Keep My Baby Safe Page 7

  “Where are we?” Grace asked over the rush of wind through the jeep’s open top and side.

  “Close to Tuerto, which is where I’m trying to get before we abandon the jeep,” Tony answered. He glanced her way when she didn’t speak, her frown deep as she thought.

  “I’ve…never heard of Tuerto,” she told him, and he felt her eyes on his face. “Is it a suburb of Matamoros?”

  “We’re two hundred miles from Matamoros and the border,” he informed her and listened to her gasp.

  “Jesus, I must have been unconscious for hours the day they kidnapped me,” she said quietly, awe in her voice. She touched the mark on her forehead and didn’t speak again for several minutes.

  He waited and let her process the information he knew she had to be gathering in her head. Charles had explained to him that she was one of the smartest women he’d ever met, so he would let her figure out in her own time the danger they were in.

  “How are we getting home?” she finally asked, her voice giving no emotion away.

  “I have some friends in Tuerto who will get us a car, but that’s about the extent of the help we’ll receive,” Tony told her truthfully. He wanted her fully aware of the circumstances. He felt she was strong enough to handle it.

  “You said you found me through a spy?” she asked after another long silence.

  He heard the suspicion in her tone and was proud of her for having it. She should trust no one after the ordeal she’d been thrown into the past week. “I visited Adelaida, where you were last seen. The bartender was cooperative” —he shrugged— “after some convincing.”

  “What sort of convincing?” she asked, her green eyes staring at him.

  He glanced at her and returned his gaze to the road. The bruises amplified the shade of green, made them stark and brilliant and hard to look away from. “Doesn’t matter. He showed me where the body of your friend had been thrown and—” Her gasp interrupted him and he looked at her again, instantly regretting the harsh words. “I’m sorry.”

  She nodded her head as she bit her lip. With a small hitch in her voice, she said, “I knew he was dead, and I’m not stupid enough to think they buried him like decent human beings. His family will be devastated.”

  “Yes,” he agreed uselessly. “Something to remember, though, Grace. Your family will be devastated.”

  She stared hard at him, her face expressionless as she contemplated his words. With a nod and what he saw as a shift in emotions, from sadness and fear to a hard toughness, she agreed. “You’re right. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it. I’ll do my best not to complain.”

  His respect for her leapt, and he offered her a grin. “You can complain some, but I’ll ignore it.”

  Grace nodded and smiled back. “Um, do you have any water? Or food?”

  “I do have some water bottles in the pack I put in the back,” he told her. He glanced at his wristwatch. “No food, though. As long as no one is behind us, we should be able to get some food in Tuerto before leaving there.”

  “How long before we get there?” she asked as she leaned into the back seat to retrieve the water.

  “Thirty minutes, give or take.”

  Grace guzzled almost an entire bottle in one gulp. She wiped her mouth with her hand, sighing. “I think that’s the best damn water I’ve tasted in my life.”

  “I’ll want to hear your story once we’re out of this mess,” he told her, watching the road.

  “I’ll tell it,” she affirmed. “I plan to tell it to everyone. I have a new mission in life.”

  Afraid of her new-found life purpose, Tony didn’t ask it. They lapsed into silence, and when he looked at her, her head was lolling as if she might fall asleep. She kept jerking herself awake and trying to sit in uncomfortable positions.

  “Grace, you can sleep,” he assured her. “My job is to bring you back, and I will.”

  He looked into her eyes, hoping he looked convincing rather than frightening. The scar on his eyebrow and his general facial expression often scared people, a trait he luxuriated in when working and hated when living his life. But she seemed unaffected by his appearance. She nodded, shifted her body so her head rested against the seat, and fell asleep in seconds.

  Tony glanced at her a few times as he drove, watching the rearview mirror as well. His biggest dream was that Tomas de Velazquez didn’t care enough about this woman to chase them, hunt them. But he’d been bested by her, which to a man like Tomas, whose reputation made him, could be ruinous. Tony pressed on the gas and sped up, hoping the bouncing wouldn’t wake her.

