Chapter Five

 

 

Dylan moved as fast as his broken foot would allow, trying to put as much distance between them and the four other members of Frankie's posse who'd just touched down in an old Sikorsky helicopter. None of the four were trained fighters. They were street thugs, drug addicts. If he were at one hundred percent, he could’ve outrun them easily. But with Cara and his broken foot, he'd have to rely on outsmarting them, which considering all of them had fried most of their brain cells with narcotics, shouldn't be that hard.

But the foot, that was a serious liability. It throbbed with every step. He pulled out the cell phone, not really surprised when he couldn't get a signal. They were deep in the woods in the middle of nowhere. Right now he needed to find a place to hide for a few hours, then he'd worry about getting a signal. He didn't think Frankie would continue searching after dark. His men didn't have the skills or ability for night recon.

Cara had been uncharacteristically quiet after learning Frankie had called in reinforcements. She hadn't even complained about the grueling pace he'd set or the rough terrain. She just gritted her teeth and marched forward.

"Why are you helping me?"

"Excuse me?"

She huffed. "I asked why you’re helping me. Why aren't you back there with your buddies, lighting up a doobie or something." She mimicked smoking a joint.

He chuckled. He seemed to do that a lot around her. "What makes you think I'm helping you?"

"Well, for one thing, I'm not dead."

"Not yet, but if you don't pick up the pace, that might change."

Just as he hoped, she gave an exasperated sigh and moved faster. He smiled.

"I really want to know why you’re helping me."

"Maybe I'm helping myself, two point five mil worth of product and all. No partner means more profit for me."

"That must be some seriously good stuff for the price to keep going up," she muttered. He chuckled again.

"If that's what you're doing, you could've left me back there when the guy grabbed me, but you didn't. Why did you shoot him to save me?"

He shrugged. "I'm a ruthless bastard. I just like shooting people."

She slapped him on the back. "Cut the crap. Whether you admit it or not, you're helping me. You saved my life twice now. I didn't think drug dealers had a heart."

“Know a lot of drug dealers, do you?”

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbled in frustration.

A smile was becoming a permanent fixture on his face around her. He was having more fun than he’d had in a long time. Pain wiped the grin away. He spotted a small opening in a cropping of rocks. He'd have to camouflage the hole but it should be a good place to hide for a few hours so she could rest and tape his broken foot.

"Over there," he indicated.

Cara glanced around, her eyes widening when she spotted the cave. "You've got to be kidding me."

He shook his head, biting back a smile at the look of horror on her face.

"You mean you want me to crawl into that dark, damp hole with who knows what kind of creatures lurking inside and hanging on the ceiling?"

"Good a place as any to rest for a bit."

She threw out her arms in resignation. "I'm so tired, I don't even care if there are bats in there." She sighed, moving quicker than she had all day. His smile was back.

Dylan swept the narrow opening with a flashlight, finding no critters on the ground or attached to the roof. He was secretly relieved. He wasn't a big fan of flying mammals, either. Cara crawled inside and he shoved the pack in after her. "I'll be back."

Cara grabbed his hand. "Wait—where are you going?"

"I’ve got to gather supplies to camouflage the opening."

She nodded and reluctantly released his hand.

~*~

Cara shivered, more from nerves than fear. She didn’t like dark narrow spaces and she hated creepy critters. Being alone in the cave with dusk settling outside wasn’t her idea of fun. Neither was dying at the hands of an evil drug dealer.

She jumped when a big branch covered the opening, followed by more branches and twigs. It was getting frighteningly dark inside and she had to work to control her breathing. In and out. In and out. Finally Dylan brushed the branches aside and joined her, re-covering the opening from the inside. When he was satisfied, he turned to her and handed her the flashlight.

"Shine it on my foot," he instructed. She noticed him limping when they first started out but she had been so shocked to discover he was a dealer too, she forgot to ask what happened. "Did you twist your ankle?"

"Something like that," he hedged, easing off his boot with a hiss. He carefully peeled off the dirty sock and she sucked in a breath. His foot was hugely swollen and purple.

"Oh, Dylan, it's broken, isn't it?"

"Yeah." He rummaged inside the canvas backpack and pulled out the duct tape she'd found inside the plane. He eased his sock back on, wincing as he taped it tightly.

"You need to see a doctor. Get a cast so it can heal properly."

"You got a doctor handy? I'm more than willing to let him check it out, Red. Otherwise, it'll have to wait until we find somewhere safe."

"Speaking of safe," she started, wanting to know his ideas. "What's our plan…besides avoiding Frankie and his toker gang?"

"That's pretty much it," he admitted, clenching his teeth as he worked his boot back on his broken foot. "There are granola bars and water in the bag. You need to stay hydrated and keep up your energy. And you might want to catch a nap while you can. We need to take off again as soon as it's dark."

