Badlands (21 page)

The sound of a powerboat alerted them to her father’s presence. He slowed down and drifted closer, his body language tense. His state of undress made him look unbearably vulnerable. Penny wasn’t used to seeing him shirtless, scared or alone. Her eyes filled with tears, and she pictured Cruz. There was nothing worse than being afraid for your child. She couldn’t wait to be reunited with her son.

Shane held up a hand in greeting. “I’m going to throw you this bag,” he said, showing him a canvas knapsack. “Transfer the money into it slowly.”

Her father looked at her. “Are you okay,
mija?
”

“I’m fine, Daddy.”

Shane didn’t ask Jorge to speak English, but he seemed annoyed as he tossed the bag into the powerboat. Her father unzipped his black duffel bag and took out fat green stacks of bills, shoving them into the knapsack. Shane watched closely, as if he suspected the money of being marked or bugged. He kept glancing up at the sky.

When her father was finished with the task, he cinched the knapsack closed. “Do you want me to hand it to you?”

“No,” Shane said. “Leave it there. Throw the empty bag into the water.”

Jorge did as he was told. The duffel bag floated on the flat surface like a black stingray, handles outstretched.

“How’s Cruz?” Penny asked.

“He’s safe,” her father answered. “Worried about you.”

She nodded, blinking her tears away.

“Thank you for sending my grandson home early,” her father said to Shane. “And for not harming my daughter. I am forever in your debt.”

Shane grunted a response, unimpressed by the lip service. “You’re paying good money for something I stole from you, so cut the crap. I’m not going to be impressed by the fancy manners you learned here in America.”

Her father didn’t even flinch at the insult. “Very well.”

“What do you think of your daughter and my brother?”

His brows rose. Racially charged remarks, he expected. This, he did not. “Your brother?”

“Don’t pretend not to know what I mean.”

“Owen Jackson, of my security team,” her father said, nodding. “He helped Penny during the San Diego earthquake. He’s earned my gratitude and my respect.”

“How about your daughter? Has he earned the right to touch her?”

Her father wore a bland expression. “My daughter makes her own decisions,” he said, lying with casual diplomacy.

“Tell him how you feel about Owen,” Shane ordered Penny.

She didn’t know what to say. She’d only just realized how she felt. Her love for Owen was too new to share with anyone. She wanted to savor it, hold it inside, and declare it to Owen—when she was ready.

The pressure was too much. She resented Shane’s manipulations, as well as her father’s. Trapped between two opposing forces, she had no room to breathe. She was tired of being told what to do and who to date.

“That’s what I figured,” Shane said, drawing his gun.

“No,” her father shouted. “Please!”

“Quiet down, padre,” he said, breaking his English-only rule. He grabbed Penny by the arm and yanked her to her feet.

She just stared at him, her heart in her throat.

“Maybe my brother’s too good for
you.
” He was so close she could see the individual whiskers above his lip, short and spiky. He crushed his mouth over hers cruelly, stealing the sweet kiss Owen had given her.

Then he pushed her overboard.

She screamed as she hit the water, her legs flailing. Her cry was swallowed by the sea as she sank below the surface. Bubbles flurried from her nostrils and salt burned her eyes, as if she’d been submerged in lukewarm brine. Gagging on the brackish taste, she struggled to free her hands, to no avail.

Above her, the muffled sound of gunshots rang out. Bullets tore through the bottom of the boat, whizzing past her like submarine missiles.

Her last thought was
Cruz
.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

O
WEN
COULDN
’
T
BUDGE
the trailer.

It took every ounce of strength he possessed to lift one end out of the water and drag it a couple of feet. He couldn’t go anywhere with a large metal object attached to his arm. If he wanted to get free, he had to break the handcuffs.

He searched the beach for members of his security team and law enforcement officers, but the shoreline was deserted. There was nothing out here, not even a stray dog. Although yelling might bring help, he stayed quiet. Penny and her father would be safer if the exchange wasn’t interrupted. Shane’s motto was live fast, die young. He’d welcome a shoot-out with the authorities. Cop killers were heroes behind bars.

Owen found a chunk of concrete among the shells and bones on the beach. He gripped the edge of the trailer with his cuffed hand, pulling the steel chain taut over the metal bar. Then he struck the chain, trying to bust it. The concrete broke apart instead, scraping the skin on the inside of his wrist.

Making a sound of frustration, he tossed the crumbled pieces aside. He needed something stronger than steel to damage the handcuff chain. He looked around, as if that kind of material would be washed up on the beach. The trailer offered one option. The hoist hook was made of hard chrome, a metal alloy. It could damage steel.

He slid the handcuff down the metal bar until his free hand reached the hoist. It was bolted down, but the nuts hadn’t been tightened in years. One side was loose. He freed the hook from the mount and felt its weight in his hand. Inside a sock, it would make a powerful bludgeoning tool.

