Chapter 13 #2
“I gotta figure out how to get past this—”
“Past loving someone? Rowan.”
“Past letting emotions rule my life instead of logic and training.”
“That what you’re worried about? Feeling too much? C’mon.”
“My stepfather was ruled by his emotions. Anger, jealousy, the need to control everything around him.” Rowan’s hands clenched tighter. “I swore I’d never be like that. Never let feelings make me hurt the people I was supposed to protect.”
“But your real dad was different, right?”
Rowan looked at him. “My dad died stepping in front of a horse to save me. Pure emotion, no tactical thinking, just panic.” Rowan’s voice cracked slightly. “Got himself killed because he acted on his emotion instead of thought.”
Saxon was quiet for a moment, then spoke carefully. “That was love, Hammer. We’re all affected by our emotions, but living by our emotions and letting love lead are two different things.”
“How so?”
“You can feel something—anger, fear, whatever—but love is combined with truth. Love sees the bigger picture.” Saxon took a corner, heading deeper into the industrial district.
“Love says, I will do the hard thing, say the hard thing because it’s right.
Emotion simply reacts to panic and fear and hate.
God has emotion—He feels jealous. And angry.
But everything He does is out of love. That’s the plumb line, the thing that keeps us moving in the right direction.
And keeps us from going off the deep end. ”
He glanced at Rowan. “And as far as helplessness, the truth is that God is on our side, at least according to Kane, right?”
Kane. His Delta Force buddy who’d nearly lost the woman he loved last summer, who’d trusted God even when everything looked hopeless.
“Kane trusted God when Sanchez was taken,” Rowan said quietly. “Said that God was bigger than his worst fears.”
Rowan looked out the window, at the industrial landscape, concrete and steel, loading docks and chain-link fences. But beyond it all, the Rocky Mountains rose against the afternoon sky, their granite faces catching the golden sunlight and throwing it back in displays of purple and rose.
Whom have I in heaven but you? The psalm drifted through his mind, words from Sunday’s sermon that suddenly felt desperately personal. And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
God. I want to trust You. Help me to trust You.
The Alpine Fresh Foods complex appeared ahead of them. Everything about it looked legitimate, from the company sign to the employee parking area.
“Looks normal,” Saxon said as they pulled into the visitor parking area.
“Too normal. If you wanted to hold someone, this would be perfect. Soundproof buildings, legitimate cover, easy access for vehicles.”
They got out, and Martinelli joined them. “Stay behind me,” he said as he approached the main entrance.
Fine. But Saxon and Rowan flanked him.
The front door was locked.
“Around back,” Martinelli said.
Rowan nodded, and they edged along the building to the loading area.
The giant garage door was closed, but they tried the side door.
Unlocked.
“Backup is twenty minutes out,” Martinelli whispered. “We could wait.”
“Or we could end this now.” Rowan pulled out his Glock. So did Saxon.
“For the love. Listen, on me, and this doesn’t get messy. No shooting.”
Inside, darkness and shadow blanketed the area, a couple trucks parked in the space. Light streamed through the grimy window of a back office.
Rowan scrambled up to it, pressed against the wall, and Saxon took the other side. Rowan peeked in.
Ralph Rousseau sat tied to a chair in the center of the room, wearing a T-shirt and pajamas. A gash across his forehead had dried into a dark scab, and his left eye was swollen shut.
Three men sat inside, smoking cigarettes.
Rowan glanced at Saxon.
“Guys,” Martinelli said. “Me first.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened, even as Rousseau’s voice lifted.
“Please. I did everything you asked. I threatened the ranchers, made them sell their properties, I kept quiet about the Shadow Syndicate.”
The Shadow Syndicate. Rowan knew it. This wasn’t just about local land deals. This was part of something much larger.
“Plans change,” one of the men replied, pulling out a pistol. “Nothing personal.”
Go, go!
Martinelli read his mind. He nodded as Saxon moved out and kicked open the door. Then the detective burst in, his weapon trained on the gunman. “Police! Drop your weapons!”
Rowan rolled in, sighted the man who’d raised his pistol.
He wasn’t sure whose shot took him out. The shooter crumpled where he stood. The other man dove behind the desk. The third took off, running, shooting.
Rowan threw himself sideways, ducking behind a filing cabinet as bullets splintered the wood paneling where his head had been seconds before.
Saxon had jerked back out of the room. Martinelli pulled Rousseau to his feet.
And then it just…happened.
The armed thug rose from behind the table, swinging his pistol toward Martinelli. Rowan stepped out, his weapon already trained center mass. Two quick shots. The gunman’s chest exploded in crimson.
