Carter

  The only vehicle was the car that had brought him there. “Where is he?” Carter asked.

  “Not here,” the thug Carter had struck with the crowbar in Joss’s shop said.

  They were waiting for him, though. If Joss weren’t coming, the guys would have simply shot Carter and left him … not that Carter planned to let them.

  “Don’t you think this would be easier over a beer?” Carter asked in a mild voice. “Not so hot.”

  A couple of the guys looked like they thought a beer a good idea. They didn’t want to be here. They were following orders.

  The man Buster had kicked was nowhere in sight, Carter realized. He wondered if Buster had killed him.

  “What does he want?” Carter asked. “And why couldn’t we talk in Houston?”

  “He’s meeting you here,” the first man snarled. He’d been the one who’d smacked Carter with the tire iron. “Now, shut up. You don’t have to be awake until he gets here.”

  Carter shrugged. “Just passing the time.” He glanced at the men who wanted beer. “Hope Joss is paying you good.”

  He wasn’t, Carter could tell from the expressions on their faces. Carter only gave them a half laugh and looked away.

  He was thinking of ways to turn the disgruntled guys to his side when the driver, who’d waited by the car, gave a shout. A wake of dust rose into the pale sky, signaling an approaching vehicle.

  Carter soon saw that it was a motorcycle, and he recognized the large form of Joss astride it. Of course, Joss would make his guys drive out here in a muddy car while he rode in like a badass biker on his Harley.

  Joss circled around them and the pump jack before he spun out on the dirt and stopped, facing the group of guys, the car, and Carter. The head thug pushed Carter back up against the fence, which rose another four feet above Carter’s head.

  Joss cut his engine and climbed off his bike. He was too badass to wear a helmet and had tied a bandana around his head.

  His bike looked packed, though, saddlebags locked, and a couple things tied to the rear of the seat. Joss wore a heavy jacket, chaps, and boots, as though he planned a long ride. He was heading out.

  “Carter.” Joss approached, giving Carter a cordial nod. Joss had a gun in a holster on his thigh—a Beretta semiautomatic, Joss’s favorite piece.

  “Joss,” Carter said. “Sorry I can’t shake hands.”

  “Sorry I can’t let your hands go.” Joss halted about three yards from Carter. “I don’t trust you.”

  “Mutual,” Carter said.

  Joss watched him, his brown eyes sharp. Under the sunlight, the grizzled gray of his scruffy whiskers and the lines on his face were prominent. Joss had been fairly young when he’d taken Carter under his wing, which had been about eighteen years ago. Joss couldn’t even be fifty yet, and already he looked like an old man. Hard living did that.

  “You have seriously screwed up my life, Sullivan,” Joss said. He lifted his hands, covered with fingerless driving gloves. “I admit it’s partly my fault. I talked Lizzie into helping me go after you. I should have known better.”

  “Yep.” Carter nodded. “You should have.”

  Joss shrugged. “Now, she’s sold me out. She thinks. I can still get to her when I want to, don’t worry. But since you couldn’t leave me or her alone, you get to help me out of this shit you’ve gotten me into.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Carter gave him a quiet look. “How’s that?”

  “Money, dick-brain. I know you have piles of it. Give me money, I go south of the border to a country with no extradition to the U.S. I can live pretty well on your cash.”

  Something happened while Joss was talking, a profound change. Carter stopped caring.

  He watched Joss posture, demand, intimidate, humiliate, just as he’d done all Carter’s life. Joss reinforced the intimidation with violence, not only on the person in his immediate focus, but their family and friends. He was a nasty, power-hungry bully, and Carter was suddenly done with him.

  Joss was pathetic. He could only control through threats and cruel tyrannizing. As a kid, Carter had been scared of him; as an adult, afraid not for himself but for those he loved.

  He was fucking tired of it.

  Joss considered himself strong because he held power over people’s lives. The Campbell brothers had taught Carter about the strength of friendship and loyalty. Grace, Olivia, and Faith had taught Carter about the strength of love and caring.

  Carter was the one tied up and alone, but he didn’t feel powerless at all.