  Tomas sat in his office chair, looking at the two women standing across from him. His oversized desk allowed them five feet of space, but his piercing gaze could penetrate even the toughest of men. Yet he hadn’t frightened Grace McIntyre, not as much as he enjoyed frightening women. These two, however, were not her and could not hold his eyes for more than a few seconds at a time. They understood their mistake meant punishment; Grace would learn the lesson once she was found and returned.

  “Please, explain to me again what happened,” he demanded in a smoothly calm voice.

  The women exchanged a glance, and the smaller of the two, wearing only her bra and panties, stepped six inches closer, unashamed of her lack of clothing. In Spanish with an American accent, she said, “She asked for food. Esmerelda went to the kitchen to get her some fruit. The woman sat on the bed, claiming she was dizzy, and when I moved closer to get her up to dress, she hit me with the lamp.”

  Tomas hummed, a low growl in his throat more than a purr. Anna did have a large bump and a scrape on her head. His eyes roved the room as he thought about the course of action he should take against the two women. Who was guiltier? Esmerelda had left the room even though they’d had orders to stay with her together. He’d known Grace would be cagey, would be creative and try to escape. Anna, on the other hand, had let her guard down and been knocked out by the woman. She had underestimated the prisoner, which was easy to do. He had as well, which irked his pride.

  “Who is more to blame?” he mused aloud as his eyes moved from one woman to the other. Neither spoke, neither took the blame, and neither blamed the other. Satisfied with their loyalty to each other, he smiled slowly. “Your loyalty to each other is admirable. Your loyalty to me is questionable.”

  Esmerelda spoke in a quick, quiet voice. “Senor, we are loyal to you. Without question.”

  He let his vocal cords vibrate in a low, agreeable noise. He placed his elbows on his desk, his fingers in a steeple, and pressed his lips to them. He remained frozen for a time, debating, and when his decision was made, he sat back slowly. One hand dropped to the desk drawer to his right and lifted a gun. Without hesitation, he fired a shot, hitting Esmerelda in the forehead.

  Anna jerked to the side and watched as her partner fell to the floor. Tomas watched her as a line of blood dripped from the wound in her forehead, and coldly, Anna, lifted the dead woman’s head with her foot so the blood didn’t get on the carpet. She returned her gaze to her boss and waited stoically for another gunshot.

  “Thank you for thinking of the carpet,” he murmured appreciatively. Anna nodded but didn’t speak. Although he could see her fear, she didn’t beg or cry. She simply waited. Sighing, he said, “I’m not going to kill you, senorita. You are going to find Grace McIntyre and return her to me, since you lost her.”

  “Forgive me, senor, but may I ask a question?”

  Tomas’ lifted an eyebrow as he reevaluated this woman’s strength, which appeared comparable to Grace’s. She would prove a formidable foe to his wayward prisoner. He bowed his head, giving her permission to ask.

  “Why is this woman so important?”

  “An interesting question,” Tomas answered immediately. After a moment’s thought, he replied, “Because she escaped. And because a man was waiting to help her. Who was that man?”

  “I, um, don’t know,” she told him, frowning darkly. “An American, from what the guards are sayi
ng.”

  “An American,” he repeated. Sucking in a deep breath, he said, “Find them both. Bring them both to me alive. Or contact me and tell me where to come. I want them alive. Kill them, and you will take Grace’s place in my basement.”

  “Yes, senor.” She accepted her fate as if it were expected.

  “Take some men, Carlos and a couple others, and find her,” he ordered. Anna and her men would be twenty minutes behind the pair, but a murder in Tuerto had been reported to him that morning. “Go to Tuerto. Pablo Sanchez was killed. Begin your search there.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “One of my men,” Tomas answered, lifting an eyebrow. “He was a traitor. Find the woman.” She nodded, turned, and hurried out the door.

