodging bullets. He dropped from the rope, rolled and fired.

The second man went down, holding his leg and groaning. Peter had the other one in a choke hold from behind. The third one had cut his losses immediately, and sprinted for the exit. He was through it before Cash could get a good look at him.

Cash holstered his weapon and ran to Tippy. When he got closer, he could see that her face was covered in blood. Her blouse was red with it, too, and torn. Bruises were visible all over her creamy shoulders and back. She wasn't moving. She didn't even seem to be breathing.

In that instant, Cash recalled seeing Christabel Gaines lying on the ground after being shot by one of Judd's enemies months before. The same sick panic gripped him again, but this time with more force.

“Tippy,” he ground out, rushing to kneel beside her and feel for a pulse at her throat. His hand was shaking.

For a few painful seconds, he thought she was dead. He couldn't feel her heart beating. Then, all at once, the pressure rebounded on his fingers and he felt a faint, fluttering beat.

“She's alive,” he called to Peter. He whipped out his cell phone and dialed 911.

 

S
HE WAS STILL UNCONSCIOUS
when the ambulance and the police came, along with two suited men. By that time, Peter
had gone with all the equipment, including the change of clothing that Cash had worn, and with every bit of evidence that would tie the two men to the scene of the crime. They weren't going to find a weapon that would match the bullet in the taller kidnapper's thigh, though.

But Cash had phoned Tippy's apartment at the same time, to alert the FBI to what was going on. They arrived with the police.

The taller of the two suited agents pursed his lips when he saw Cash on the warehouse floor, sitting with Tippy's bloody head in his lap while the paramedics brought in a stretcher. Uniformed policemen were at the door and crime scene investigators were already at work on trace evidence.

“Now I remember where I saw you,” the tall agent told Cash drolly.

“No, you don't,” Cash replied firmly.

The man scowled. “See here…”

“You see,” Cash returned harshly. “These men kid napped my fiancée. No way was I going to sit by a phone and wait for a call. Unfortunately I missed all the action. Gunfire had already been exchanged by the time we arrived on the scene.”

“You can't interfere in government business!”

“The hell I can't,” Cash replied tersely. “Try me!”

“I'll call headquarters and they'll have your butt in a sling by morning,” the agent said furiously.

“I'll call headquarters and you'll be selling pencils out of a cup on Broadway!” Cash retorted.

The younger agent pulled him to one side and whispered something emphatically. The taller agent backed down. “You'd better not be around by morning.”

“I won't be,” Cash said quietly. His attention turned back to Tippy, who was sucking at breaths as if they were coming with painful effort.

The two agents moved closer and looked down at the handiwork of the kidnappers. “What the hell did they do that for?” the older one demanded angrily. “She wasn't any threat to them!”

“The one who got shot likes hurting women,” Cash said without looking up. He couldn't erase the image of Stanton standing over her with a broken bottle when he'd come in.

“Oh, yeah?” The agent went to the man who was tying a ripped piece of his shirt around his thigh to stem the bleeding.

“Get me on an ambulance, you butt head, I've been shot! One of those masked guys put a bullet in me!” Sam Stanton demanded arrogantly.

“That's okay, boys, he's only nicked here!” the agent called to the paramedics. “Do her first!”

“Damn you!” Stanton groaned.

Cash glanced at the agent. “Thanks,” he said huskily.

The other man shrugged.

The paramedics examined Tippy even as they loaded her onto the ambulance. Cash climbed into the back with her, and held her hand tightly. He was scared to death and trying not to let it show. He thought about Rory, all alone. He hadn't asked the agents what they'd done with the boy. He prayed that they'd left him with the neighbors, his friend's parents.

But when the ambulance rolled into the emergency entrance, there was Rory, waiting with the two FBI agents.

Cash could have hugged them. Rory ran to the stretcher, his face pale, his eyes red and swollen. “Tippy!” he cried.

Cash caught him, hugging him close. “She's alive,” he said at once. “She's bruised and cut and concussed, and she looks terrible. But she's going to be fine.”

Rory looked up at him, desperate to believe. “You wouldn't lie to me?”

“Never,” Cash said flatly. “I'd never do that. She's going to be all right. I promise you she is.”

“What about Sam?” Rory asked miserably.

“Ask those guys,” Cash told him, and he smiled wearily at the agents. “They're waiting to transfer him into federal custody, along with his accomplice, when he's treated for a gunshot wound. There was another one, but he got away. Maybe they can track him down.”