  He took a casual glance around. “I don’t see any bank machines out here. How do you expect me to get you money?”

  “The beauty of the technology boom, Sullivan. You transfer to me right over the phone. Every penny you have. You do that, I’ll go away and maybe let you live. If not, you die, and I torture your daughter until the woman who pretends to be your mom or one of the Campbell boys gives me the passwords.”

  “Big transfers trigger reports to the IRS,” Carter said. “Did you know that?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I’ll be gone, with the money in an untouchable account, before you can get back home, or find a place to call someone. It’s a long walk back to your Podunk little town.”

  Carter glanced around again, looking briefly at the sky. “Hope you can get a cell signal out here.”

  “I can. It’s why I picked this spot.”

  Joss was thorough enough to scout any location he used. He’d probably roughed up people out here before.

  “How’d you find me?” Carter asked. “Out of curiosity. I was riding, minding my own business, and your boys were right there.”

  “They followed you. You ride around the same places every day. And I used the same kind of tech that will let me enjoy your money. I traced your phone.”

  True, Carter always left the location setting on his phone turned on, in case he had a bad fall out in the middle of nowhere. Or, like now, was kidnapped. Joss could easily have coerced someone to hack it if he didn’t know how himself.

  “So, you’re making me pay my own ransom?” Carter asked.

  Joss gave him a nod. “Seems easier that way, don’t it? Let’s get on with it.”

  He took from the inside pocket of his vest, not a weapon, but a smartphone. The way he efficiently tapped it, he well knew how to use it.

  Joss moved to Carter, sliding his thumb across the phone. “So, let’s do this. All I need is your account numbers and a password, and we’ll start the transfer.”

  Carter spit on him.

  The spittle landed mostly on the phone. Joss growled in rage, wiped the phone clean on Carter’s shirt, then balled his fist around the phone and punched Carter across the face.

  That was all Carter needed. He dropped with the punch, swept his body into Joss’s, and toppled him, continuing down with him.

  The momentum let him kick at the steel wire around his feet, which he’d already loosened while he lay in the trunk. A weak strand broke, allowing Carter to kick it free.

  Joss was struggling to his feet. Carter jumped to his as well, didn’t matter that his hands were still behind his back. He, Tyler, and Grant had worked out all kinds of tricks for their shows, including fighting with their hands bound.

  Carter took advantage of his body weight and agility to knock Joss to the ground again. He kicked him in the ribs, then stomped on his wrist until the cell phone dropped out. Carter kicked the phone away with the side of his foot, sending it skittering into weeds.

  The thug who’d hit Carter with the tire iron was on him. The other men hung back a little, as though waiting to see which way the fight went. Maybe they’d decided Carter had a point that they weren’t being paid enough.

  Carter jabbed the man in the jaw with his forehead. The move hurt, but was effective. The man yelled and spat blood.

  No matter how much he and Tyler had practiced, however, Carter knew he’d not get away unless he had his hands free.

  He turned and ran for Joss’s Harley
.

  “Damn it.” Joss rolled to his feet. “Get the bastard.”

  A shot rang past Carter, missing, then there was the sound of a scuffle. “No, you idiot,” Joss shouted. “You might hit the bike.”

  They were after him. Carter frantically worked the wires around his wrists. He’d tried to untwist them while he’d been in the trunk, managing to work one end loose, but he’d not had time to finish before the car stopped. His wrists were bleeding, and hurt, but Carter ignored the bite of pain.

  Joss’s Harley was a big, heavy machine, a rebuilt touring style bike that he’d probably stolen and customized for himself. Carter made it to the bike with time to spare, then found a sturdy piece of metal of the many Joss had welded to the chassis. He slid his hands under it, hooking the wires, and yanked.

  Blood made everything slippery, but Carter kept pulling.

  He heard a snap, which he prayed wasn’t his wrist, but no, it was the piece of chrome-plated metal he’d chosen. Now he could get his fingers around it and use it to pry apart his bonds.

  Joss was steps away when Carter broke the last of the wire and untangled his hands.

