Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (29 page)

Rafe's long fingers wrapped around her arm and pulled her toward him, and he gave her a hard shake. "Stop antagonizing him."

Her mouth fell open with an irritated breath. "I didn't do anything." Standing in Rafe's shadow, his bristly, black chin jutting with authority, she quaked with anger. She wasn't playing army. She wasn't taking orders, even if he and Trey treated her like some pimple-faced teen who'd just enlisted. And the damn faded army jacket Rafe wore, its pockets stuffed with rations, flashlights, and anything else he believed vital to their mission, wasn't going to sway her.

She peered around Rafe's wide shoulder at Trey, his blond hair cut ruthlessly short, his head still tucked inside the trunk he tinkered with. She fisted her hands at her side. Didn't he know their enemy was the clock?

With a metallic slide and click, he shoved something into his waistband and slammed the trunk. He hustled toward them, all bulk and muscle, his biceps big as her thigh, straining against a gray T-shirt, a leather jacket in one hand.

"Rafe." The demand in Trey's voice made her jump.

Rafe turned. "Yeah."

He handed him a silver semiautomatic, which Rafe, also, shoved into the waistband of his jeans.

Bren's eyes popped wide.
Shit!
The clock wasn't their only enemy.

Trey slipped into his jacket. "I need to move the car. I'll be back in ten minutes."

"What about the border patrol?" Rafe said.

"We're good. There shouldn't be another for a few hours."

The silver Honda disappeared in a low cloud of dust amidst a terrain that was flat and dry. Strange-shaped vegetation with fronds and sharply pointed cactus grew from the dirt. Behind her a few industrial buildings poked against the blue horizon with only a single winding road, the same one Trey had taken, connecting the white, windowless structures.

They stood several yards from the drainage ditch and the wide metal opening of a corrugated pipe. Above on an incline rose a chain-link fence that stretched forever in either direction. Curled razor wire at the top warned anyone who thought of jumping borders to think again.

Trey seemed to know a lot about border patrols, immigration. She tugged on Rafe's hand. "He's uptight."

"Comes with the job."

The job.
"Roping cattle makes you pissed off at the world?" She shook her head. "He doesn't much care for me." She sat down on a large rock and shrugged. "I'm not a cow, Rafe. And if he comes back with an attitude because I refused to be tossed off as excess baggage to your parents, I'm going to kick him in that tight ass of his."

He didn't laugh, but his eyes glinted in amusement.

"What's so damn funny?"

"Trey's not a cowboy."

"But you said he was running the ranch while your father..."

"He is. But the day-to-day operation is a well-oiled machine. We have employees."

"Oh." She cocked her head and brought her hand up against the sun to keep from squinting. She had just assumed. But Trey could fly, could get her from their connecting flight in Dallas to El Paso quicker than any commercial flight, and he had connections in Mexico. "Pilot?"

Rafe shook his head.

"Ooh, so mysterious." She stood with her hands on her hips and set him an irritated gaze. "Then what the hell does he do?"

"He's DEA."

DEA—now the cog turned. Drug enforcement.

The wide, dark hole took on a new frightening meaning. "It's a drug tunnel." If it sounded like an accusation, it damn well was. Would they be the only occupants of said drainage pipe? More to worry about than dark, tight spaces, she whirled on Rafe, her eyes glinting with disbelief. "Is he crazy?"

"No. He's pissed." Rafe came at her, looked over his shoulder to be sure they were still alone, and pinned her with not-so-warm green eyes this time. "Bren, this is his job. If we're caught, he could lose it."

"If we're caught, we could die."

"It's not as dire as that." His expression softened. "It's an abandoned drug tunnel."

So she should relax?
Wrong.

Bren's shoulders slumped. She'd asked for this. Trey Langston was only giving her what she wanted. And thanks to her need for revenge, she'd driven them to defy borders with the real possibility of rubbing up against the most unsavory of human beings—drug smugglers.

The dark hole loomed, taunting her resolve. Although big enough for her to enter and still stand to her full height, there was no way to tell if it continued that way until they reached the other end.

The other end...

Bren wrapped her arms around her waist and trembled into her thick, dark-blue hooded sweatshirt.

Where was the tough farm girl now?

"How far is it?" The question she had meant to ask inside her head left her lips, her voice ripe with apprehension.