  Tomas sat back, his handsome face incapable of hiding the rage once he was alone. No one had escaped his clutches before. No man or woman, and this American female had done so with seeming ease. Furious, he rose and marched around the desk to stare down at the body of Esmerelda. As he glared at the offending thing, his control slipped, and he began kicking the body, harder and harder, his boots making whoomp sounds with each contact. He listened to her ribs breaking, enjoying the cracking and wishing the body on his floor were that of Grace, alive and feeling every blow.

  Once he’d exhausted himself, he sat down in his chair, panting. He cursed the woman and her companion as his body calmed and his breathing returned to normal. Serenely, he lifted his phone and ordered two men to come retrieve the body. While they worked, he rose and stared out the window, thinking of every depraved thing he planned to do to Grace after she watched him torture the American man to death, which would break her mind. Then his real fun would begin.

  Chapter 8

  Grace woke with a suddenness that belied her exhaustion, but her body didn’t jerk or otherwise indicate she’d awakened. She had shifted at some point and faced her rescuer, who drove with a somber expression on his face. His eyes didn’t shift from the road, so she studied him through half-closed lids.

  His hair was so short it barely existed on his head, its dark color the only reason she could see it. His eyes were dark, his skin olive-toned, and he was a colossus of a man. Considered tall for a woman, she rarely had to look up so far when a man stood close, and his broad shoulders, thick neck, and muscular, tree-trunk legs were drool-worthy. The scar over his left eyebrow, not visible to her while in the passenger seat, gave him a dangerous edge, one that meant he might kill you or keep you safe, and either could change in the blink of an eye.

  Just as he wanted to know her story, she wanted to know his, but hers was more relevant at the moment. What would she do with this story? She had no pictures to go with it; her camera had remained in her cell when Anna and Esmerelda had dragged her upstairs. Trevor was the writer, and he was gone. A sadness welled in her at the thought of her friend, but she didn’t have time to mourn him. She would cry for him when she was safe, and in his memory, she would tell this story. To the DEA, FBI, CIA, whoever handled this sort of thing, and she would write it, with help, so the world could understand what the cartel was.

  She shifted and sat up, lifting the jeep’s seat to its upright position, and looked out the window as she settled. “Where are we?”

  “Almost to Tuerto,” Tony replied, his deep voice sending a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with fear.

  “Okay.” She stretched and yawned hugely, apologizing.

  He glanced at her. “You should have a couple hours to sleep once we get there.”

  Grace nodded as she reached for the visor to look at the mirror she hoped was there. She lifted the cover and looked at her face, frowning. The bruise on her forehead had mellowed to a sickly green, but her eyes were still purple and blue. Snapping the visor closed, she grumbled under her breath.

  “What?”

  “My face,” she replied angrily. She jerked her hair into a makeshift ponytail and tied it in a knot at the top of her head, hoping it would stay in place. “I never thought I’d have bruises on my face.”

  “You put yourself in dangerous situations for your job,” he commented without taking his eyes off the road. “I’m surprised this is the first time, actually.”

  “You know, I’ve never even come close to being injured while on a job,” she said with a frown, “and I’ve been places that are much worse than this.”

  “A country ravaged by war is nothing like a country run by drug cartels,” Tony told her. “I don’t know if you were raped, doesn’t seem like it. You’re lucky to have nothing more than a few bruises.”

  He doesn’t mince words to protect feelings, that’s for sure, she thought. “You’re right. I am lucky, and based on the story Tomas told me, I’m not only lucky. I’m blessed with a guardian angel.”

  He nodded his head, though his expression revealed nothing. His words, however, were pointed. “If we are captured, that luck will end. I don’t tell you that to scare you. I’m warning you.”

  She stared at his profile, fear renewing its vigor in her. “How do we prevent being captured?”

  “You do exactly as I tell you, when I tell you,” he explained, glancing at her with serious, hard eyes. “I can get you home as long as you don’t do anything stupid.”

  She sniffed petulantly, his words irritating her. “I won’t do anything stupid. I have no desire to see Tomas de Velazquez again in my life, unless it’s to testify against him.”

  He grimaced and shook his head. “You’re an idealist, an admirable trait in other circumstances. In this one, you sound stupid.”

