Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
Peyton’s muscles coiled with tension. Dawson’s body blocked her sight, but the rumble of the motorcycles was unmistakable. “Iron Serpents?”
“Yes. They’re looking for us.” A muscle in his jaw worked. “It might not be safe to go back to my truck. I don’t know how they found us.”
Peyton's mind raced. They hadn't been followed from Knoxville, she was sure of it. No one knew they were coming to Austin except the team at the police station. So how—
The lawyer's office.
She lightly touched Dawson’s arm, leaning over to catch a glimpse of the men on the motorcycles. A shiver raced down her spine. “Carmen Reyes. Someone was watching her office and saw us go in. Maybe they tried to follow us to the church, but we lost them along the way.”
Dawson held up a finger and then took her hand in his.
Keeping his attention locked on the street, he tugged her across the pavement toward the church.
Together, they slipped back inside. Dawson positioned them behind a wall, but used the glass doors to keep watch.
“How would Cade even know about Carmen?”
“The guardianship paperwork. Child Protective Services filed it with the family court when they placed Grace in my custody.
Carmen's name is on the filing as the drafting attorney.” Peyton's stomach dropped. “All Cade needed was a lawyer with access to the family court database, and he'd have Carmen's name and her office address. Everything. He’s been keeping watch, hoping Lilia would show back up here. Instead, he found us. And he’s trailing us, hoping that we’ll lead him straight to my cousin. Or the evidence. Or both.”
It cemented the notion that Cade didn’t have Lilia. Her cousin was being held by someone else, or had gone underground and was hiding. Frustration swelled. This case had been one confusing twist after another, and even several days in, it felt like they were still working with half the picture.
Dawson stiffened, his fingers flying to his holstered weapon.
Peyton eased around him to see a member of the Iron Serpents approaching the building on foot.
In seconds they would be found, and exchanging gunfire in a church might get people killed.
Grabbing his wrist, she pulled him across the narthex and into the church.
Mimi was still there, rearranging the flowers around the altar.
She glanced up, startled, as they ran toward her.
“Is there a rear exit?” Peyton’s words were clipped.
“Come with me.” Mimi led them to a side door and down a long hallway. She disabled an alarm before pushing open the arm on an emergency exit. It dumped them into a narrow alley. She pointed to the left. “There is a set of back streets. Four blocks southeast is the police department.”
“Bless you.” Peyton lightly touched her arm. “You never saw us.”
“Understood. Godspeed, child.”
Dawson, his weapon unholstered but held by his side, took the lead.
They moved quickly through the narrow alley, weaving between dumpsters and stacked pallets.
The sounds of downtown Austin—traffic, voices, the distant wail of a siren—echoed off the brick walls, making it impossible to tell which direction was safe.
Peyton kept one hand on her own weapon as she matched Dawson's pace.
They cut through a gap between two buildings and emerged onto a quieter side street.
No motorcycles. The stench of rotten food from overflowing garbage bags caused Peyton to gag.
She did her best to breathe through her nose as Dawson peeked around a corner.
He waited a beat, then jerked his chin to the left.
Peyton scurried across the open space, her insides shuddering when a rat crossed her path.
She ducked into the safety of another alley. Dawson followed.
Three more blocks to go.
The pavement was slick with runoff from a leaking pipe, and the ground was littered with debris.
Broken bottles, rusted cans, and a scattering of splintered wooden crates.
The sound of a motorcycle reached her ears, and Peyton’s head whipped around, searching for the source.
Fear, thick and intense, shot through her as a dark shadow crossed the street they’d just turned off of.
They were closing in. The memory of what Dawson had told her when they arrived at Sidewinders replayed in her mind.
These guys could shoot us, and all of them would lie about what happened. They’ll say whatever they’re told.
Her foot caught the edge of a shattered pallet, and she went down hard, throwing her hands out to break the fall.
Pain—white-hot and blinding—lanced through her side.
She gasped and looked down. A jagged hole had been ripped through her jacket.
She couldn't see what had cut her, but she felt blood seeping through the thin fabric of her undershirt.
“Peyton.” Dawson was at her side in an instant.
“I’m okay,” she lied. There was no time for first aid.
The rumble of motorcycles was growing louder, nearly vibrating the ground underneath her.
She pressed her free hand to her side as Dawson hauled her to her feet.
Gritting her teeth against the agony radiating out from the injury, she kept moving forward, her eyes locked on the entrance to the alley.
Adrenaline and sheer determination fueled her steps.
Please God, help us.
They rounded the corner, and for half a heartbeat, Peyton thought they would make it.
But then two motorcycles swung onto the road ahead of them.
Dawson lurched to a stop, and she nearly ran into him.
Automatically, as if of one mind, they whirled to go back the way they came, but three more bikes burst into the narrow road, cutting off their escape.
They were trapped.