Relentless (Fallon Sisters Trilogy: Book #1) (31 page)

But brandishing a weapon—and unlike Bren's, his was deadly—on foreign soil was a frightening prospect.

The gelding's agitation brought him around. It continued to thrash about, attempting to stand, its snorts and high-pitched neighs a torment that ate at his very soul.

And his heart ached and applauded the red-headed hellion positioned on the attack. Only problem was, she had no claim to
this
horse, and her actions would pay her back in spades when it came time to negotiate for Smiley's release.

He didn't know for sure, but these two men, their knives dangling from their hands, dark complexions with mouths agape, looked completely harmless and just as confused and unsure as Red. Not everyone in Mexico was a drug runner. Most were hardworking, trying to get by and feed their families.

But he'd been wrong before. Wrong about a lot of things, actually, and he didn't want to be wrong about this. So he kept watch of their hands as best he could while trying to corral Bren and coax her into surrendering the pressure wand.

He came up behind her.

Small and vulnerable, her slender shoulders trembled. With her hands in a death grip on the wand, she dared the two plant workers to touch her or the horse. She meant business, but her weapon of choice wasn't going to keep them at bay forever, and the longer she continued the standoff, the longer the horse would suffer. He was going to die one way or the other. It wasn't clear if his legs were broken. But as Rafe neared both Bren and the horse, he was certain, by the amount of blood pooling under his belly, he suffered from multiple stab wounds.

"Bren, honey, listen to me. He's suffering. You can't save him."

She glanced at him then, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I want my horse." Her voice cracked, her head tilted to the side, and she wiped her wet face on her sleeve.

Rafe quickened his steps, and she tread backward, trying to keep the two workers and Rafe in view. She stumbled over the hose and quickly regained her footing. She pointed the wand at the heavier of the two Mexicans.

"You're killing him." She sobbed and looked at Rafe, her face flushed and puffy from crying. "They're killing him."

The words fell on a whisper of despair, and Rafe cursed his inability to bring this to a quick end. "I'll take you to your horse, darlin'. I promise. Just drop the wand."

He motioned for her with his hands, but her body twisted in agony as though she were suffering the same painful attack as the horse.

"You found him?" Her voice rose, and she sighed in an effort to control her breathing. She took a tentative step forward, peeking past the gelding into the shadowy entrance of the plant. But she retreated at the heavy work boots clopping, voices growing and moving in their direction.

Rafe glanced to the right and winced. In front, Serg and Trey—Trey his main concern, sporting a scowl of contention—led the group of plant workers. Most wore aprons covered in blood and calf-high rubber boots, wet and glistening under the afternoon sun.

"What the hell, Rafe?" Trey came up short, staring down from the top tier where the railing ran perpendicular to the plant. His hands gripped the railing, and he gave Bren his full ire, leveling a gaze that usually made anyone on the opposite end cringe.

"Bren, these people are not the enemy. It's their job," he said, his voice gentling as he made his way around the railing to stand next to Rafe. He leaned in so only Rafe could hear. "What the hell happened to her?"

Rafe motioned to the gelding, now quiet and resigned to his fate, his chest expanding with ragged breaths. "She's in the business of saving them." Rafe shook his head. "It's part of her."

Trey's hand rested on his shoulder. "Brother, you're too close to this one. Let me take a stab." He winced and waved him off. "I'll handle it."

Coward or not, Bren's emotional state sucked the life out of him. Sweat pooled between his shoulders. His heart, more like rapid fire, beat against his chest—no way in hell could he make direct eye contact with those panicked brown eyes of hers.

Trey moved down the ramp. "Bren, Rafe and I will take you to your horse." He motioned to one of the Mexicans wearing a short-sleeved dress shirt, the buttons tugging against his pendulous belly. Trey spoke in clipped Spanish and motioned for him to come around.

Bren glanced nervously toward Rafe.

"Darlin', listen to Trey."

Her lips quivered and she fastened a wary gaze in Trey's direction. "Y-you found him?"

"Yes, Bren."

She shook her head and looked to Rafe with uncertainty, her fingers tightening on the wand. She let out a soft cry and dropped the wand and reached for him.

Rafe pulled her to him. Never letting go of her hand, he led her up the ramp behind Trey.