"You can always stay behind."

The condescending voice gave her a start. "I thought you were parking the car." She glared at Trey.

"Be nice, darlin'." Rafe pulled her next to him.

"Even better." Trey smiled, a set of dimples softening the severe planes of his chiseled, bronzed face, and for a moment he actually looked friendly. "I found a clump of overgrown tumbleweeds."

Right.
They were in Texas after all.

Trey motioned toward her. "Ladies first."

She wouldn't demean herself by asking how far again. She could do this. Grabbing her backpack, she slung it over her shoulder and moved toward the black opening, which emitted a cool dampness like an abandoned cave. She took measured steps along the rocky, thin stream of the drainage ditch, the water lapping at her boots. All thoughts of her life in western Maryland gobbled up into the mouth of a whale. She clamped down on the strap of her backpack and walked inside.

Trey passed her and walked several yards by flashlight until the tunnel changed. Gone was the corrugated floor of the pipe, replaced now with compact soil. Trey hit a switch. Electric wire looped the walls every fifty feet like garland on a Christmas tree. Where a shiny, glass Christmas ball would be, a single lightbulb hung, its glow fanning out into shadows until they came upon the next. The walls and ceiling, shored up with mortised timbers and sheathed in mildewed plywood, closed in like a crypt, and Bren kept walking, the tip of her boots hitting an occasional stone along the carved-out dirt floor as they traveled in silence.

Mr. Command and Control, true to his nature, had taken the lead after realizing his bullying wasn't going to dissuade her. Bren reached back, searching for Rafe. The strength of his rough, long fingers encircled her hand once again, and the anxiety riding high in her chest relaxed a little. They'd walked the better part of twenty minutes when Trey slowed and the tunnel narrowed and ended. Rusty metal rungs embedded into a concrete wall rose about ten feet to a trap door.

Trey turned to them. "This is it." He motioned to the wooden panel above. "It slides back. There's a chest above that I need to move." Trey bent down, the hardened planes of his face even with Bren's face. She wanted to gulp the minute those gray eyes glinted under the amber glow of light. "Life or death, Bren. No in between. Got it? These bastards will slit your throat."

Now she gulped.

The real ball of fire she'd been several thousand yards back cooled to a piece of lead. She couldn't move. Instead, she remained glued to Trey's incisive gaze. Frightened or not, she'd come this far. She glanced up at the door that would lead to a world so unlike the one she'd come from. Her eyes came back to rest on Trey's grim expression. "I'm not leaving Smiley. He's my horse." The last word she could barely get out.

Something in those unfeeling gray eyes of Trey's softened. His broad hand came down on her shoulder, and he squeezed. "Determination. I like that." He smiled at Rafe. "She's exactly as you said."

Whether Trey chose to help because of his loyalty to his brother, his love for horses, or avid curiosity about her, she couldn't say. But something told Bren he found her quite peculiar. Call it intuition or the amused look that passed between brothers. Her face warmed. She didn't particularly like being made fun of. But before she could voice her complaint, Trey handed her the flashlight and started up the ladder.

Bren kept the light to his back, lighting up the area around the trap door.

He reached the top. The wood creaked when he pushed the trap door open. Shafts of light and dust particles filtered down into the tunnel. He struggled with something up above—from the groan and scuffs, she assumed furniture. Gray light poured in, and Trey levered his body up until he sat on the edge.

He lifted his chin toward Rafe. "Bren goes next. Your job's to slide the door back, move the chest into place, and meet us at the jeep outside the back door."

Trey bent down into the hole, his blond hair aglow from the brightness of the flashlight. She turned it off and handed it to Rafe. Trey motioned with his hands in a give-me fashion, and she began to climb. Strong, capable hands reached down, and Bren grabbed hold of Trey. He clasped onto her and pulled her up. Turning her around, he pushed her over the opening, and Bren crawled on her hands and knees and pushed off the cold floor to stand.

The room, no bigger than an oversized closet, was dark except for light spilling underneath a door to her left and cracks of sunshine edging the drawn window shade. Besides the wooden chest Trey had moved, no other furniture existed. Only shelves lined one wall, with cans and jars filled with food, the colorful labels of fruits and vegetables, not the words, hinting it was a cantina's pantry.

