Broken Hero Page 11

  I crouch down beneath the windows as I pass them but hear the raised voices of the men inside punctuated by the sound of Tommy taking a beating. All I can hope is that's as far as it goes. That if they don't find me there, they'll leave him alone. I bite back the tears and the choked sob that threatens to erupt from my throat, when I hear Tommy groaning, as he takes punch after punch. I have no doubt the others are spread out through the house looking for me, so I'm moving as quickly and quietly as I can.

  When I reach my car, I open the door and jump inside as quickly as I can. That's when I hear the gunshots ring out. I let out a scream as I hear one, two, three, and four blasts echo through the night. Slamming the door, I fumble with the keys in my trembling hand. Tears blur my vision, but I finally manage to turn the key, my car roaring to life, just as I see the men emerging from the house.

  Throwing the car in reverse, I stomp on the accelerator, the tires chirping on the pavement, as I shoot backward. I hear the crackle of gunfire and feel the slugs hitting the car, making it tremble with each impact. Once I'm on the street, I jam it in gear, and stomp on the accelerator again, the tires squealing as I rocket out into the night.

  My entire body is shaking, and the tears roll down my face, completely unchecked. My heart is broken for Tommy. He didn't have to die. He didn't have to sacrifice himself like that. Not for me. I slam my fist on the steering wheel, the most plaintive howl I've ever heard bursting from my throat.

  I quickly scrub the tears from my eyes. I can mourn for Tommy later. Right now, I need to focus on surviving. Headlights flare on the road behind me, and my stomach lurches.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I mutter.

  I take a quick right and shoot down a side street. I'm driving way too fast for residential streets and am just hoping nobody steps out in front of me. My first thought is to run to the police department. Maybe the local Sheriff can help me. That thought though is quickly followed by the realization that if I do that, I'm putting more innocent people at risk. The men who work for this cartel are brutal, and they are ruthless. They won't hesitate to kill anybody who gets in their way. And I've had enough innocent people killed on my behalf. I won't put anybody else in jeopardy.

  I grit my teeth, and take the next left, heading for the highway. I'd already plugged the address Parr had given me into the car's GPS system. If I can just reach that destination, I might have a chance. Parr has me meeting somebody he trusts. Which means, he's sending me to a federal agent. An armed federal agent. Maybe more than one, I don't know. All I know for sure is that I'm going to stand a much better chance of surviving this if I can get to some help, get to some people trained to deal with this kind of a threat, rather than risking the lives of innocents.

  The headlights turn the corner behind me. They're drawing closer. My little car isn't built for speed, and it's only going to be a matter of time before they catch up to me. Steeling my nerves, I take the onramp up to the highway and mash the accelerator again. The engine whines as I push the car to its limits.

  Lightning flashes in the sky in the distance, a thick spiderweb-like bolt crawling down from the heavens to touch the earth. The headlights behind me are drawing ever closer. The more powerful engine of the SUV they're driving, making me feel like I'm at a standstill. A car passes me, going the other way, and I have to fight the urge to flash my lights and honk my horn – not wanting to draw innocents into this fight.

  “Come on, come on,” I cry, as I pound the steering wheel.

  No matter what I do though, those headlights grow ever closer. My heart is stuttering, and my gut is churning. There's no way I'm going to make it to the place Parr pointed me to. Not before they overtake me. What in the hell was I thinking? Why didn't I just go to the Sheriff?

  The jolt from behind is sudden, and it's strong. It throws me into the steering wheel, the hit so hard, it nearly knocks the breath out of me. They hit me again, but this time I brace myself, so the impact isn't quite as jarring. Still, they hit me from behind so hard, I yelp in fear when the back window shatters. The roar of their engine fills the car and drowns out my screaming.

  When they hit me a third time, I realize instantly that I'm in trouble. I feel the rear end of the car sliding like I'm on ice, and I have no control over what's happening. I feel dizzy and sick to my stomach as I'm spun around several times, my car completely out of control.

