Chapter 3 #2
He shot me a look. Even in the dim moonlight, I could see the irritation tightening his jaw, but he didn't argue.
A torch beam swung toward the flatbed. I grabbed his shoulder and shoved him down. We flattened against the rough metal, the harrow's rusted teeth inches from our faces.
The beam wobbled all over the place as footsteps crunched closer on the gravel.
"Anything?" Bruce was so close I could hear the rasp of his breathing.
"Nah. Just junk."
I pressed my palms against the flatbed's rough floor, coiling my muscles. If Bruce climbed up here, I'd go for him hard and hope like hell this stranger would back me up in a fight.
The beam swept away. The footsteps receded.
I counted to thirty before I let myself breathe again. The American's steady eyes were locked on mine, wide and alert. He might wear fancy clothes and articulate every word like he was addressing a boardroom, but whatever else he was, he wasn't a coward.
"Ready to move?" I whispered.
"After you." He nodded.
I was impressed by how much he trusted me. That'd probably change once he learned I was a Branson.
"On three." I counted down silently, then dropped into a crouch and slipped between two carriages.
I scrambled through the narrow gap, ducking beneath dangling hoses and cables.
The American moved behind me like an athlete.
Agile. Controlled. Not just some pretty, rich boy in pressed slacks and a gold watch.
"You're fucking dead, Cass!" Bruce's voice ricocheted along the train from a distance.
"Charming," the American murmured.
"That's him being nice."
He smiled, flashing perfect white teeth. Holy smokes, this guy was handsome. I rarely saw men this good-looking in the Outback. No, scratch that. I never saw men like him out here, period.
Which raised the question: why the hell was he looking for Frank? Dad wouldn't be caught dead with a man like this.
Then again, maybe Dad was dead.
"What do we do now?" he asked.
"We need to get back to the pub."
"Why?"
"We need your car to get out of here, and we need to move while it's still dark, because those brothers are stubborn enough to keep searching ’til sunrise. Once the sun comes up, we're in real trouble."
"Right. Should I ask how much trouble?"
Something about that comment jogged my memory. The way he phrased it. The slight dry humor underneath. I blinked at him as the pieces clicked together. Oh shit. I knew who he was.
That phone call we'd made to Hawthorne Global in America swirled through my mind. He’d been the man on the other end with his calm corporate voice.
This was him. The Hawthorne man. What was his first name?
Damn it, I couldn't remember. But it all made sense now.
Mitch had pretended to be Frank Branson when he made that call.
He wasn’t here just to find Frank. He wanted to get his hands on that suitcase, and the gems Mitch had found. Did he know who the skeleton was and who had owned the suitcase? I’d bet money he did. I needed to get him to my brothers. We needed answers.
"What?" He cocked his head, studying my expression.
"Nothing." I turned away before he could read anything on my face. "Follow me. And stay close," I whispered, moving along the side of the train back the way we'd come.
We kept low, using the carriages as cover. Hawthorne matched my pace, his footsteps surprisingly quiet. Above us, Wayne's heavy boots thudded across container roofs, pounding the metal like a goddamned runaway beast.
"Where the hell are they?" Bruce's voice had gone from angry to unhinged. "I'm gonna strangle that bitch when I find her."
"That's nasty," Hawthorne muttered.
"That's Bruce."
We slipped beneath a flatbed carriage carrying a grain hopper, and the space was so tight we had to crawl on our bellies. Rust flaked off onto my arms, and something wet soaked into my jeans. I didn't want to know what it was.
"You know ..." Hawthorne muttered, "his anger seems to be targeted toward you rather than me."
I shrugged. "Bruce doesn't like being shown up by a woman."
"A woman? Or you?"
"Will you just shush? I'm trying to save your ass, remember."
We rolled out from beneath the carriage, and torch beams swept across the gravel barely ten meters ahead. Shit! I grabbed Hawthorne's arm and hauled him behind a set of train wheels. We ducked beneath the axle and pressed our backs to the smooth metal wheel.
"Check under there." Lyle's nasally voice cut through the night.
Footsteps approached, and a flashlight beam sliced beneath the carriage, passing barely a foot from my boots.
Hawthorne's hand found mine in the dark, and I got the feeling he wasn't trying to calm me. He was saying he had my back.
The beam moved on.
"Nothing," Lyle called out.
"Then keep looking!" Bruce roared. "I want them found. You hear me, Cassidy? I'm gonna make you wish you'd never been born!"
Yeah, well, get in line . Frank had already wished that … and Bevan, plus a few other men over the years.
I waited until Lyle's footsteps faded, then squeezed Hawthorne's bicep, surprised to feel solid muscle beneath the soft shirt fabric.
Keeping close to the side of the train, we hunched over and worked our way along, ducking and weaving between carriages.
My heart hammered against my ribs and sweat stuck my shirt to my back.
Finally, we reached the end of the train where we'd first gone under the carriages.
My breath hitched. Parked at an angle with both doors hanging open and headlights cutting through the darkness was Bruce's ute.
I pointed at it. "It's our lucky day."
"That's debatable."
"Told you they were dumb." I wriggled my brows. "The stupid bastard left his keys in the ignition."
His eyes lit up. "You're going to steal his car?"
I scrunched my nose. "Borrow it. Ready to run?"
"Umm—"
I took off, sprinting toward the driver's side.
In the distance, the pub’s verandah lights still blazed, and all the cars were still in the parking lot. No doubt everyone had carried on drinking as if nothing had happened.
I jumped into the driver's seat, and as Hawthorne launched into the passenger seat, I floored it before he'd even shut his door.
The engine roared as we shot forward, just missing a coupling joint on the last train carriage.
"Oh, you're fucking kidding me!" Bruce screamed somewhere behind us.
Hawthorne braced against the dash as I spun the wheel far too fast, fishtailing on the gravel.
"Hang on!" I shoved the gearstick forward, stomped on the gas, and we launched onto the asphalt with a brutal crunch. We raced down the road, and as the pub blurred past, I caught a glimpse of my motorbike. Next time I saw it, the Hendersons would probably have punched it full of bullet holes.
"You're crazy. You know that?" Despite his words, Hawthorne flashed that incredible smile.
"Thanks for noticing." I gripped the wheel tighter. "Just saving your ass."
He glanced out the back window, and his eyes flew wide. "Oh shit. They have another car."
Shit! Of course, they had two.
Headlights flooded the rear-view mirror as another ute roared after us. I put my foot to the floor. Bruce's heap of crap made a high-pitched squeal but didn't get any faster.
"They're gaining," Hawthorne said.
"Not helping."
A gunshot cracked through the night, and the back window exploded, spraying glass over us.
"Fuck!" Hawthorne ducked.
"Get down!" I shoved his head down just as another shot rang out, shattering my side mirror into a million pieces.
"They're shooting at us."
"No shit."
The ute swerved as I fought to keep control on the rough road.
"Jesus Christ, what are they doing?"
"Trying to kill us," I snapped. "You picked a fight with the wrong people."