  “Why do I sound stupid?” she asked, trying to control her anger. “The man should go to prison. He’s a murderer, kidnapper, torturer, and drug dealer. I can’t think of anyone who deserves prison more than he does.”

  “Men like de Velazquez don’t go to prison, Grace,” Tony told her slowly, as if he didn’t expect her to understand. “They are killed either by their enemies or by the authorities, or they get away with their crimes due to lack of credible witnesses.”

  “I’ve read several news stories about cartel members going to prison,” she countered, leaning forward in her seat to make her point.

  “Do your research,” he scoffed. “Most of them were lower members, gun runners or assassins. Very rarely do you see a leader put in prison, and if he does go, he’s killed within a month of being there.” Tony shook his head as he looked at her, his almost handsome face determined. “The leaders have men who will take the fall for them, or they kill themselves to save face.”

  Grace leaned back, letting his words settle into her mind as she tried to remember some of the stories she’d read. And as she recalled, his words rang with truth. Meaning Tomas de Velazquez would undoubtedly escape prison. Then I’ll wish for his death, she thought with a sneer of hatred. He’s cruel, heartless, a psychopath. The world would be better without him.

  She kept her thoughts to herself when the jeep slowed as they entered a village smaller than Adelaida. The roads were all gravel or dirt, and the buildings were little more than metal sheds that had been converted to homes and one that might have been a grocer. No one stepped outside to watch as they passed through the hamlet that couldn’t really be called a town or even a village.

  “Are you sure people live here?” she asked as she tried to peer into a shack that had no door. “I haven’t seen a soul.”

  “We’re in de Velazquez’ jeep. They’re probably afraid to step out,” Tony replied, his eyes moving in all directions as the vehicle crawled through the streets. “We won’t see anyone until we get to Pablo’s.”

  “How far is that?”

  He chuckled darkly, without humor. “Pablo doesn’t like people much. He lives on the outskirts where no one bothers him.”

  “And he’s a friend of yours?” she asked curiously, suspicious of everyone in Mexico now.

  “I wouldn’t call him a friend,” he answered. Throughout the conversation, he’d watched everything as if waiting for an ambush, incre
asing Grace’s tension.

  “What would you call him?” She returned her eyes to the terrain, joining his search for bad guys.

  “de Velazquez would call him a traitor. I call him a spy. He calls himself a patriot.”

  “Hmm. Interesting,” Grace said unnecessarily. “Are we safe with him?”

  “You ask too many questions,” Tony grumbled. “We’re as safe here as anywhere at this point.”

  She pursed her lips, his quip cutting her. “I am a reporter, you know.”

  “And now you know why reporters shouldn’t come here,” he grunted. She opened her mouth, ready with a hot reply, when he said, “Quiet. Something’s wrong here.”

  Grace looked through the windshield again and saw that they’d nearly reached what was obviously Pablo’s home, a word used loosely when describing the hovel. The ramshackle building was made of wood and leaned precariously to one side as if the wind was stronger than its walls. The wood had aged to a sickly gray, and there were holes throughout patched with what looked like cardboard. The tin roof was littered with rust and had a tarp thrown over portions of it, obviously to keep the weather at bay. The door—a screen door like the one from the bar—hung from one hinge as if someone had tried to rip it off. To the left of the house was a dilapidated car with what looked like brand-new tires.

  “He lives in there?” Grace asked, distaste filling her as she wondered where he went to the bathroom.

  “Yes.” Tony halted the jeep twenty feet from the shack and turned off the engine. He pulled out his pistol, checked to see how many bullets it still held, cocked it, and alighted from the jeep. When Grace lifted her leg to swing out as well, he stopped her. “Wait here.”

  She scrunched her nose and pressed her lips together. He was a bossy bastard with few manners, and he wasn’t a talkative person. He spoke only if she asked him a question, it seemed. But she’d told him she would do what he said. Anything, if he can get me home, she told herself, putting her pride in her mind closet and shutting the door for the moment. She hated being told what to do, but she wasn’t so stupid as to believe she was in her element.