Shadows passing underneath the door with the light drew her attention. Beyond it, voices chattered, the words foreign. Glasses and silverware clinked, and her heart sped up. But the other door to the far right, made of metal, loomed, and a cold dread spread through her chest.

Trey gripped her arm. "Let's go."

Bren looked back at the opening in the floor. Rafe's head cleared the opening, his handsome face turning in her direction. He gave her a crooked smile and winked. Her heart gave a hard pinch, and she frowned. She didn't like leaving him behind, even for a few minutes.

Trey tugged more urgently. "Now, Bren. Rafe's right behind us."

Bren nodded and allowed Trey to pull her toward the door. The metal hinges squealed resistance the moment Trey eased back on the doorknob. Bren's eyes darted toward what she deduced was the dining room. The chatter continued without interruption, and she relaxed.

Bright sunlight made her squint. Trey peered around the door. He reached for her arm, never keeping his eyes off the street. "Black jeep parked up and to the right."

He pulled her through the door, the warmth of Mexico's sun immediate against her cheeks and hands. Bren followed Trey's nodding head. Across the narrow street, sandwiched between dilapidated yet colorful seafoam and pink buildings, sat an open-topped jeep. She took a step forward and hesitated. The more she moved into the open, the more she imagined being picked off with a bullet. Trey tugged hard, and she was forced to move. But when a Mexican, dressed in army pants and a white T-shirt, emerged from a doorway across the street and casually leaned against the jeep, sheer terror froze her in place.

Trey glanced down, his scowl deep with aggravation. "Relax. He's one of us."

Really?
He didn't look like an American. He looked dark and dangerous and totally Mexican.

Trey's grip on her arm reminded her of a blood pressure cuff, always checking her fight-or-flight pressure. He must have been measuring it now because his grip was squeezing the hell out of her bicep.

Trey dipped his head, and she was surprised to see compassion in those usually impassive, cold eyes. "You with me?"

Bren swallowed, her one hand clenching the strap of her backpack.

"Yeah."

The Mexican—the closer they got to him, the more her heart raced. He remained leaning on the jeep's hood. Bronzed skin and short dark hair, his arms bulged with muscle. He turned toward them, and that was when Bren made out the dark gun hanging off his hip.

Oh God, oh God, oh God!

Bren slowed and her shoulders bunched.

"Relax. I told you. He's one of us."

Her shoulders leveled off, and she let go of the breath she held in and picked up the pace until they came within a few feet of the jeep and the scary dude with the gun.

"Buen día, mi amigo."
Trey clapped him on the back and shook his hand. He angled his head toward Bren. "Bren, this is my good friend Serg Cruz."

Serg smiled, his teeth gleaming white against his leathery skin. "So this is the chica you were telling me about." He took a step toward her. She'd always thought Mexicans were short. But Serg towered over her, his wide shoulders casting her in his shadow. "So we meet in the flesh, eh?"

Obsidian eyes flashed down at her, and the tiny hairs along her neck spiked. Friend or not, she didn't like the way
Serg
drank her in like some fluted glass of bubbly champagne he didn't expect to be placed at his table. He licked his lips.

Like a second skin, Bren attached herself to Trey, both hands clamping onto his arm—no way was she letting go.

Serg laughed. "Why so afraid,
chica
? I don't bite."

Bren's face warmed.

Trey stepped in front of her, her hands falling away, for once his rudeness welcomed. "Gas tank full?" His voice was clipped. Clearly done with their introduction, he set his attention on the jeep. He bent down to check the undercarriage, stood, and moved toward the front and popped the hood. "Fresh battery?"

"Yes, amigo." Serg nodded. "Extra guns under the back seat if we need it."

Trey shut the hood with a thud and wiped his hands on his jeans.

"Hey."

She froze until a warm hand clasped her shoulder. Bren swung around. "I don't like him."

Rafe's brows rose. "You talking about Serg?"

"You know him?" Her eyes widened.

"Mexican Marine. They, in this case, he, works with Trey on the Mexican side."

Bren hunkered down in the back seat next to Rafe. The gun given to him by Trey no longer rested concealed in the waistband of his jeans but on the seat next to him. Hands rough with ranch work, but yet capable of tenderness, held tight to the grip of the semiautomatic, his finger resting on the trigger.