Chapter 32
32
Robyn
E llie’s name pops up on my screen.
I’ve been sitting by the window, looking out at a deep forest dressed in the ruby and amber shades of autumn. There are trees as far as the eyes can see. Kyra is playing on the floor, busy with a kid’s puzzle she’s been trying to figure out on her own for the better part of an hour, and my mind has been wandering to Diesel, Jagger, and Knox.
“Hey, Ellie,” I answer. “Everything okay?”
“Where are you?” She sounds tense.
“You know I can’t tell you, Ellie. I’m sorry. But I’m good. I promise. Kyra and I are safe,” I reply. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Robyn. There’s been a shooting not far from Redwood. I was talking to Samson over the phone when some of the prospects came up to him at the hospital. I overheard them say something about Knox and the guys,” she says. “I couldn’t get more details out of Samson, but I sensed the urgency. He hung up on me. I just thought you should know.”
“Hold on.”
I put Ellie on hold and immediately try calling Knox first. No answer.
“Come on,” I mumble, my fingers trembling as I try Jagger’s phone next. Still nothing. I can’t get through to Diesel either. I’m shaking like a leaf in the wind as I get up from my seat and go into the kitchen because I don’t want Kyra to overhear me. I click back over to Ellie. “How long ago was this?”
“Half an hour maybe,” she says. “Listen, Robyn. I’m sure they’re okay. I am. They’re tough SOBs, that much I know. Let me try calling Samson again and see if I can find out more.”
“Okay.”
I hang up, but the spiral into anxiety quickly comes over me. I’m sliding into uncertainty and fear as I cradle my belly, worried that whatever I’m feeling might affect the baby.
Minutes pass in utter silence, with the exception of my daughter’s voice in the other room. She’s singing one of her favorite nursery songs while playing. She does that when she’s focused, when nothing else matters but the task at hand.
I allow myself a soft smile as I let the sound of her distant voice soothe me.
When my phone rings again, I answer right away. “Talk to me, Ellie.”
“I know where they are,” Ellie says. “But you can’t tell anyone. Samson swore he’d kill me if I call you about this.”
“I don’t care, Ellie. Just tell me!”
“They’re okay, listen, they’re okay. Just some scratches and minor flesh wounds, nothing serious.”
“Ellie. Tell me where they are.”
“I’m not letting you go anywhere alone, Robyn,” she warns, her voice deep and stern all of a sudden. “Meet me outside of Grants Pass in an hour. There’s a Shell gas station there. Can you make it?”
I check the time on my phone, remembering the drive over here.
“Yeah, I can make it. One hour,” I tell Ellie.
“Wait, what about Kyra?”
“I’ll have to bring her with me,” I say.
“Okay, hold on, let me check something…” She pauses, and I can hear the clicking of a computer keyboard. “There’s an inn on the Rogue River Highway, just before you get into Grants Pass. I’ll send you a pin for it. Meet me there. It’s more secluded. Safer. And we’ll go see the guys together. They’re going to tear me a new one over this, but I know you wouldn’t want to be left out.”
“Thank you, Ellie. I appreciate it.”
Half an hour later, I’ve got Kyra in her car seat and I’m driving down Sardine Creek Road.
“Are you comfy back there, honey?” I ask Kyra as I briefly watch her in the rearview mirror.
“Yeah, Mommy,” she says.
Less than a mile down the road, I see a car pulled over. A sedan. Dirty grey. The hood is up. There’s a woman under it, and she looks like she’s struggling. Left and right, there are only trees and shrubs. I can’t see another car coming from either way. My heart won’t let me drive by. She’s on her own.
“Honey, I’m going to pull over for a second and help that lady. You need to sit tight and wait for Mommy to come back, alright?”
“Okay, Mommy.”
“My sweet, good girl,” I say and pull over just behind the sedan.
As soon as I step out, the chills of a particularly rough Oregon autumn come over. I shiver as I make my way over to her with a warm smile. “Hey, there… Car trouble?”
“Oh, hey,” the woman says, eyes wide with surprise. “Yeah, I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It just died on me.”
“Want me to call Triple A or something?”
She shows me her phone. “No signal. I don’t know what to do. I’m late for my doctor’s appointment,” she says, measuring me from head to toe. “Do you know anything about cars?”
“A little,” I say. “I can take a look for you if you want?”
“That would be amazing, thank you.”
I join her in front of the raised hood while she cranes her neck to get a better look at my station wagon. “Old thing, but surprisingly reliable,” I quip, then look at the engine and anything else that might pop out as defective.
“Is that your daughter in the back?” the woman asks with a gentle tone of voice.
“Yeah.”
“Sweetheart,” she coos. “I have three of my own back home.”
“Whoa, three?” I laugh. “How do you manage?”
“I’ve got a good hubby.”
“That helps,” I say, my gaze following one of the main power cables snaking around the engine block. My brow furrows slightly. “I think that power cable is disconnected.”
The woman follows my gaze and reaches over the engine block. “You mean this one?” She picks it up with two slim fingers.
“Yeah.”
“Oh, it’s not disconnected. It’s cut,” she casually comments as she holds it up for me to see.
A shiver travels down my spine as I give her a confused look. “How’d that happen?”
“I cut it.”
The flat smile on her face triggers every alarm in my body before the words even reach my ears. Rushed footsteps come from the side. By the time I turn around and see the tall man in a dark winter coat running toward me, it’s too late. My brain registers everything before my body.
The sharp slap across my face is a decisive jolt that temporarily stuns me.
“Don’t fucking move,” the man says.
I’m frozen on the spot, my knees turned to jelly. He grabs me by the arms. I try to fight him off, but the muzzle of my gun meets my temple. I feel the cold metal pressed into my skin.
“He said don’t fucking move,” the woman snarls.
I stare at him. I don’t know him. He’s big and burly and bearded, rushing to slap a pair of cuffs on my wrists as I tremble in horror. “Please don’t hurt me. Don’t hurt my daughter, she’s just a child,” I manage, my voice breaking.
“We’re not here to kill you, toots,” the man mutters.
“Then what do you want?”
“We’re just making a delivery. Now shut up and do as you’re told, and you’ll live to see another day.”
The gun withdraws, and I glance over my shoulder. The woman smiles—a disgusting, self-satisfied, smug smile. Bitterness spreads on my tongue as bile rises up to my throat. It was all a trap.
And deep down, I think I know who’s responsible.