Chapter Sixteen

Jameson

I rode into Palm Springs a couple hours after getting the address from Dave. Provided that’s where Scott and his stooges were taking Isabelle, they couldn't have gotten there very long before I had. They couldn't have had much of a head start, and I'd ridden as fast as I dared.

My head was pounding, and my face felt like it was swelling up after the beating they'd given me, but I simply gritted my teeth and sucked it up. I had bigger things to worry about than my own bumps and bruises—Isabelle's life was at stake.

I pulled my bike into a gas station to fill up and get something to drink. Walking into the small station, the guy behind the counter did a double take when he saw my battered face.

“Take a spill out there?” he asked.

“Nah,” I said. “Made the mistake of telling the wife her jeans made her ass look fat.”

The kid laughed and shook his head. I couldn't hide my face, but I didn't need to tell him my business. I grabbed some aspirin and a bottle of Coke, and brought them up to the counter. When he got a closer look at me, the kid winced.

“Looks like it hurts like hell,” he said.

I shrugged. “Then it looks pretty much exactly how it feels.”

“Sorry, man,” he said.

I shrugged again. “Shit happens.”

I paid for my things and walked out to my bike. It was ticking as the engine cooled. I took off the cap and stuck the nozzle into the tank, letting it fill. Tearing open the packet of aspirin, I popped them in my mouth and washed them down with a long swig of cold soda.

I needed a plan. Rolling up to her old man’s house, knocking on the door, and asking him to let Isabelle leave with me wasn't going to work. I had a gun in the saddle bag on my bike, but all three of those clowns were strapped, so I was outgunned. Of course, being that they were rank amateurs, it might not be as big of a disadvantage as I expected. I might still be able to get the drop on them.

But I needed to get to Scott's house without being noticed. My bike was loud, and they'd likely hear me coming if I just rolled down his street. I reached for my phone and punched in the address Dave had given me, then pulled up the directions from the station.

It wasn't far. I felt the seconds ticking away as I stood there, trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do and how I was going to do it. First things first. I needed to find this house and see if she was even there. For all I knew, they'd taken her out to the desert, shot her, and left her in a ditch somewhere.

I finished gassing up and climbed on. Before I took off, I put my cut into one of my saddlebags. No sense in advertising who I was. After securing my bag, I rode off and followed the directions I'd gotten off my phone. Fifteen minutes later I came upon the street I was looking for, but the last thing I wanted to do was ride down and have my hog announce my arrival. Instead, I parked on the next block over.

I slid off my bike and looked around. The street was quiet and full of big houses obviously owned by the well-off. In other words, a street I'd probably never be able to live on. I scanned the windows closely, watching for anybody who might be looking out at me.

The coast was clear so I opened my saddlebag. I took out a ball cap and put it on, pulling it low on my head—wincing as it rubbed against my wounds. After that, a pair of sunglasses to hide the bruising. I figured it was best to obscure my face as much as possible—a man who'd obviously taken a beating tended to stand out. And I wanted to be as unmemorable as possible.

After one last look around, I pulled the gun out of my bag and tucked it into my jeans at the small of my back, then yanked my shirt down over it. I turned and walked back down the street, my boots thumping hard on the pavement.

It was hot. Palm Springs always felt a lot hotter than Milling did, though the difference in temperature wasn't usually that great. Beads of sweat rolled down my back and my face—the salt from my sweat stinging the cuts on my face.

I turned the corner, faced the house and stopped. The black van I'd seen in the motel parking lot was there in the driveway. I looked closely but didn't see anybody behind the wheel. It had been pulled in so that the rear doors were facing the garage which made it easier for them to get Isabelle out of the van and into the house unseen by the neighbors.

The house was large and modern looking—all angles and glass. I thought it was pretty ugly, but then, I wasn't one of the upper crust, so my taste mattered for shit. Obviously, I wasn't as cultured or refined as these fuckers with money.

I strolled up to the house, keeping a careful eye on the windows around me. It was hard to look casual and like I fit in on a street like this—a guy like me tended to stand out. Everything on the street was still. Silent. The people who lived here were probably at their day jobs.

Careful to keep away from the front windows, I walked up the side of the driveway. I stayed close to the van so that if the motherfucker happened to look out, he wouldn't see me. I walked as quickly and quietly as I could to the rear of the van, noting, through the back windows that it was empty. Isabelle was either inside the house or—God, I didn't even want to think about the other possibility.

So, it came down to one thing—I had to get into the house. Going through the front door was out of the question. If I was going to save Isabelle, I needed to use the only advantage I had—the element of surprise. They didn't know I was coming—probably thought they'd gotten away scot free and that I had no idea how to find them. They obviously didn't know me. When I got my teeth into something, I was as determined as a pit bull with a bone.

I edged over to the gate beside the garage and peered over. Deserted. I strained my ears to listen and heard nothing coming from the backyard. Maybe luck was on my side. As quietly as I could, I opened the latch and let myself into the side yard, closing the gate behind me. I slowly made my way down the walk toward the backyard. Everything remained silent.

The walkway opened to an expansive backyard with a large swimming pool in the center. There was a pond in a garden area to my right that had waterfalls flowing into it. The pond was filled with multicolored fish—the kind I'd seen in ponds outside of this Japanese food place I'd been to once. I suppose it was nice to look at, but it served a more practical purpose for me—the sound of the waterfalls masked my footsteps.

I stepped up onto the wooden deck that led to the back doors, moving as quietly as I could. The back doors were floor to ceiling windows and thankfully, there was nobody in the room immediately beyond them. But it led to another problem—how was I going to get in? I wasn't an expert at picking locks by any stretch of the imagination. I had a lot of skills, but that most definitely wasn't one of them.

I took a deep breath. One thing at a time.

I made it to the back doors without anybody coming out—my luck was still holding. Fingers crossed, I hoped for one more bit of luck. Reaching out, I grabbed the handle and turned it. It opened. I stared at it for a moment—my luck was never that good.

Thankfully, I was dealing with morons. That always helped.

Taking another deep breath, I pushed the door open and stepped inside.