Paradise falls a romanti.., p.43
Paradise Falls (A Romantic Suspense), page 43
Faisal groaned but did not speak as Jacob cleaned and bandaged his wound. It was bad. The bullet went into his intestines. Not a fatal shot but it would be painful and the recovery difficult.
Finally, Faisal spoke.
“What are you going to do?”
He took a breath.
“Fix it. Save her.”
“You need help, Jacob,” said Ana. “You’re in bad shape.”
“No time. Help patch me up.”
First he had to staunch his own bleeding. He crushed a clot pad from his drawer of supplies over his shoulder, tore off his shirt and bandaged the wound. He couldn’t have it troubling him, so he wrapped it up in duct tape, around and around to make a brace. The compression would help the joint.
He didn’t have time to change, so he put on his ballistic vest over his bare chest, then his reinforced gloves and arm guards. The stupid shoulder pads were still on order. He stopped, leaning on the desk. Faisal went quiet, but he was breathing.
“Call for help,” said Jacob, to Ana. “Get him to a hospital.”
“They’ll find everything.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m going to use the crash dive.”
Faisal looked at him.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Nothing matters anymore. Nothing but Jennifer.”
“The bad men took Miss Jennifer,” Kelly said, sounding half her age.
“I know,” said Jacob. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to make them safe. Then I’m going to hurt them really bad.”
He opened the vault. Jennifer would need her rifle when he found her. He slung the case over his shoulder. He took one for himself, strapped on a backpack, his bug-out bag with the gear he would need. Friend-or-foe tags for the Martyr’s automatic fire control system, his medical kit, a bug-out bag full of miscellaneous gear.
One last thing, oddly out of place among all his state-of-the-art, advanced gear.
Then he started the program on the computer, typed in the password. No matter what happened his work would not be in vain, but that was an afterthought now.
He stooped beside Faisal, and Faisal squeezed his hand.
“I forbid you to die,” said Jacob.
“It is in God’s hands,” Faisal said. “Go.”
He turned to Ana.
“Lock the door behind me. Call our people at the hospital. Don’t open up for anybody else. We don’t know who we can trust.”
Ana nodded.
Before he went up the stairs, Hailey stopped him.
“She’ll want her purse,” she said. It was Jennifer’s.
Jacob almost waved it away, before he felt its weight. It had her father’s gun in it. He took it by the handle and carried it up with him.
Jacob forced himself to sprint up the stairs. Any slower and he’d slow down even more. His leg was screaming- it felt like he torqued his knee in the crash and banged his hip, but if there was nothing broken he had no time to deal with it now. He limped out the back door, left it hanging open, and went into the carriage house through the back to the Martyr.
There she was, two tons of fury in black steel, two huge wheels in front and a single massive caterpillar tread in the back, the body slung between them. With the cockpit over the big, heavily treaded tires, the front end of the big beast reminded him of some particularly aggressive, nasty spider.
Jacob opened the hatch, climbed in the Martyr and started her up. The raging snarl of the engine filled the structure, shook dust from the rafters. He opened the throttle and hurled her forward, out into the open air.
“I need everything you got, baby,” he said, to the machine. “She needs us.”
If anyone tried to stop him from reaching her, he would kill them all.
3.
Jennifer tucked the tiny sliver of metal the fold between her palm and fingers as the car pulled off the road. For the rest of the trip she said nothing. She simply sat there and wept quietly. It did not take much work to keep up the illusion.
While she rode, she was watching. She knew this place, these roads. There was an old, abandoned truck stop, just off the interstate. It had been abandoned long enough for thin weeds to creep up between cracks in the parking lot, but not long enough for the windows to be smashed out or the structure to start to buckle. A good hiding place.
When the car stopped, Grinder stepped out without a word and was interrupted before he could turn to open her door and yank her out.
“Boss, we got a call from Elliot.”
“The fuck does he want?”
“He knows we’ve got the girl. He says he’s bringing the cops with him.”
“Shit,” said Grinder. “I’ll call him. Get the bitches out. Get her in the game room and lock her up.”
