Crashed, p.27
Crashed, page 27
“Hey, Dad,” he said, as he approached their yard. Over the hood of the car, he saw the pale blue eyes of the guy who’d climbed out of the driver’s side door.
The frisson of nerves in Brant became a trickle, then a river, because those eyes held ice.
They weren’t mean eyes, not like his dad’s when he was drunk or angry.
No ... these were even worse.
“Hey, kiddo ... ” Lloyd grinned at him and Brant swung his gaze back to his father, saw the broad, happy grin on his dad’s face and felt confused.
He hadn’t seen his dad look that happy and easy in ... shit, how long had it been?
“Come on over and meet Steve. He’s a new friend of mine. He’s going to take you, me and Mom out to dinner later tonight ... he was a fan of mine when I played ball back in school,” Lloyd said, dropping his arm around Brant’s shoulders and walking him around the back of the car to face the other guy.
Brant dragged his feet, not really wanting to go.
Reptile-cold eyes met his and in a blink, the man smiled, his face friendly and easy-going, but Brant wasn’t fooled. He knew what he’d seen. Just like he knew his dad was an asshole most of the time and could be downright awful at others, he’d met even worse people.
This guy ... he was worse.
The skin on the nape of his neck crawled.
He thought about Isabel across the street, the way she’d told him a few weeks ago, just after Travis had put his dad on the ground. Go home, she’d mouthed at him, telling him to get out of his dad’s way until the old man’s temper had cooled.
Somehow, she’d known. He had moments like that, when his gut told him something bad might happen. Now, his gut was screaming.
He couldn’t go into that house with his father and this man.
He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t.
“Yeah, okay.” He cleared his throat and pasted a fake smile on his face, fairly confident it would be believable because it wasn’t like he didn’t have to lie to his dad about a ton of shit anyway. And the man bought it. He always bought. Shrugging free of his dad’s arm, he nodded at the man, then, pretending to pat at his pockets, he said, “Ah, man, I must have dropped my phone back at the bus stop. I’m going to run back and grab it.”
His dad just scowled at him. “You’re always dropping shit. Go on, get it.”
But the guy stepped forward. “You go on in with your dad, Brad. I’ll get it.”
“It’s Brant,” he said, backing up a step. “And that’s fine, man. I’ll get it.”
The guy reached for him.
Brant backpedaled, moving faster.
And just like that, the mask dropped from the man’s face and he said, coldly, flatly, “Boy, you get the fuck over here. Now.”
Chapter 30
Travis saw it all flying apart in the blink of an eye.
Setting his jaw, he looked at Isabel. “Stay inside.”
She grabbed his arm. “Travis!”
He caught her hand, brought it to his lips. “Stay inside ... I’ll take care of Brant. Please ... trust me.”
“You?” Her voice cracked. “You, I trust. But Stephen? And fuck, Lloyd will screw over his own mother!”
“It will be fine,” Travis told her. “Remember, there are armed agents in that house. Just stay inside.” And knowing she might not, because he could see the love burning in her eyes, the same love he felt for her, reflecting back at him, he played dirty. “I know what I’m doing, Iz. But I can’t focus on helping them if I’m worried about you, too.”
She glared at him, dashing tears from her eyes. “Damn you. Go. But don’t get hurt. I swear ... so help me, God, Travis, if you get hurt, I won’t forgive you this time.”
He just crooked a smile at her and stepped outside, only lingering long enough to say, “Stay away from the windows.”
Then, closing the door, he called out across the street, “Hey, Stephen. You got the wrong house?”
Brant had been backpedaling while his father looked on, looking confused, the dumbass.
And Beresford had been moving forward to grab the kid.
Now, though, he had Beresford’s attention.
Pasting a smug grin on his face, he hopped down the few steps on the porch, strode down the sidewalk and started across the street.
For several seconds, Stephen just stared at him.
An expression of relief crossed Brant’s face.
Lloyd looked caught between an expression of confusion and anger, and he chose anger, not surprisingly, as he shot Travis a dirty look. “Get the fuck off my property.”