Holding the hook by its hinged end, he repositioned the handcuff chain over the edge of the metal trailer bar. Then he struck it again and again, hammering away like a blacksmith. After an extended effort and lots of sweat, the chain fell apart.

Victory.

The cuff still encircled his wrist, but his hands were free. Smiling grimly, he shoved the hook into his pocket. Now what? He couldn’t steal a boat and go after them. The Salton Sea was the largest lake in California, with a surface area of almost four hundred square miles. His chances of finding them were slim and none. He trudged along the shore, reluctant to seek assistance from locals or make contact with the police. The exchange should only take a few minutes. Where were they?

Filled with anxiety, he went in search of the Jeep. As soon as Shane got the money, he’d dump the powerboat on the shore and take off. Owen could intercept him there and make sure the exchange had occurred safely.

He found the Jeep parked behind a particleboard shack near an old playground. Metal poles for swings stood empty. A rusted metal slide was half-buried in the sand. There were stray chairs and pieces of recreation equipment, some impossible to identify. While he crouched by the slide and waited for Shane to show, a sound caught his attention.

It was a sharp cry, quickly muffled.

He gazed into the distance, zeroing in on a black truck that was almost completely concealed by a ripped canvas billboard advertising Lots For Sale. A faded image of Salton Sea’s heyday, more than thirty years ago, peeled away at one corner. It depicted women in colorful bikinis, men fishing and children frolicking. Owen had never seen that brief period of prosperity, which had come and gone like the desert wind.

A newer-model truck didn’t belong here. Tourists visited Bombay Beach to bird-watch or gawk at the devastation, but Owen didn’t think the vehicle belonged to a day-tripper from L.A. The truck was hidden near the Jeep on purpose. He’d bet the inhabitant was doing the same thing he was: waiting for Shane.

Owen ducked down a little more, wondering if the person in the truck had seen
him
. Then two faint thumps rang out across the sea, like the banging of a drum. His stomach roiled as he realized it was Shane’s 9 mm. Although his brother must have been miles away, the conditions here were unusual. There was almost no breeze today. The water was flat and calm, free of other boats and noise disturbances.

Disregarding the black truck for now, he stood and ran toward the shore, pulse pounding. Shane couldn’t have shot Penny. He refused to believe that his brother was so evil and emotionally detached that he’d kill an innocent, defenseless woman.

When the powerboat came into view, Owen’s stomach dropped. Shane was behind the wheel. He drove it right into the beach, almost flipping the boat over in a spectacular crash. He hopped out with a military-style canvas rucksack and hit the ground running.

Owen took the hoist hook out of his pocket and held it in his fist as his brother approached.

Shane slowed to a stop. He looked more surprised than guilty. “You crafty son of a bitch. I should have known you’d get out of the cuffs.”

Owen’s vision went dark with fury. “Did you kill them?”

“No,” Shane said, recoiling at the accusation. “Hell, no.”

“I heard the shots.”

“I shot through the bottom of Dad’s boat,” he said, impatient. “As long as they can swim, they’ll be fine.”

Owen grabbed Shane by the front of the shirt with his free hand. He gripped the hook until his knuckles went white, tempted to smash his brother’s face in. “You left them out there, miles from shore, in a sinking boat?”

“Calm the fuck down,” he said. “They have life jackets.”

He tore his gaze away from Shane and examined the crashed powerboat, his blood pumping with adrenaline. There was no way he could get it back in the water, but the walkie-talkie might give him their location. The Salton Sea was warm and buoyant and flat. Easy to float in, even without life preservers.

“I have to get out of here,” Shane said, jerking free of his grasp. “The cops are going to swarm in any minute.”

“Somebody’s waiting for you by the Jeep.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know. They were in a black truck.”

“Thanks for the heads-up.” Shane took a gun out of his waistband and released the safety before tucking it in again. With grim determination, he continued walking.

“Is it an enforcer for the AB?”

Shane didn’t answer.

“He’ll shoot you on sight.”

“Not if I shoot him first.”

“Leave the money with me and run,” Owen said. “It’s your only hope.”

“Leave the money with you, after what I just went through to get it? Fuck that, brother. Fuck that all the way to Mexico.”

“Just take your cut, Shane. Take what you can easily carry.”

“No,” he said, his eyes hard. “I killed a good friend for this. I risked going back to prison. Now I have to live the rest of my life on the wrong side of the border with a measly fifty grand to my name?”

“What about Jamie?”

His mouth tightened with regret. “He’s better off without me.”

“You said they’d go after him, you asshole!”

“Then it’s up to you to keep him safe while I’m gone.”

Owen wanted to howl in frustration. He hated Shane at that moment, more than he’d ever hated his father. More than he hated the men who’d assaulted him in prison. Driven by the pain of a thousand wrongs, he drew back his fist to strike.