Trey hooked his chin toward Rafe. "Around back."

Rafe stopped, put his arm around her, and whispered against her ear. "No more funny stuff, Red. My heart can't take it."

She sniffed and nodded yes.

Trey glanced over her head to Rafe. "We're going around back." He led them to a heavy white door with one small square window, the glass covered with condensation from the inside.

Trey pulled Bren aside and placed his hands on her shoulders. "I misjudged you, Bren. And I'm sorry. I wish I had men as determined as you under my command. The trailer carrying your horse arrived early this morning." Trey's jaw tightened. "He was slaughtered around noon."

A sob bubbled up, and she wrapped her arms around her waist. Her slightly puffy lips, from crying, rolled in and her eyes welled with fresh tears. "Nooo!" She pulled away, doubling over at the waist.

Rafe reached for her and scooped her tight, her body one big spasm. Her warm tears soaked through his sweatshirt to his T. She stiffened and lifted her head, and Rafe's gut clenched at the determination lurking in those eyes of hers. This wasn't over by a long shot, and he knew it.

"I want to see him." Sobs continued to rack her. "I need to know for certain, Rafe."

"Bren, sweetheart, it's not something you want to remember."

She shook her head. "I want to see his hide." The soft underside of her throat bobbed. "Know it's really him."

Strong as iron and he wanted her to bend. Wanted her to accept the truth and walk away from this nightmare. But bendable, he'd learned, wasn't in Bren Ryan's nature.

Rafe nodded to his brother. "Let's make this quick."

Trey knocked on the door. Within seconds, it opened, and Trey spoke Spanish to a stocky plant worker wearing a white smock half-buttoned over a thick winter coat. He nodded and opened the door to admit them.

An immediate chill hit Rafe's face and hands, and he realized it was a huge walk-in refrigeration room. He pulled Bren off to the side. "Damn it, Bren, what are we looking for here? Tell me. I've seen carcasses after slaughter. You haven't. You don't need this memory burned into your subconscious. What is it going to take to prove he's dead, short of you searching?"

Her face crumpled. "I just need to see the mark on his hide. It's a smiley face. Once I see it..." Her head dipped, and she sniffed before lifting her chin again. "I'll know for certain." She touched his pocket. "The digital camera. That bastard Wes is going to pay for what he did to Smiley. I need you to take a picture when I find him." She rubbed the side of her face hard and took a heavy breath. "The manifest, too. I'll need it for court. I'm not going to fall apart here. I promise." Her lips thinned. "Smiley deserves better."

Rafe nodded and dug into the deep pocket of his army jacket. He couldn't help but smile. She'd harassed him about this jacket from the start, and all the shit he'd shoved into every available pocket. With the camera in one hand, he grabbed hers with the other, and followed the Mexican worker around a corner, past several metal tables, hoses, and floors with several drains until they were motioned to the left.

Bren's hand tightened in his. Hung by their underbellies by heavy meat hooks were several carcasses. Definitely horses—their tails and manes fluttering under the ventilation system above. Split down the center of their sternums, some of the hide pulled back to reveal the meat of their hindquarters, their hooves and heads severed. Rafe's stomach roiled.

He glanced at Bren, her profile stiff, eyes fastened straight ahead. There were five in this row. Two chestnut, one black, a bay, and one Appaloosa. He assumed the Appaloosa was Smiley. The worker had directed them to this row specifically. Rafe tugged on her hand.

"Is that him?"

She connected with Rafe. "I-I need to check his left hind quarter." She took the one step needed to bring her within reach. Her hand raised tentatively, her index finger lightly touching the hide. She stroked it, a whimper escaping through her trembling lips.

Rafe moved beside her. "Where is it, honey?"

She motioned upward, her hand shaking, silent tears slipping down her cheeks. "There." Her voice was barely a whisper.

Damned if she wasn't kidding. Rafe stepped closer, a perfect smiley face—two eyes, a nose, and a curve for the mouth shaped from the speckles that had given him his name. Rafe quickly took several photos and shoved the camera in his pocket.

He grabbed Bren's hand, her fingers trembling in his grip, and every muscle in his body tensed. He was done allowing Bren to use herself as bait to draw out a killer. If Wes had killed Tom, and that was a big if in his mind. As much as he wanted to pin Tom's murder on him and have done with it, he wasn't completely convinced.