“Sam got shot? All right!” Rory said fervently. “You guys shoot him?” he asked the FBI.

“Sorry,” they echoed.

“Don't look at me,” Cash lied, straight-faced. “I don't carry when I'm out of Texas. It's against the law.”

The FBI gave him a look that would have stopped traffic. Cash smiled like an angel.

“Stanton doesn't know who shot him,” the agent continued, with a suspicious look. “And he said there were two guys, not just one.”

“He'd obviously been drinking,” Cash said innocently.

The older agent sighed. “Obviously,” he said. “You know a guy at our district office named Callahan?”

“I'm not sure,” Cash said, grinning.

The agent just shook his head.

Rory caught on that Cash was hiding something and tried not to smile.

“What's the rap for kidnapping and assault these days?” Cash asked the feds.

“Time enough that they'll be wearing long gray beards when they get out,” the taller agent promised him. “We'll try to make them tell us about the one who got away tonight. And I swear to God, I'll be at every parole hearing for the rest of my life, after that guy goes up, reminding them what he did to that young woman.”

“You're a prince,” Cash said.

The other man shrugged. “I work for the government,” he replied. “We're all heroes.”

“You are in my book,” Rory said genuinely. “Thanks.”

“Just doing our job,” the shorter man replied. But he smiled.

 

T
HE EMERGENCY ROOM DOCTOR
came out to speak to Cash. Tippy had a concussion, as Cash already knew, and even though she was now conscious, she would have to be watched closely for the immediate future. In addition to the numerous cuts on her face and upper body, she had sustained blunt force trauma to her ribs, which was cause for concern. It bruised the lungs. This could not only cause bleeding or hemorrhage, but in a worst-case scenario, it could even cause pulmonary failure. They would have to do MRI scans of her head and chest, and X-rays as well to ascertain the extent of the damage. She would have to remain in the hospital for several days. The doctor had ordered the various tests, and as soon as they knew something definite, they'd contact Cash.

Cash grimly told the doctor he wasn't going any where, he'd be in the waiting room as long as necessary. The doctor asked if he was a relative. If he said no, they might deny him access to her. For Rory's sake, he had to prevent that.

“I'm her fiancé,” Cash said quietly, keeping up the cover story he'd told the feds. He added, “She's a former model. But right now, she's a motion picture actress working on her second film. Her first one premiered last November and was a smash hit. Her face,” he said somberly, “is her livelihood.”

“I'll make sure they call in a plastic surgeon for consultation right away. We'll have to clean the cuts carefully and stitch them and apply sterile dressings, to prevent infection. But I can tell you from what I've al ready seen that I'm fairly sure
there's no severe dam age to her face,” he said gently. “Her lung is what concerns us most at the moment. We'll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Cash said quietly.

“All in a day's work,” the doctor assured him with a smile.

Cash found Rory, with the two agents, and assumed responsibility for him. He took Rory into the cafeteria, bought him a soft drink, and told him what was going on.

“I like that,” Rory said after a minute. “That you're honest with me,” he added when Cash looked curious.

“I wouldn't insult you by being anything less,” Cash replied.

Rory glanced at him curiously. “Why wouldn't you talk to me when I called you in Texas?”

Cash felt sick. He hated the question, because it made him feel small. “One of my officers didn't put the call through. He thought it was what I wanted.” He stared into his black coffee. “I believed what I read in tabloids,” he said with self-contempt.

“Tippy's not like that,” Rory told him firmly. “She'd never sacrifice a baby for a career, no matter how rich or famous she could get. She told me one time that fame and fortune were no substitute for somebody who loved you.”

Cash should have known that. Trust came hard to him.

“She'll get over it,” Rory said suddenly. “She just needs time. You're…going to stay until we know for sure?”

“Of course,” he replied matter-of-factly.

Rory relaxed a little. “Thanks.”

Cash didn't answer him. He was thinking of Tippy's condition, and how precarious it was. He didn't dare think ahead even an hour.

Rory had finally drifted off to sleep in a borrowed hospital
bed when the doctor came to tell Cash the results of the tests. As he'd figured, there was a badly bruised lung and some bleeding. They'd siphoned off the fluid and stitched up her cuts—which the plastic surgeon felt would heal quite nicely since there was no muscle or nerve damage. Now it was a matter of waiting, to see if the lung damage progressed and keep watch over the concussion. Tippy was moved to ICU overnight for constant monitoring.