Travis ignored him, closing the distance between him and his target even more. A few more steps and he could grab Brant, get the kid behind him. He sized up Beresford, watched as the other man reached behind his back.
The tiny radio transmitter in his ear chirped.
“Target is armed.”
Travis tapped his left thigh, twice, then once, then twice again, indicating he’d received the message. To any casual observer, it would look like a restless gesture. But Ace was out there and they’d worked together enough that she’d know.
“Message received,” she confirmed not even a second later.
The gun came out just as Travis came within arm’s reach of the boy. Brant saw the weapon before his father and dropped his backpack, his naturally ruddy complexion draining of color.
Lloyd was still looking at Travis.
“Son, if you don’t get off my property—”
“I’ve had about enough of you,” Beresford said, using the butt of the handgun he held to strike Lloyd in the head—hard.
The solidly built man hit the ground.
Travis grabbed Brant and shoved the boy behind him. “Stay behind me, kid.”
Beresford looked a little thrown, but then he smiled. “I’ll just shoot through you.”
“Do that and the people on the street will hear, call the cops,” Travis replied easily. “Small town. They call the cops the second anything looks funny. And this ... ” He smirked, gesturing to the two of them. He angled his chin at Lloyd, still collapsed on the ground. “Looks damn funny. I figure it will take them, what, five, maybe ten minutes to get here. How fast can you do whatever it is you plan on doing, Stephen?”
As he walked, he backed up, one hand on Brant’s elbow, keeping the kid behind him, making sure they stayed in step. He just had to reach the car, then he could shove Brant down behind the safety of it.
“We can take a shot,” a voice said over the radio. “We’re clear. Do we shoot?”
Travis still had one hand up, that instinctive stay gesture people the world over had used for millennia.
He didn’t dare let go of Brant, either. The kid’s breath had hitched when he passed by his father and Travis could feel the boy shaking. He was holding on by a thread. If Beresford got a hostage, this would all get so fucking ugly, so fast.
Jung spoke up. “We can still take him in. Barnes has it under control.”
Travis wanted to swear a blue streak.
In his peripheral vision, he saw Lloyd, hands moving restlessly on the dirt. If that stupid fool started moving again ...
They reached the other side of the car and Travis grabbed Brant and shoved him down. “Under the car, now.” Brant hit the ground hard and lay there dazed.
Dazed, but out of the line of fire, so Travis moved, forward and out, striking with one hand and knocking the weapon out of Beresford’s grip. It hit the ground and Travis caught Beresford, slamming him against the car hard enough to knock the air out of him.
“Drawing a weapon on a minor, huh, man? Think that will qualify as a violation of your parole,” he said, slamming a fist into the man’s kidney before spinning him around, face first, into the vehicle. “Oh, so will having one.”
But Beresford was strong, built like a fucking wall, and he hadn’t spent the past fourteen years behind bars sitting on his ass. He slammed back with his head and lifted up a booted foot to drive down onto Travis’s. Travis sensed both moves and managed to counter, but it cost him precious seconds. He still wasn’t back at one hundred percent after his near-fatal infection—fuck, he probably wasn’t at seventy percent.
Still, he muscled the other man back against the vehicle while the radio squawked in his ear. The fight was brutal and short and he almost had Beresford’s wrists behind him when a booming voice shouted, “Sir, drop the fucking weapon or we will shoot!”
Who had a fucking weapon?
“I ain’t dropping nothing until I see my boy!”
Travis could have punched something, he was so sick with fury, with frustration.
Lloyd Brimley. And damn that prick to hell, that was actual fear in the man’s voice.
“Where’s my damn boy?” Lloyd bellowed in rage.
In his ear, Travis heard Miles speak, voice calm and controlled. “Step back from Beresford, Travis. We’ve got him surrounded on all sides. But Lloyd Brimley has a weapon pointed at the back of your head ... and he’s not very steady on his feet.”