A biker she’d never seen before opened the door. Jennifer braced herself, let them pull her out and lead her inside, careful to keep the needle in her hands while keeping them mostly relaxed, fingers loose.
“Jenn!” Katie shrieked.
Before Jennifer could answer, one of the Leviathans cracked Katie across the mouth, and silenced her. Her head lolled, and came back up. Jennifer met her gaze, her stomach twisting at the sight of her little sister’s split lip.
Faster, Jacob. I need you.
They pushed her inside as they led Jennifer into a different part of the building. This was the ‘game room’, she surmised, going by the disused arcade machines and the pool tables, a cheap kind that took quarters to release the billiard balls. Jennifer sat down on a stool, tall but not so tall she couldn’t put her feet on the floor. Keep your balance.
Two men leered at her and she looked down, shaking with fake sobs as she continued to shape the broken needle.
Then, they left her alone.
Her head shot up. She looked around first to see if she was watched. There was a mirror on the wall, and she first thought it was a one-way, but that was just paranoia. It was some designer’s attempt to make the dingy room look bigger, that was all. There were no cameras she could see, no sign of surveillance, and why would there be? Slowly, she worked the pin into the lock, and stilled herself. She had done this before. Even behind her back a few times. She could get them open one time in four. It would just take time.
Unless she broke the needle, or dropped it.
Deep breath, eyes closed, she worked, slowly, gradually, feeling the tension in the mechanism. Just let go. Just let go.
Almost there.
The crunch of tires on old pavement opened her eyes. She got up off the stool, moved to the grimy, blurry windows, light on her feet. She was starting to ache from her arms behind her back, her head throbbed, her ankle was screaming. There were cars pulling into the lot. Elliot’s big Charger, and two Paradise Falls police cars. Elliot got out of his car and slammed the door. Ellison emerged from one of the other cars, but his father, Calvin Carlyle, was driving. Grayson stepped out of the passenger’s seat of Elliot’s car. His arm was still in a sling.
Elliot was yelling, but his voice was just a muffled thrum against the windows. He almost shoved his way inside. Ellison limped in with his boot cast, his hand on his gun. His father pulled his sidearm out.
Jennifer retreated to the stool and sat down, and waited.
There was yelling outside.
Then Elliot came in to the game room and shoved the doors shut behind him. He felt around for the lock, a simple bar that slid to lock the doors together, and closed it. Then he stormed over to Jennifer.
“Did they hurt you?”
Jennifer welled up and spat in his face.
Elliot recoiled as if he’d been hit, swiped at his face with one hand and raised the other to slap her, before stilling himself.
“Listen to me,” she said.
“No. You listen. I’m going to fix this. You are not going to defy me anymore, do you understand?”
Jennifer looked him right in the eye.
“Elliot-“
“Shut up. We’re leaving. You’re coming with me.”
“They have my sister.”
“That’s right. They’re gonna have her, unless you behave. That means you get up and walk out of here with me right now. Then maybe in a few days when you’re calmed down you can see her again.”
“What about Jacob?”
“What about Jacob?” Elliot repeated, in a sing-song imitation of her voice. “Jacob is fucked, that’s what’s about Jacob. No more fucking around. Grinder is making a phone call. He’s probably already dead.”
No. He wasn’t. Jennifer just knew. She could feel it, the way she could feel her arm… or the needle working in the lock. All she needed was one hand free.
Elliot moved closer. He touched her, put his hand on her cheek in some freakish imitation of tenderness. He probably saw it in a movie or something. There was nothing in him but base hatred. He hated her for not giving into him when he wanted, the way a child might hate a toy for breaking. She saw him clearly now, like he was made of glass, but found her own hate lacking. He was just pitiful. He tried to kiss her and she pulled away.
“What is wrong with you?” he said.
“Wrong with me?” she hissed. “Do you hear yourself? You’ve been nothing but a blight on my life, you miserable pile of puke. You stole something from me. I couldn’t be happy because of you. Then… do you even realize what you’re doing? Do you think these people will just hand Katie over to you? Or me?”
