Then we're going to figure out how to save your friend. " Marcus stared at her. "You don't know me. I'm a criminal. An outlaw. " "I know you're a man who keeps his promises. " Eva extended her hand. "And I know what it means to owe someone your life.
My husband, Garrett, taught me that. Now come on, we're wasting time. " Getting Marcus into the Bronco took 20 minutes and every ounce of strength Eva had left. He was 6'2, 240 lb of muscle and leather. She used the technique Garrett had taught her for moving patients, leverage, not strength. The Bronco's suspension groaned as Marcus slumped into the passenger seat.
Eva started the engine. The radio came back to life, Willie Nelson singing about being on the road again. Marcus laughed, a short bark of pain and irony. "You like country? " Eva asked, pulling onto the highway. "Grew up on it. " He leaned his head back, his eyes closed.
"My father, he wasn't much. Drunk, mean. But he loved Willie Nelson. Only good thing he ever gave me. " Eva drove in silence for a moment. The landscape rolled past, endless desert saguaro cacti standing like sentinels.
"My husband, Garrett, loved this road," she said quietly. "He'd drive it every Sunday morning. Said it helped him think. Clear his head. He passed 6 years ago, accident at the shipyard where he worked.
Welding accident. " Her voice stayed steady, but her hands tightened on the wheel. "They said he didn't suffer. I hope that's true. " "I'm sorry. " "Don't be. We had 45 years. That's more than most people get. " She glanced at him.
"He would have helped you, too, you know. Garrett believed that when you can help, you do. No questions asked. " Marcus opened his eyes. "Why are you doing this? You could have called 911, walked away.
I'm nothing to you. " Eva was quiet for a long moment. The desert stretched endless around them. "After Garrett died, I woke up every morning asking myself the same question. Why am I still here? What's the point? " She turned onto a dirt road, the ranch appearing in the distance.
"I spent 50 years taking care of people. Navy nurse for 15 years. Then Garrett for 30 more. And then nothing. No one needed me anymore. " She pulled up to the ranch house, small, weathered, but solid.
"When I saw you under those rocks, I thought, 'This is why. This is what I'm still here for.'" She killed the engine, looked at him. "So don't thank me. You're giving me a reason to get up tomorrow. " The ranch house smelled like coffee and old wood and decades of living. Eva helped Marcus to the guest bedroom, the room that had been Garrett's workshop, then his sick room, then just empty.
She laid Marcus on the bed with surprising gentleness. "I'm going to clean these wounds properly, then we'll talk about your friend. She worked methodically. The head wound needed 12 stitches. She did them carefully, fingers steady despite her age.
The leg was fractured in two places, but the bones weren't displaced. She splinted it with wood from Garrett's old workshop and wrapped it tight. Marcus watched her work. You're good at this. Spent 15 years in the Navy Medical Corps, served on ships during the Cold War.
You see enough injuries, you get good. She tied off the last bandage. You're lucky, nothing life-threatening, but you won't be riding a motorcycle for 6 weeks. I don't have 6 weeks. I have 36 hours.
Eva washed her hands in the basin. Tell me about Doc. Everything. Marcus struggled to sit up. Eva helped him propping pillows behind his back.
Walter Brennan, 70 years old, spent 25 years as an Army doctor, Gulf War peacekeeping missions, retired in 2005, moved to Arizona, lives alone in a trailer park outside Phoenix. Family? None. Wife died of cancer in 2003. No kids.
I'm Marcus's voice caught. I'm the closest thing he has to family. What happened 3 days ago? Marcus closed his eyes remembering. Doc called me, said he'd seen something.
He was driving home from the VA hospital where he volunteers. Took a wrong turn, ended up in an industrial area. Saw men loading people into a truck, women, older men. They looked wrong, drugged maybe. Scared.
He witnessed a crime. Human trafficking. Doc recognized it, he'd seen it during his deployments. He called me instead of the police because Marcus hesitated. Because he knows some cops can't be trusted.
Border areas, there's corruption. He wanted my advice. And then then nothing. He went silent. His phone went dead.
Next day I got a call, unknown number, voice disguised. They said they had Doc. Said if I wanted him back alive, I'd pay $300,000. No police, no FBI, just money. Eva sat in Garrett's old armchair.
They knew to call you specifically. Yes. Which means they knew about your connection to Doc. Yes. So either they'd been watching Doc for a while or or someone told them.
Marcus's voice went hard. Someone in my organization, someone I trust. Eva leaned forward. How many people knew you were going to deliver the ransom today? Five, my inner circle.
He counted on his fingers. Boone McKenzie, my vice president, Clayton Bishop, our treasurer, Wade Brennan, no relation to Doc, our medic, Silas Drummond, our lawyer, and Garrett Thorn, head of security. One of them betrayed you. One of them tried to kill me. Marcus gestured to his leg.
That rock fall wasn't an accident. The silence settled heavy. Eva stood, walked to the window. The sun was setting, painting the desert in shades of amber and blood. The kidnappers, what did they say exactly?
They'd call again in 48 hours with the meeting location. Said to bring the money, come alone. If they see police, if they see anyone else, Doc dies. He paused. That was yesterday morning, which means I have until tomorrow evening.
Eva turned from the window. Do you have the money? I had $300,000 in cash. It's in a backpack, still strapped to my bike back on the highway. Then we need to get it.
Tonight. Marcus stared at her. You You can't walk. You certainly can't ride. And you can't trust anyone in your organization.
Eva's voice was calm, matter of fact. Which means you need someone from outside. Someone they won't expect. A 73-year-old woman. A 73-year-old woman who knows how to handle herself.
She met his eyes. Garrett taught me more than nursing, Marcus. He taught me how to shoot, how to fight, how to survive. He was Army, did two tours in Germany during the Cold War. He said, "Eva, one day you might need these skills.
Pray you never do, but if you do, be ready. " She walked to a closet, opened it. Inside were Garrett's things, his old Remington 870 shotgun, his Colt 1911 pistol, ammunition boxes neatly stacked. "I'm ready. " Eva said quietly. At 9:00 p.m. Marcus's phone rang.