  When I see the edge of the bluff that runs alongside the highway growing closer and closer, I scream. The SUV's engine roars once more, as it hits me from the side one more time, driving me closer to the edge – and then over it. For a moment, I'm totally weightless, and the world around me is eerily silent.

  It's like I've been dropped into a sensory deprivation tank or something. But then the world explodes in sound and sensation, as the squeal of tortured and twisted metal fills the air. I'm rocked back and forth, my body being tossed around like a rag doll, though I remain pinned in my seat by the belt.

  My car bounds down the rocky incline then starts to roll over, and over, and all of the things I wish I could have done with my life begin to flash through my mind, as do the faces of the people I've loved – the people I miss. People I know, in that moment, I'll never see again. Ever.

  There's one last thunderous crash, and my body is jolted and rocked, an explosion of pain erupting within me – and then my entire world goes black.

  Chapter Twelve

  Baker

  I don't even know how long I've been sitting in my office, poring over the file Walt left for me. Feels like hours. I've read every page of every report in the file and perused all of the files on the thumb drive that was included – including the video files of interviews she's had with the Marshals. I've absorbed every bit of information about the case – and about Isla Nelson – as humanly possible. I feel like I know everything there is to know about her.

  But, as I stare at the picture clipped to the front of the folder, stare into those dazzling green eyes, look at the contours of her cheeks framed by hair the color of autumn leaves, and her alabaster-colored skin, I understand that I truly know nothing about the woman. Not what drives her. Not what makes her tick, or gets under her skin, and lights her up.

  Oh, sure, I know all of the basics about her and her life. I know about her relationship with her brother, when her parents passed away, what she studied in college, and every address she's ever lived at. I know every superficial detail about Isla Nelson I could ever want to know.

  And yet, I find, as I stare into those lively eyes, that I want to know more. A lot more.

  I can't even begin to unravel the Gordian knot of my feelings in that moment. I don't even understand what it is I'm feeling. But, those eyes, and the strength – defiance – I heard in her voice on the video and audio files, really struck a chord within me. In so many ways, she is so different from Jenny, but in so many others, she's so very similar as well.

  I'm pretty sure that's exactly why Walt left the file for me. He knew I'd read it and see the similarities between Jenny and Isla. He knew that I'd let myself get sucked back into things and feel compelled to help. Or at least, he's very strongly hoping I do.

  Walt knows me better than I know myself at times, and it sucks.

  As I sit there, cursing his name, my cell phone rings.

  “Oh, speak of the devil,” I mutter, drawing a curious head-tilt from Stabler, who's reclining on his bed across the room.

  When I don't say anything else, he lays his head back down and lets out a long sigh. Picking up my phone, I connect the call and press it to my ear.

  “I think you left something here –”

  “No time for that, kid,” he interjects. “We're in real trouble. Specifically, Isla is in real trouble. You read the file; I assume?”

  “You knew I would.”

  “The cartel knows where she's at. Zavala was tipped,” he says, a note of strain in his voice. “They're coming for her, Baker. I need your help.”

  Walt isn't one to panic, and h
e sure as hell isn't one who willingly asks for help. He's a tough man with an old school mentality, and he's the kind of guy who takes pride in being able to do things for himself. To have him break character, and sound more like a parent scared out of their mind for their child, feels like a sharp, swift kick in the nuts.

  I open my mouth to protest, to tell him this really isn't my problem. I want to tell him that I'm no longer a U.S. Marshal and that I can't get involved. I don't want to be. That life is no longer my life, and I can't be responsible for another person, only to fail them yet again, and have them wind up dead.

  When I hear the words that come out of my mouth though, I groan inwardly. Though I'm not entirely surprised, I still want to kick myself in the ass.

  “What do you need me to do?” I ask.

  “I'm sending the app with the tracking beacon on her car to your phone,” he says. “I have her on the move already.”