Snarling in his throat, Travis pressed his mouth close to Beresford’s ear and said, “You’re done, you sick fuck. Keep that in mind.”
Then he shoved away from Beresford, with his hands up. “Lloyd, your kid is under the car. I told him to get under there—I didn’t want him caught in any crossfire.”
“Get the hell away from him...I want you both where I can see you,” Lloyd said, panic making his voice shake.
Travis didn’t dare turn around, barely dared breathe. In the reflection of the car’s mirror, he saw Lloyd’s reflection, could see the man weaving back and forth on his feet. Slowly, he moved three steps away, still close enough to grab Beresford but maybe it would enough for Lloyd.
“He’s lying to you, Lloyd,” Beresford said, shoving away from the vehicle and starting to turn.
“Shut the fuck up!” Lloyd screamed. “Don’t move! Brant? Brant!”
Travis heard the scrambling coming from under the scar and he stiffened. “Brant, stay—!”
But he was already rolling out from under the car, dusty and scraped, red in the face. “Dad, I’m fine. I’m right here—”
Beresford hauled the kid’s stocky body to his before Travis could move the distance to stop it.
In his free hand, he had another, more compact handgun. The prick must have been a fucking Boy Scout.
Just like that, the situation went from not good to absolutely fucked.
Isabel shoved her fist against her mouth to stifle her cry.
Staring out one of the privacy-tinted narrow windows that bracketed her front door, she stared as Stephen held Brant’s struggling body easily against his own.
He’d changed over the years, and all the changes were for the worst—he was harder, stronger ... hungrier.
She could see where maybe he had been affected by a stroke. The left shoulder drooped just slightly and his posture wasn’t quite as perfect as it had been when she’d first met him.
But he was still clearly strong. She’d seen the ease of movement that Travis had used, the speed. Yet Stephen had almost thrown him off.
Travis had had him, though. He’d been right there.
Then Lloyd staggered to his feet ... and just as the agents came rushing through the front door of the man’s own damn house, weapons raised.
She grabbed the door and fumbled with the locks.
A voice boomed out of nowhere in her house and she froze.
“Isabel, stay where you are.”
She froze, stunned. She hadn’t heard her name in ... years. Her name, stripped from her as so many other things had been. “Miles?”
“Don’t go out there,” the man said. “Don’t you dare give Travis one more person to worry about.”
“I can’t just stay here!”
Her phone rang. Miles, voice calmer now, said, “Pick up the phone, Isabel.”
Her phone, tucked in her back pocket out of habit, vibrated again. Almost by rote, she answered, but she couldn’t speak.
In a voice far quieter, he said, “You need to trust Travis ... and me.”
“Travis will let that bastard shoot him before he lets him shoot a kid,” Isabel said, her voice breaking.
“I know. Take a breath ... ” His voice came again, but muffled, and then, this time, as he spoke, his tone was different, no more background noise comprised of other voices. No, she heard the wind and the crashing of waves “Now, Isabel, listen to me. Do you think I will let that man be shot? Now? After everything I’ve done to try and fix my past mistakes?”
She sucked in a breath. “Miles ... ”
“Stay inside, Isabel.”
The line went dead.
Feeling almost numb, she moved to the picture window in the living room just a few yards from where she stood.
There were several agents almost that distance from Lloyd, Stephen and Brant, just a bit further from Travis. It might as well be miles. Shaking, eyes burning, she stood there paralyzed.
“You’re not getting away, Stephen,” Travis said, his heart racing.
It had all gone to fucking hell so fast.
Lloyd was swaying on his feet. If he’d just drop the gun or pass out—
But he somehow stayed upright, gun jerking from Beresford to Travis.
“Shut the fuck up, you bitch-ass punk,” Beresford said before breaking in a half-mad giggle. He tightened his arm around Brant’s neck and swiveled, turning so he could watch both Lloyd and Travis, his back to the street, facing the house. “I’ll get what I want and what I want is for ... ” He was panting now. “Is for that ... BITCH ASS TO SUFFER!”