  Joss drew his pistol, sighted, and fired.

  Carter wasn’t where he sighted. He knew damn well how to dive across a saddle and avoid being shot, whether that saddle was on a horse or a motorcycle.

  The bullet struck the bike and went through the engine.

  “Shit!” Joss bellowed.

  Carter echoed the word in his head. He’d planned to use the Harley to make his getaway.

  That left the car. If the driver hadn’t left the keys in it, Carter would have to hot-wire it, with five thugs and Joss coming at him.

  Joss shot at Carter again. So much for keeping him alive to do a bank transfer.

  Carter rolled and made it to his feet. He ran and dodged through Joss’s thugs, wondering if Joss would shoot his own men to get to Carter.

  Apparently. One grunted and went down.

  Carter wouldn’t make it to the car. The driver, guessing Carter’s intent, had already headed there, and he was armed. Joss was shooting, and there was no cover. The dry plain stretched wide and treeless, the scrub not more than a foot or so high, with plenty of space between the plants.

  Only one place to go.

  Carter sprinted around the other side of the big oil pump, chugging and rumbling as its head went up and down, drinking the black liquid out of the ground.

  Carter was up the ten-foot fence before Joss could come around to shoot at him. Carter vaulted over the top then dropped down the other side, and put the big, groaning, metal machine between himself and Joss.

  Joss kept coming, trying to circle the cage to get a bead on Carter.

  Carter was trapped, the oxidizing body of the moving pump his only hope of survival.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Tyler led the way back up to the practice area on horseback, the fastest way to get there. Grant, who’d stopped by the ranch and found them frantic about Carter, came with them on a horse called Bobby.

  Grace rode Buster. Buster had allowed Faith to catch him when he’d finally calmed down, and he seemed eager to be on the way to where he’d left Carter.

  Faith was in the saddle in front of Grace, Faith holding on to Buster’s mane, while Grace used the reins. Faith had refused to be left behind, and Grace, also refusing, let her scramble up while her uncles were trying to talk her out of it.

  Once Tyler and Grant saw that neither Grace nor Faith would stay behind, they gave up. Tyler had already called Ross, Grant had phoned Adam. The brothers had agreed not to alert their mother until they were certain what had happened, though they knew she’d have plenty to say about that. But if Carter had simply fallen and was even now walking back to the ranch, cussing out Buster, there was no need to pull her out of her talk.

  Grace could ride, though nothing like the Campbells or her brothers or Bailey or Faith. But she’d grown up on horseback, and easily kept Buster in pace with Tyler’s horse and Grant’s.

  She knew they’d reached the spot where Buster and Carter had parted company, at the end of a dirt road, because Buster suddenly stopped.

  Horses had interesting memories. Sometimes they could seem brainless, but they learned quickly and stored knowledge about a place after seeing it only once. Horses knew the way home, when clueless humans could become turned around and totally lost.

  They also knew when something bad had happened in a specific spot. They knew even when that traumatic event hadn’t happened to them. Grace had seen plenty of horses spook at a gate or place in an arena where they’d watched another horse fall.

  Buster knew something bad had happened here. He rooted in place, flicking his ears when Grace tried to nudge him forward. He stepped uneasily sideways, snorting.

  “He’s scared,” Faith said.

  She swung her leg in front of her, over Buster’s neck, with the agility only a small child could achieve, and slid all the way to the ground.

  Grace remained mounted, as Faith patted Buster’s neck and spoke to him soothingly. Buster never bit or kicked Faith. From the lofty perch of his back, Grace could scan the area, searching frantically for signs of Carter.

  “There!” she called out, pointing.

  Tyler and Grant circled their mounts back from where they’d been searching. Buster still refused to move forward, so Grace could only point.

  A man lay on the ground, and not far from him was the black shape of a cowboy hat. Grace’s heart pounded sickeningly, but she knew even before Tyler dismounted and turned him over that the man was not Carter. This man was of smaller, stockier build, and wore stained jeans and motorcycle boots, while Carter would have been dressed, like Tyler, for riding.

