Page 56 of Stilettos & Whiskey
“The same way you got here,” Lucas responded.
It was a long, hot ride. You’d think doing sixty on the freeway would keep the flies away, but hell no. They swarmed us all the way home. I was in the mood to shoot someone when we finally pulled up to the gate.
With the antidote ingredients in hand, and an invitation for a barbecue the fireman quickly drove off. Who knew that by merely sitting on the seats I would contaminate their fire truck.
Sergeant Bergman and Frank were waiting for us. Both were wearing gas masks and hazmat suits.
“Did you get the antidote mixed up?” Grandpa asked.
Sergeant Bergman nodded. “We did and we made a place for Julie in the barn.”
My cellphone rang. Huh? The number was blocked. “Hello?”
“You have forty minutes to get to these coordinates: Latitude 33.8905 and longitude 112.2763 or Alexander Stone dies,” Jim Bob proclaimed. A photo of Dad, unconscious and tied to a chair, popped up on my screen.
“Oh, my, God.” Blood was running down the side of Dad’s face.
Lucas snatched the phone out of my hand. “You’re a dead man walking, do you hear me, Jim Bob?”
“The girl comes alone, or he dies. I see a helicopter or drone, he dies. Do you understand me?”
An icy rage vibrated through every cell of my body. “Yeah, I do.”
“Tick tock.” The line disconnected.
The menace in Grandpa’s eyes was terrifying. “They have no idea who they’re dealing with.”
“No, they don’t,” Lucas agreed.
An evil smile curved my mouth at the thought of unleashing Armageddon on Jim Bob and Papa Garza. “Let’s go say howdy.”
Chapter Fourteen
I brought the dirt bike to a stop at the top of a rocky, cactus-strewn hillside and raised my binoculars.
The coordinates led me to a long-abandoned ranch. A few skeletal trees surrounded the crumbling adobe walls of what had once been someone’s home. The only structure still standing was a weather-beaten barn that a good wind could blow down.
Jim Bob’s Cadillac was parked under a mesquite tree. I didn’t see him or Papa Garza.
Grandpa’s cold voice sounded in my earpiece. “We are in position.”
“Copy.” God, this had to work. My cellphone rang. The same blocked number popped up. “I’m not moving until I have proof of life,” I snapped.
Mopping his face with a handkerchief, Jim Bob stepped out of the minimal shade of a half dead ironwood tree and banged on the barn door.
The door swung open revealing a big, mountain of a man in body armor. With a smug grin, he stepped aside, and I saw Dad.
I drew in an angry breath. His face was a battered mess and the look in his eyes promised retribution.
Papa Garza stood next to Dad wearing enough gold to make a rapper jealous. He was way too old to be wearing his baseball cap sideways, and his baggy jeans were in danger of falling off his thin hips. If he tried to make a run for it, he wouldn’t get very far.
“You have your proof of life,” Jim Bob said. “Now, remove all your weapons and walk down to me, slowly, and with your hands raised.”
I did as he asked. Sweat trickled down my back and burned my eyes. Hopefully, Jim Bob wouldn’t notice the cloud of flies crawling all over me. I just needed to get a little bit closer.
Jim Bob frowned. “Stop!”
I stopped and eyed Papa Garza. What the hell? Was he holding a flamethrower? Fear slithered down my spine. Shit, he was.