  “It's an unsecured line, Walt,” I say.

  “No time,” he snaps. “I need you to get to her, get her out, and protect her. Take her back to that fortress you're living in and sit on her. Nobody can know she's there.”

  The idea of bringing her back here, of exposing my small piece of the world to her, and the men who are hunting her, fills me with existential dread. I've worked hard to be anonymous and remain in the shadows. I prefer life this way. I prefer my solitude. The last thing I want is to bring the cartel, and the war they'll bring with them, into my place of tranquility.

  On the other hand, I have a hard time saying no to Walt. The man is like my brother, and he's pulled my ass out of harm's way more than once – both in the Corps and as a Marshal. More than that though, I know that I'll have a harder time leaving Isla in the wind like that, with wolves nipping at her heels. I know firsthand just how cold and ruthless the cartel is and know what they'll do to her if they catch up with her.

  Though I'm not involved, and I don't know – let alone owe – this woman a thing, I somehow now feel like I am, and I do. And I know that if they catch and kill her, the woman's death will weigh heavy on my conscience, nonetheless.

  “I'm on it,” I say. “I'll fetch your girl and babysit her for a bit. But you need to get your ass here on the double, Walt. I can't get pulled back into this shit.”

  “You have my word,” he promises. “I'll be there to grab her as soon as I can.”

  “Okay, send the information,” I tell him. “I'm leaving now to get out to her.”

  “One more thing before you go, kid,” he says.

  “Yeah?”

  “Go strapped. And go heavy,” he says, his voice grim. “These guys aren't going to be fucking around.”

  I let out a long breath. Yeah, this is just getting better and better.

  I pull to a stop on the highway as a peal of thunder crashes overhead. I look up and see lightning flashing all around inside the clouds, lighting up patches of the sky all over the place. It's beautiful, yet eerie as hell. The storm is definitely coming, and with it getting as cold as it has been lately, I don't doubt it's going to bring some snow flurries with it. It would be best to grab Isla, and get her to safety sooner, rather than later. The last thing we need is to get caught outside when the storm hits.

  I check the app on my phone, calling up the map. The red dot is glowing right about where I'm standing, which means she should be around here. But, there's nothing in front of, or behind me, except for open highway. A couple of big rigs blow by, kicking up a cold rush of wind, and plenty of gravel that pings off me and my truck.

  I'm staring at the dot on my screen and walk forward a few steps. The crunching of something hard and plastic beneath my boot draws my attention. Squatting down, I pick it up and see that it's a busted piece of a taillight. Common enough on the side of the road, but as I look at it, I feel a sinister, yet familiar, sense of dread. It's a feeling I had often when I was in the Corps and working as a Marshal. It's my gut instinct. It's the warning bells inside my head that tell me when something is amiss. It's an intuition that's served me well – and kept me alive – for a long time now, so I know I need to heed it.

  As I squat there, staring at the small shard of plastic, lightning flares overhead, and the road ahead of me sparkles with an entire field of broken glass and plastic. The thunder rumbles like a hungry beast, as I stand up, and follow the trail. As I walk, my eyes are drawn to the steep embankment that runs alongside the highway, and those warning bells in my head grow even louder.

  When I see the tire tracks, skid marks, and the busted guard rail, my stomach lurches. I don't know how, but I just seem to know that when I look over the embankment, I'm going to see Isla's car down there. Quickly stepping to the edge, I peer down into the darkness below.

  “Fuck,” I mutter.

  I can see one dim headlight, and the crushed, mangled car pinned up against a tree on the embankment beneath me. Isla's car. It has to be. And judging by the amount of debris on the highway behind me, she had some help getting down there. I don't believe for a second that she simply lost control of her vehicle and went sailing over the edge on her own.

  Which means, the cartel boys have already found her.

  What I don't know, is whether or not she's even still in the car – or if she is, whether or not she's even still alive. From having lived here, and hiked these woods, I know there's a fire road that cuts through the forest down there that will get me close enough that I can get to the wreckage. I have to assume the cartel boys do as well, so if she is in there, I know time is running short.