Shane jerked sideways at the last second. The blow glanced off his bottom lip instead of his cheekbone, splitting it wide. Blood rushed down his chin. Evading the next swing, Shane dumped his rucksack on the beach and put up his dukes, spitting on the sand. “You want to go, motherfucker?”

“Yeah,” Owen said, “I want to go.”

Nostrils flared, Shane lowered his shoulder and charged, tackling Owen around the waist. They fell over the old playground slide, arms and legs tangled. When Owen tried to punch Shane in the ear, his brother trapped his wrist and banged his closed fist against the metal ladder. Several of Owen’s knuckles cracked before he dropped the hook, writhing in agony.

“You had enough?” Shane asked, his grin red.

“Not yet,” Owen said, head-butting him.

Shane slumped down the slide, clapping a hand over his brow. “Bastard,” he yelled, blood dripping into his eye.

Owen jumped on him, straddling his waist. Making a fist with his left hand, he punched his brother over and over again, battering his blood-streaked face. When Owen slowed down, taking a ragged breath, Shane picked up the hook he’d dropped. Owen lifted his arm to block the counterattack, but exhaustion made him clumsy. The weighted punch hit him almost full force, knocking him sideways.

He cupped his aching jaw, seeing stars.

Shane declared the fight over. He seemed to consider himself the victor, despite his mangled mug. Gathering the rucksack, he hovered close to Owen, his blue eyes wild and mean. So much like their father’s.

“I kissed your bitch,” he said, spitting again.

Owen couldn’t clear the spots from his vision. “What?”

“She wouldn’t admit to being your girlfriend in front of her father, so I kissed her and pushed her off the boat. She tasted the same as every other Mexican whore I’ve had. I’d move on if I were you.”

“Fuck you,” Owen groaned, nauseous.

“She doesn’t love you.”

“I don’t care.”

“What do you mean, you don’t care?”

“You’ll never know what I mean, you scumbag. Because you’re incapable of loving someone unconditionally.”

Shane went silent for a moment as these words sank in. Maybe they hurt. Maybe he was too detached to feel anything.

The black smudges in his vision faded, and Owen stared up at his brother, his chest constricted with sorrow. Even if Shane wasn’t capable of love or any selfless emotions, Owen believed what Shane had said about protecting him from their father. Shane had become this monster by choice, saving Owen from the same fate.

“You’re wrong,” Shane choked out, drawing the gun from his waistband. “I can love. I love you, you little shit. I always have.”

Owen swallowed back tears, unable to respond.

Shane lifted the 9 mm and pointed it at Owen. “Goodbye.”

* * *

J
ANELLE
GNAWED
AT
THE
KNOT
on her wrists, trying to loosen it.

The stranger noticed this and didn’t seem to care, which suggested that he was confident in his rope skills. But she didn’t have anything else to do, so she continued. She was hungry and bored and tired. It felt like an oven inside the cab of the truck, even with the windows cracked. She missed Jamie.

“Can I call my son?”

“No.”

“My knee hurts.”

“Don’t make me gag you.”

“I have some gum in my purse.”

“Will that keep you quiet?”

She nodded.

He reached into the back and grabbed her purse, rifling through the contents. The first thing he found was a pair of black-lace panties. Setting them aside, he located her sugar-free bubble gum. He gave her a stick and helped himself to one.

“Can I get a tissue for my knee?” she asked, pressing her luck.

He took out the baby wipes she used to remove makeup and scrub man-germs from her skin after lap dances. “This?”

“Yes.”

After he handed her a couple of moist wipes, she braced her boots on the dashboard and cleaned the pebbles from the scrape, wincing in discomfort. He replaced her panties in her purse and tossed it in the backseat. She blotted the fresh beads of blood, aware of his eyes on her. Wondering if he felt bad about her injury, she glanced at him. He appeared to be staring at her upper thighs, not her knee.

“You have more blood,” he said.

“Where?”

He made a vague gesture. “The back of your leg.”

The stun gun he’d used had shot out some sort of electric barb. He’d removed it when he picked her up off the gravel. Her thigh still felt tender there, but she couldn’t reach the spot with her wrists and calves bound so tightly.

After watching her struggle, he grabbed one of the wipes and did the honors himself. Resting his right hand above her knee, he used his left to scrub the blood away. His touch was rough and quick, as if he wanted to get it over with. When she winced, he lifted his gaze to hers. For that single, unguarded moment, she saw something behind it.

Not empty, after all.

Then he looked down and finished cleaning her thigh, a muscle in his jaw taut. Up close, she could smell the same scent from his sweatshirt. Motor oil and male deodorant and cigarettes, mixed with the aspartame of her bubble gum. The hand on her leg felt strong, his palm callused. His tattooed knuckles said
S-L-A-B.

When he discarded the used wipe, she saw the word on his other hand:
C-I-T-Y.

“You’re from the Slabs?” she asked.

He straightened and made two fists, frowning at his own knuckles as if he’d forgotten what they said. “No one is from the Slabs.”

“You live there?”