Page 182 of Lone Star

~*~

Behind the wheel of the stolen Mercedes – the one with the intact windshield – Candy drove with one hand, his right settled in his lap. He could still feel the sluggish trickle of fresh blood running down inside his sleeve, though the fabric had long since soaked through and gummed to his skin. His hand was cold and tacky with it, sticking to the denim over his thigh where it rested.

In the passenger seat, Albie rode with his gun in his lap, gaze darting from windshield to window, toe tapping in the footwell. He was as unraveled as Candy had ever seen him: chewing his lips, breathing in loud, repetitive sighs through his nose.

He could relate. The drive was taking forever, even though it was only a handful of miles. He was running stop signs and passing cars when he could, the steady throb of pain in his wounded arm a stimulant that kept all his senses on high alert.

“I should’ve driven,” Fox said from the backseat. He was perched in the center, leaning forward between them; he’d been loading guns up until a moment ago.

Candy’s hand tightened on the wheel, a spasm of protest at the idea. This was his old lady in danger; it was his job to get to her. He passed another car on a double-yellow and earned a honk for it, barely getting merged again before the oncoming car’s headlights flashed them angrily. “No.”

“You’re bleeding to death and he’s jumpy as a cat,” Fox said. “Both useless.”

Candy didn’t grace that with a response. He drove.

The blue-white headlights cut a wide swath through the dark. Past open stretches, and houses, and storefronts.

“In five-hundred feet…”Albie’s GPS intoned politely,“turn right.”

Candy’s pulse found another gear, and his eyes found the street sign, a flicker of shiny green just beyond the headlights’ range. He braked early, and hard and threw the Benz into the turn with a screech of expensive tires.

“You need to slow down,” Fox said. “We want to glide up nice and easy, like we’re supposed to be there, yeah? Don’t want him to know it’s us.”

Reluctantly, Candy eased off the gas, and let the long boulevard of the subdivision use up their excess speed. It was a new-construction neighborhood, one of those planned communities with baby trees planted in each yard – tied up with lines and stakes, oh the irony – and a bunch of two-story stone-and-stucco houses that were all clones of one another save the stray unique garage door or trim paint.

Cantrell had given the house number, all of which gleamed in gold numbers on the mailboxes. And he’d said it had a pale blue door.

Candy slowed to a crawl, knuckles white on the wheel, and searched.

~*~

Michelle couldn’t believe their luck: Luis had been gone for a full minute now. She could hear the murmur of several voices downstairs. He was talking to someone, coordinating with his people – which meant that, even if they got past Luis, there were other men to get past. But she’d worry about that later; worry about the fact that their luck surely wouldn’t hold.

For now, she wanted to grab on with both hands and take every advantage.

Axelle got her second ankle cuff unhooked and staggered to her feet, wobbly and uncertain as a new foal. “Oh, God.” She ghosted a hand toward the back of her head.

“We’ve got concussions,” Michelle said. “Take your time. Don’t fall.”

“Time,” Axelle breathed on a forced laugh, and clutched at Michelle’s bedpost, dragged herself over. “Like we’ve got that.” She swayed a little, but her hands were steady as they started on the wingnut latch of Michelle’s nearest cuff.

Michelle waited, straining, listening. The murmurs and swells of the conversation downstairs reminded her, unpleasantly, of being at the clubhouse: the sound of men going back and forth, with an occasional shout to punctuate. She could pick out Luis’s voice, even if the words remained indistinct; he was furious. He waspanicking. That could help or hinder them.

The chain went slack, and she had a hand loose. The sensation sent a bolt of adrenaline through her.

“I’ve got the other hand. Work on my feet.”

Axelle hurried to comply as Michelle sat up. And,oh, the room spun. Her stomach sloshed, and she thought she might bring up the water Luis had given her. She fought the nausea off; breathed in short bursts through her mouth and concentrated on getting loose.

Her other wrist. An ankle. Axelle was working on her second ankle when she hurried footsteps on the stairs.

Her stomach gave another violent lurch. “Go shut and lock the door,” she said, twisting her wrist out of the cuff.

“God,” Axelle murmured, but moved to do so.

Michelle twisted around, and saw that the other end of the chain was secured to the bedpost with a series of double-ended snaps. The whole rig had been designed for easy removal. She hadn’t been able to reach any of it, but Luis had planned on moving them, and not wasting time with difficult locks or tricky knots.

She unclipped the chain from its mooring, left the snap on the end, and hooked her fingers through the cuff.

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