And then another shot, outside the room.
Rowan glanced at Saxon, but he’d taken off, footsteps echoing down the garage.
Martinelli moved to check the downed gunmen, his weapon still drawn. “Clear,” he called, kicking the fallen pistol away.
Rowan took off, out of the office, after Saxon. He found him standing in the driveway, breathing hard.
“Lost him. He had a vehicle waiting.” He turned. “Should I go after him?”
“Let’s get Rousseau.”
They ran back inside.
Rousseau lay on the floor, his breathing labored. A gunshot leaked blood from his abdomen, which Martinelli tried to staunch. “I need to call this in.”
They traded places and Martinelli got up, stepped away.
Saxon knelt next to Rowan. “He doesn’t look so good.”
“You think?” Rowan rolled him over, cutting the ropes with his tactical knife. “We’re the good guys. You’re safe now.”
Rousseau met his eyes. “I never meant it to get this far.” Blood trickled from the corner of the man’s mouth. His voice came out thick and slurred.
Martinelli approached, holstering his weapon. “Medical’s on the way. How is he?”
“Alive, but barely,” Rowan said, noting the man’s dilated pupils and shallow breathing.
“The ranchers,” Rousseau whispered. “They’re going after the families now. The Blackwoods, the Hendricks, anyone who won’t sell.”
Rowan stared at him. “What do you mean, going after the families?”
“Leverage. Kidnapping. Whatever it takes to force the sales.” Ralph’s gaze struggled to focus.
Martinelli’s phone rang, cutting through the warehouse silence. He glanced at the screen, frowning.
“Detective Martinelli,” he answered, his voice tense.
“Who’s doing this—” Rowan started.
“Hammer.” Saxon gestured to Martinelli with his head.
Something wasn’t right. Martinelli was looking at him, eyes dark, jaw tight.
Rowan stood up.
“Agent Kim, I’m putting you on speaker,” Martinelli said grimly. “Please repeat what you just said.”
A woman’s voice filled the room, crisp and professional with an undercurrent of urgency. “This is FBI Agent Quinn Morley. I’m at the county fairgrounds. We have a kidnapping situation.”
Rowan met eyes with Saxon. No, no—
“Two victims, a woman and a child, taken from the rodeo grounds approximately thirty minutes ago. Witnesses report a white van, professional operation.”
“Description of the victims?” Martinelli said.
“Woman, late twenties, dark hair, about five foot four. Child, male, approximately ten years old. They were taken from the competitor staging area.”
Sierra and Huck.
And he was thirty minutes away.
“Rowan!” Martinelli’s voice.
But he and Saxon had already started to sprint.
Stay calm.
Mostly because Huck was scared, looking to her to fix this, his eyes wide with terror in the dim van.
Her too, but along with it—rage. Her ten-year-old son sat with his competition chaps torn at the knee, his cowboy hat missing. A purple bruise bloomed across his left cheek.
Someone had hit her son. So yeah, not so much fear as white-hot rage.
Sierra could see through the hood—a man the size of a tank, which she dubbed him, sat in the back of the van with them. Dark pants, dark shirt. Armed. Like they might be criminals or something.
“I’m right here, Huck.” She didn’t sound like herself, really. “Everything’s going to be okay.”
Except, why would it? Because she’d hurt herself kicking at her captors, and Tank had grabbed her foot and twisted it—she wasn’t sure it was broken, but her ligaments burned. So yeah, the lie tasted bitter on her tongue.
Still, it had to be okay. Because she refused to consider anything else.
“Where are you taking us?”
Tank looked over at her. “You’ll find out soon enough, lady.”
The zip ties around her wrists had cut off circulation twenty minutes ago, but she kept flexing her fingers anyway.
Oh, if she only thought like Rowan, then she could assess threats, look for weapons, find escape routes.
Figure out what they wanted so she could give it to them and get Huck out safely.
But no, all she could think was…Please, God, save us.
She guessed it might be over a half hour since they’d grabbed them from the barn.
Three left turns, two rights, one cattle guard, approximately southwest based on the sun’s position filtering through the van’s grimy windows.
Tank kept checking his phone, the device dwarfed in his massive hands.
The nervous younger one—Twitchy, she decided, based on his constant fidgeting—was sweating despite the October cold seeping through the van’s metal walls.
Twitchy’s toothpick paused mid-chew. “Maybe she should shut up.”
Sierra stilled, digging deep into her fury instead of fear.
Please, God.
“Billy,” Tank growled. “Focus.”
Focus? On what?
She swallowed, fought tears.
Rowan might be at the rodeo by now, would have figured out they were missing. And she refused—okay, not well—to be angry at him.