“I don’t care what happens to that fat cow,” he snapped.
“Of course you don’t. You don’t care about anybody but yourself. You didn’t care that your brother died and you don’t care about your sister, either.”
He pulled back, as if slapped.
“What?”
“Katie is your half sister. Your father has been sleeping with my mother since before any of us were born. Katie is his daughter. I hate you, and your sick father and your uncle. You’re a disease, a blight on the lives of everyone around you. You can drop whatever sick fantasy you have about ‘together’ with me, Elliot. I’ll die before I ever let you touch me again.”
“No,” he snapped, shaking her by the arms. “That’s not how it is. Dad is going to be President. I’m going to run for Congress when he runs. Uncle Adam is going to be the governor. One day I’m going to be President, and you’re gonna be the first lady. Your face will be on magazines in the supermarket. You and our kids.”
“You’re insane,” Jennifer said, matter-of-factly.
He grabbed her arm, and pulled her off the stool.
“You’re mine.”
“I don’t belong to you.”
“We’re leaving.”
Click.
Elliot froze. Jennifer slipped the cuff off one wrist, grabbed it, held it like brass knuckles. With all her might she pivoted on her fist and aimed right at Elliot’s nose, feeling pain jolt up her arm from the impact. Elliot stumbled back, let go, clutched at his face where blood streamed over his lips and chin.
“My fudding node, you bidch-“
Jennifer cried out in fury and hurled herself at him, bowled him over and they went down together. Elliot took the force of the fall, grunting as his shoulder hit the hard floor.
Elliot was the quarterback and captain of the team. Jennifer was strong, fast, and lithe, but Elliot was Elliot and he grabbed her arm in a crushing grip and slammed her to the floor. Her head bounced on the concrete and white flashed in her vision. Elliot threw himself on top of her and his hands closed around her throat. His face was a mask of fury, his teeth stained by his own blood from his crooked nose. His hands crushed her throat, his thumbs dug into her windpipe.
Jennifer almost reached for his hands, to free her neck, to struggle and scratch and claw and kick until the world faded to black.
“You fucking whore,” Elliot snarled, “I’ll kill you.”
Almost. Someone had been teaching her, and Elliot was Elliot and she knew what that tell-tale bulge under his left arm was. Her hand snaked up inside his suit jacket and there was a brief look of confusion on his face as she snapped the safety strap and pulled the sleek little automatic free and jammed it under his chin.
“Hands up. Now. Now, God damn you.”
Elliot let go of her neck and raised his hands.
“You so much as flinch and I will shoot you, Elliot. Hands on your head and get off me.”
He recoiled, scooting back on his knees. Jennifer sat up, never taking the sights off his face, or her finger from the trigger.
“Mags?” she said.
“What?”
“More bullets, idiot. Slowly.”
He reached into his pocket and drew out an extra magazine. It was nickel plated, like the gun. Jennifer tilted it a little.
“Elliot, you have a pearl handled pistol,” Jennifer said. A pearl handled pistol!
“Fuck you,” he snarled. “You’re not going anywhere and you’re not going to shoot me. You’re too much of a-“
She tightened her grip and aimed right between his eyes.
“Elliot, if there is anyone in this world I have no problem killing in cold blood, it’s you. Now get up. Face away from me and keep your hands on your head.”
He turned, still on his knees, as Jennifer leaned on the pool table and got to her feet. The other side of the handcuffs was still around her wrists. Worry about that later. She needed a plan, desperately.
If it was just her she’d take Elliot hostage, take a car and leave.
She almost giggled. The adrenaline, maybe. Listen to yourself! Just take him hostage.
A shake of her head cleared out the cobwebs.
“Get up. Slowly. We’re going to walk outside.”
As he stood, she took his collar in her hand and pressed the muzzle of the pistol to the back of his head.
“Move too fast, and I’ll pull the trigger. Open the door and call out.”
Trembling, Elliot opened the door and stepped through. Jennifer prodded him along and he called out, “Hey.”
She could hear it in his voice.