  Running back to my truck, I hop in, and take off, driving as fast as possible to the offramp I can use to double back to the fire road. I feel every second passing because it's a second less that Isla has to live. That is, if she's not out of time already.

  I cut sharply off the street, and onto the fire road, my truck jostling and bouncing along the rutted dirt path. The trees of the forest press close on either side and the thick canopy overhead blots out what little light there is, making the world around me seem darker than the deepest reaches of space.

  As I come around a bend, my headlights flare off something in the road ahead of me – another car. A black SUV sits abandoned in the middle of the fire road, and I have no doubt it belongs to the Zavala Cartel. I have no idea how much of a head start they have on me, but I have the advantage of knowing these woods like the back of my hand, while they'll be fumbling around – quite literally – in the dark.

  Pulling to a stop behind it, I quickly jump out, my weapon in hand. Rushing over to the driver's side of the SUV, I yank the door open to confirm that it is, in fact, empty. It is. There is nobody inside. The trouble is, I don't know how many of them are out there. Could be as many as eight, based on the number of seats inside the SUV.

  Anger blended in with a million different feelings surge within me. Slipping the knife from the sheath on my belt, I drive it into two of the SUV's tires. The blade slides into the hardened rubber, and air immediately starts to hiss when I pull it out again. I repeat the process on another tire, before slipping the blade back into the sheath and retrieving my weapons from my truck.

  It's a good thing Walt told me to come strapped because I hate walking into an unknown situation. I have no idea how many there are, or what they're armed with. I slip my sidearm back into the holster on my hip and check the magazine in my AR-15. Better to come overdressed to a party, rather than underdressed.

  Satisfied I have all I need, I turn and dash off into the forest, heading toward the highway along a soft deer path that cuts through the trees. It's about a fifteen-minute run from the fire road to the base of the embankment. I just hope I can get there in time.

  I move through the forest quietly, my training in Force Recon serving me well, as always. Up ahead in the distance, I hear voices echoing back to me. Zavala's men. I pause for a moment, and I strain my ears to listen. After a moment, I can make out three distinct voices. Though, I don't want to presume there are only three. Flying in on assumptio
ns is sure to get me – and Isla – killed.

  I pick my way along the deer path, my weapon at the ready. I'm approaching the base of the embankment, and shelter behind the trees. Peeking out, I see four men standing with their backs to me, looking up at the car stuck against the trees about twenty yards up the embankment. I don't speak Spanish, but it seems obvious, they're arguing about who's going up to check the wreckage.

  I watch as two of them clamber clumsily, and awkwardly, up the rocky hillside. With all four of them distracted, I seize my opportunity. Stepping out from behind the tree, I close to within about thirty yards of the two men on the forest floor and bring my weapon to bear. Visions of Jenny float through my mind, as well as snippets from that night that seems so long ago. I feel the anger well up within me and feel it consuming me like a snake might devour a mouse.

  Knowing that I have no other choice if I want to get Isla and myself out of this, I fire off two quick bursts. The shots hit the two men in the back, and they drop like sacks of rocks. The cartel men will show no mercy, so I can't either.

  The sound of gunfire draws the attention of the two men on the embankment. They try to turn on the steep, uneven slope and draw their weapons at the same time. The first man slips, and goes down on his back, his weapon firing uselessly into the air. The second man is on better footing though and takes a couple of quick shots. They slam into a tree trunk a few yards away.

  Raising my weapon, I fire off a controlled burst. The bullets tear into the ground around him, and he jumps, stumbling down, and dropping to a knee. As he goes down, he loses his gun. I see him scrambling for it, so I fire off another quick burst. He goes face down and is still. The fourth man is back on his feet and is bringing his gun up. I squeeze the trigger on my weapon, see the muzzle flash, and watch as he falls backward.