“What you’re going to get is a pine box,” Travis replied. No point in hiding his cards now. “Those boys and girls with the guns over there? Federal officers. You’re a federal prisoner—”
“I got parole,” he sneered.
“It’s been revoked,” Travis adlibbed. He didn’t fucking care what he had to say to distract the prick. “You lied your whole damn way through it and are connected to the disappearances of at least two federal penitentiary workers, the death of one, and assault of another. You’re going back in a cage now ... for a long, long time.”
“What the fuck do you know?” Beresford jerked Brant even closer to him.
Travis let all the coldness that had built inside him over the past fourteen years out, let it gleam in his eyes. “You stupid fuck ... why do you think I am here? You know the name Miles Hawkins?”
The man’s face went florid with rage.
“I’m his top man,” Travis said. “You want to be pissed ... be pissed at me.”
The taunt worked. Sort of.
Beresford swung toward Lloyd. “You want your boy back? Shoot that cocksucker ... now! Then you and your kid can go!”
Travis curled his lip in derision at Beresford, then stepped toward Lloyd. It was, after all, a step closer to Beresford. “Figures you can’t handle me on your own. You pussy.” As Beresford’s face went all but purple with rage, Travis looked at Lloyd. “Go on, if you’re going to do it.”
Lloyd swayed on his feet, struggling to keep the gun level.
A little closer ... a little closer.
He spread his feet, trying to regain his balance and failed, ending up lurching to the side and in the process, dropped the weapon. Travis kicked it out of reach, then kicked Lloyd’s ankle out from under him. “Stay down, man.”
Lloyd let out a sound like a broken old bear and covered his face but Travis ignored him as he looked at Beresford, the ugly rage he’d felt all these years pouring out of him.
Something out of the corner of his eye caught his attention. He didn’t dare turn to look. Instead, he shifted position and moved, forcing Beresford to do the same thing.
A low quiet voice came into the earpiece. “A bit more.”
Beresford’s hand trembled on the gun he held and he swung it toward Travis. Better. Much better.
Travis knew the ins and outs of hostage negotiation tactics and he considered his options. This bastard was too far gone to be rational and he was losing control, more and more. He continued to circle and shift, keeping his movements casual.
“You might as well let that kid go,” he said, blocking out the fear he saw in the boy’s eyes. “You can’t shoot him. If you do, you have no shield. And if you do, your situation gets so, so much worse. Let him go, Stephen.”
“Go,” Miles said in a clipped voice.
At the same time, Stephen waved the weapon around, his aim going wide as he screamed, “Shut. The. FUCK—”
The arm around Brant’s neck went slack.
Chapter 31
Startled exclamations and curses exploded over the radio. Over it all, the one voice that came the loudest was Jung’s. “Who the fuck took that shot?”
Travis ignored her and everybody else as he lunged, grabbed Brant and yanked the kid up and around, hiding the gory mess spreading out behind him.
Barely aware of his movements, he hauled the kid around the car. There was blood and other matter on the kid’s face and after propping him against the trunk of the Ford, Travis whipped his hoodie off, did what he could to wipe the blood away.
“Here,” Ace said. “These will do it better.”
He wasn’t surprised when she pushed a fistful of baby wipes into his hand—she should have been a Boy Scout, as prepared as she always was. Brant looked at him with wide, dilated eyes, breaths coming in thin, raspy gulps.
“Breathe, kid,” Travis ordered. “Deep breath. Come on.”
“Brant!” Lloyd called out.
Brant’s eyes wheeled around and he jerked.
“Take a deep breath first,” Travis ordered. “You’re not moving from this spot until you get air moving in and out.”
Lloyd came lurching toward them, limping, all but hopping, with tears streaming down his face. “Boy, are you okay?”
Suddenly, Brant gulped in air and a sob exploded out, followed by another.
Lloyd crashed into the kid’s side and grabbed him, hauled him close. Since Brant was breathing again and went to clutch at his father, Travis stepped back. Ace met his eyes. “I’ll watch them.”