  “Shit.” Tyler said. He reached for the man’s pulse, and flicked open one of his eyes. “He’s alive,” he called. “But broken up. He got kicked. Give you three guesses who by.”

  Buster shivered once and swished his tail.

  Grant already had his phone out, calling for an ambulance. Since Buster wasn’t moving, Grace dismounted and ran over to Tyler and the man on the ground.

  She stopped. “I recognize him.”

  Tyler glanced up in surprise. “You do?”

  “Yes.” Grace thought about her visit to Mrs. Ward this morning—she’d carried in her tray of pastries through the back door, then had lingered for a polite cup of coffee. “He was in the diner. Mrs. Ward gets a lot of people from out of town, so we didn’t think anything about it. But I remember him. He was with a couple other guys.” She leaned down and snatched up the hat next to him. “This is Carter’s.”

  Grant lowered his phone, still on the line. “Tire tracks all over the place here.”

  The man with Tyler groaned and fluttered his eyelids. Grace was on her knees next to him. “Where is he?”

  The man could barely speak. “I dunno. Took him.”

  Tyler was making him comfortable—the Campbell boys were very familiar with injuries from horses—but he gave the man a firm look. “Who took him? Where?”

  “Joss,” the man mumbled. “Dunno where.”

  “Joss, the creep who made him slave for him?” Tyler snapped. “Where would he have taken him?”

  “Dunno.” The man’s insistence made Grace believe him. “Joss is running.”

  Grace fished her cell phone out of her pocket. “What’s his number?”

  “What?” the man said. He was in serious pain and disoriented. Grace realized she couldn’t expect him to remember a phone number, or much of anything else at the moment.

  Sirens cut the quiet. The horses shifted in place, but they were used to sirens and didn’t bolt.

  Ross’s sheriff’s SUV pulled up from the road, lights flashing. Ross scrambled out and ran to Tyler, the look on his face telling Grace how much he feared that Carter was the man lying there.

  Ross’s relief when he saw that the body wasn’t Carter, dead, made him double over, resting his hands on his knees.


  When Ross straightened up, he erased his emotion and became the brisk and efficient sheriff’s deputy. “Who is he?”

  Tyler pulled out the man’s phone and handed it to Ross. “He doesn’t know anything. I’m guessing he’s too far down the food chain.”

  Ross nodded. The phone wasn’t a smartphone but smaller, probably a burner, with a certain number of minutes pre-bought, easy to throw away. Ross studied it, but didn’t look hopeful he would find any useful information on it.

  “What about the car?” Grace asked. “If there’s tire tracks—I remember the guy and his friends walking out and getting into …” She closed her eyes, trying to picture it. She hadn’t been paying attention, only interested in getting to the ranch, but she’d walked out of the kitchen to the parking lot, and seen them. “It was a car, four-door, older. Gold. I couldn’t tell you the make and model. American, though, like a Ford or Chevy.”

  “Impala,” the guy whispered, his mouth barely moving.

  “Be nice if you could remember the license plate,” Tyler said.

  “Not my car,” the man said, then his eyes closed.

  “Can you track Carter through his phone?” Grace asked Ross. “All phones have GPS now, don’t they?”

  “First thing I did when I got Grant’s call,” Ross told her. “The last signal was from here.” He caught sight of Faith. “She shouldn’t be here.”

  Tyler only made a helpless shrug. “I couldn’t stop her, or Grace. They deserve to know, Ross.”

  Ross looked at Grace, who returned the look, willing him to understand. Ross held her gaze for a long time, then seemed to realize how deeply her feelings for Carter ran. A claim of engagement notwithstanding, Ross must have wondered at the suddenness of it, the incongruity with Carter’s character.

  His blue eyes cleared and showed new respect for Grace. He nodded at her. “Okay.”

  “What do you mean the last signal was from here?” Grace asked. “Can it be turned off?”

  “Broken,” Ross said. “Start looking around for it—they probably tossed it. I’m going to check the numbers on this guy’s phone.” He moved swiftly back to his truck, the other man’s cell phone in his hand.