But he was convinced about one thing. Wes Connelly enjoyed causing Bren pain, and that really started to piss him off. Now her hand, usually steady and sure, shook with grief. Her pretty face, wet from tears she should never have had to shed, pierced his soul, and he realized right then and there he'd had it up to his six foot two frame with her being hurt.

Somehow Bren stopped being Tom's widow and started being his girl. Not his intention, but he didn't have time to ruminate on how he'd gotten into such a predicament. He needed to get her the hell out of here—out of Mexico. By the time they got back to town it would be close to nine. Enough time to clear the tunnel and cross back into Texas.

He'd call Kevin tomorrow. Let him know the outcome and hope it was enough to keep Wes in jail for now. If not, Rafe meant to personally kick his ass, put his dick in the dirt, and make him think long and hard about causing her anymore heartache. If Wes needed a new target, he could take aim.

B
ren darted toward the horse, his hindquarters and the thrash of his gray tail so familiar. She found him. After hours of searching the paddocks of Grace, he stood foursquare, his head hidden from view as he grazed. He was a glutton for the spring clover.

She came up on him and grabbed his bridle, swinging him around, and froze with horror. Decapitated, only jagged bone, bloody raw flesh remained. Her stomach dipped, her jaws clenched, and an explosion rocked her awake with such force, she screamed in utter terror.

"Bren!" Strong fingers dug into her shoulders. She blinked, and the dark of night blazed red hot. Screams and shouting scrambled her thoughts, and her mind tripped and fell through nightmarish valleys trying to right itself into the present.

But when her brain caught up to real time, she realized the present was the last place she wanted to be, and she flung herself into Rafe's broad chest, her arms looping around the strong column of his neck. "I don't want to die."

All around her the rat-a-tat-tat of guns peppered her eardrums, and she trembled.

What the freaking hell?

She'd fallen asleep in the jeep against Rafe while Trey and Serg rounded up the necessary paperwork she needed to prove what Wes had done. Maybe she'd been asleep for a little over an hour. It was her way of forgetting the awful memories of today. But waking up to a city in bedlam, vehicles ablaze and vehement shouts in a language she couldn't understand, left her a jumble of nerves.

Rafe's arms encircled her waist, his lips grazing her ear. "Neither do I, darlin'." He held her away from him. The hard planes of his face fluttered against the angry flames engulfing the city. "We're going to make a run for it." His fingers slid down her shoulder and gripped her hand tight.

Damn good plan.
She was all for that, and she squeezed his hand back with bone-breaking intensity as he drew her with him from the back seat.

Serg and Trey came around on either side of the jeep and reached under the seat in back. Simultaneously retrieving assault rifles, Bren got her first inkling of just how dire their situation had become.

Trey motioned forward. "We head for the cantina," he shouted to compete with the growing roar.

Bren threw a quick look over her shoulder. Rolling up behind them, convoy-style, were heavy-duty pickups. Men stood in the open truck beds, surrounded by thick roll bars levering massive firepower. They blended into the dark of night, leaving her in doubt as to friend or foe. She sank her grip into the rough material of Rafe's army jacket. "Who the hell
are
they?"

"Military." Trey brushed by her. "We're in the middle of a goddamn turf war." He motioned for them to follow and gave Bren a disconcerting look before his gaze cut to Rafe. "Human trafficking is big business. Watch her."

Trey didn't elaborate, only angled his body with Serg through abandoned vehicles and the rush of people clearing the streets. But the meaning was not lost on her or Rafe. Judging by the added pressure placed upon her fingers, she'd find herself minus a hand if they got separated.

The pop and zing of bullets brought her around, and she yanked hard on Rafe's arm, his tall frame bending to accommodate her. He lent his ear but kept his eyes trained to their immediate surroundings.

"Where's your gun?" She searched his person frantically until she spotted it resting along his lean muscled thigh in his other hand.

"Red, forget the gun." He jerked her hard, his eyes tense and tunneling into her. "Focus on what I'm telling you. This is some serious shit we're in. Stay with me." His fingers flexed almost painfully around her hand. "And don't let go."