Her heart skipped a beat. "We're going out in the forest…in the dark?" Where who knew what creatures lurked in wait. With big teeth and glowing eyes…the better to see you with, my dear.

"Frankie doesn't have the ability to track us at night. They'll regroup and start again in the morning. We'll be long gone before then."

Cara bit back the plea that formed on her lips. Why couldn't they wait until morning when it was light and you could actually see where you were going? You could spot the snake before it dropped from the tree or the wolf before it sunk its sharp fangs into delicate skin, having decided to make you its breakfast.

But she knew the answer. This wasn’t a game. This was real. Frankie was a very bad man with a very deadly gun and a very serious grudge. He wouldn't let them walk away. And she was in way over her head. She had no idea how to hide or what to do to keep them alive. Putting all her faith in Dylan was her only option. That was a frightening thought.

She wanted to sleep, to rest up for the next leg of the journey. But her mind raced. And she was nervous. And when nervous, her mouth wouldn’t stop running. Dylan’s closed eyes didn’t deter her. “Tell me about your family,” she blurted out, looking over to see him crack a lid, his brow raised in annoyance. “Drug dealers have to have parents, don’t they? You didn’t just hatch from a pod, did you?”

“No, Red, I didn’t hatch from a pod. I have parents.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she prodded, “Tell me about them.”

At first, she thought he wouldn’t respond. He didn’t open his eyes, but finally a smile tilted the corner of his lips. “Dad’s former military, a real hard ass. But a marshmallow inside. Mom’s a saint. She reigned over a household full of men—four boys.”

“Sounds like you love them.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Do they know what you do?”

Both lids opened at that question and then narrowed. “What do you think?”

“Then why do you do it? Do you realize that the product you’re selling on the streets is responsible for death and destruction, for harming children?” She was just getting up on her soapbox when he cut her off.

“Save it, Red. I don’t need your do-gooder attitude right now. I just need sleep.” He closed his eyes again and shifted into a more comfortable position. She wasn’t to be daunted.

“My Dad’s a pediatrician. My mom's a teacher. They’ve devoted their lives to bettering the lives of children.”

“You telling me they'd be appalled to know you were shacked up with a low-life scumbag right now?” His eyes were still closed, a smug smile playing at his lips.

“They wouldn’t be happy, that’s for sure. And we're in a cave not a shack,” she grumbled.

“Then don’t tell them. But for Heaven’s sake, let me get a few minutes of peace.”

Cara snapped her lips together, shooting him a mulish look he couldn’t see for his closed eyes. She was actually exhausted from the trek through the woods. “Move over,” she ordered, trying to share some of the jacket he’d wadded up as a pillow. The ground was hard and damp. Uncomfortable and unforgiving. Before she knew it, she was fast asleep.

~*~

Frankie forged his way back to the plane, hoping that one of the other men had found Davidson and the girl. They had a very narrow window to meet the deadline. He checked his watch. If they left now, they might just make it.

He didn’t have the number for the contact. Davidson was the only one who did. That made Frankie nervous. He wanted to let the man know they might be late, but they would be there as promised.

A muffled sound caught his attention. It sounded like sobs. He rushed forward to see Bob trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey, his shirt stained with blood. He ripped off the tape covering his eyes and mouth. Bob sucked in huge gasps of air.

“Untie me,” he pleaded. “My arm's killing me.”

“Who did this to you?” Frankie asked as he severed the bonds.

Bob clutched his arm, howling like a baby. Frankie inspected the injury.

“Good grief, it’s just a flesh wound. Pipe down.”

“It hurts,” Bob whined.

“Who shot you?”

“That asshole Davidson.”

Frankie jerked back. Dylan had shot Bob? Why? “Tell me what happened.”

“I was waiting here, just like you said. I look up and there was the redhead. She was rummaging around in the plane. I snuck up behind her and grabbed her. I was going to tie her up and call you. Then the bitch elbowed me and the next thing I know, I’m shot. That bastard Davidson shot me! Then he tied me up and gagged me. I thought I was going to die.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake, it’s barely a scratch. Why did Davidson shoot you?”

Bob shrugged then winced, sniffling again as he grabbed his arm. “He was inside the plane. I didn’t even see him.”

Frankie jumped up and ran to the cargo door. Blood throbbed in his ears, his pulse pounded. The rest of the stash was gone.

Spots danced before his eyes. He forced himself to breathe before he passed out. Davidson tried to screw him, take all of the supply. He was probably headed to the meet without him.

You don't screw with Frankie Francona and live to tell the story.

Davidson was a dead man walking.