He was afraid.
He’s afraid of me.
Everything ground to a halt. Grinder and Calvin Carlyle looked over and from their expressions, one would think a unicorn just walked out of the old game room. Carlyle pulled his pistol, as did his son, Ellison. Grayson reached for something under his coat. Grinder went for his knife.
“Nobody move,” said Jennifer.
“Put the gun down, missy,” said Calvin, calmly.
Jennifer blinked. She’d never actually had a conversation with him before.
“No,” she said. She edged away from the door, to get some cover for her back. “Get my sister in here. We’re taking Elliot with us.”
“Or what?” said Grinder.
“Do whatever you do and explain why a United States Senator’s son got his brains blown out all over you.”
“You don’t have the balls.”
“Yes she does,” Ellison chirped. “She’s fucking crazy.”
“Yeah,” said Elliot. “She is.”
“Shut up, boys,” said Calvin Carlyle. “Girl, you don’t understand what’s going on here. We’ll take your sister and you come with us.”
“Not a chance in hell. My sister. Now.”
“Do it,” Elliot gurgled. “Just fucking do what she says before she shoots me. I swear to God if I get hurt my daddy will kill everyone in this goddamn building.”
“Damn it, boy,” Carlyle said, stepping closer.
“Unload your weapon,” Jennifer said calmly, “The rest of you, too. Field strip them. I’m not moving if I think I’m going to expose my back and one of you is armed. I’m not stupid.”
“Do it,” Elliot pleaded. “Please do it.”
Calvin Carlyle cleared his throat.
“I’m not disarming myself in a room full of these leathered up fuckheads.”
Grinder glared at him.
“How can he even take apart a knife?” said Ellison.
“Shut up,” Calvin snapped.
“Ellison,” said Jennifer. “You’re in charge of disarming everyone. You first. Screw with me and think of what will happen when Jacob gets his hands on you next time. I won’t stop him.”
Ellison swallowed.
“Boy,” Calvin Carlyle said, in warning.
Then his head was gone.
Jennifer flinched when the red mist hit her. The window crashed in, and Calvin Carlyle, chief of the Paradise Falls police department, bowled over, away from the window, the far side of his head fanning open and the contents blasting out in a cone that sprayed Grinder with gore and sent him reeling, before a red dot appeared on his chest, followed a moment later by a loud, wet slap and more blood painting the wall behind him. Ellison turned, flailing with his gun, threw himself down.
Grayson was too slow. A bullet caught him in the head and he slumped back against the wall and slid down in a trail of his own blood.
Jacob? Was it Jacob? He wouldn’t… he wouldn’t kill everyone like that, he wouldn’t… Elliot was screaming, Ellison lay on the floor wailing, the glass was shattered and Jennifer was wet. It was sticky.
A voice. Not Jacob.
“Jennifer Katzenberg. Put down the gun.”
They had her. She didn’t even know who was out there. She tossed the gun aside and put her hands up. Elliot surged forward, laughing, or crying, or both.
“Elliot. Do not move.”
Elliot froze.
“Get us out of here,” he demanded.
“Silence!”
They were surrounded.
4.
Jacob knew of the place. He also knew the shortest distance between two points was a straight line, even if the straight line meant plowing through an old woman’s back yard. In a different time, in a different mood, part of him would have thought it was funny. She sat on the back porch of her trailer looking out at the farm field when the Martyr came tearing through her yard, knocked down her clothesline and chewed up a cluster of flower pots.
He’d send her a check.
Stay off the roads. They’d watch the roads and a goddamn tank was far from inconspicuous. He should have had another car for this- something smaller, faster, built for speed, but the Aston Martin was totaled and one of the old K-cars wouldn’t do the job. The front end lifted as he rolled over a berm and into corn stalks, cutting a wide channel through a dairy farmer’s silage field. The little old lady probably called the cops on him. Hopefully they’d just laugh her off and file the “tank smashed my flower pots” report with the cattle mutilations and bigfoot. He opened the throttle as much as he dared, careening over open ground at almost eighty miles an hour.
