Fighting for Elena Page 2

  Pops directed them along a path parallel to the flames. They’d gone several hundred yards when a terrified scream echoed above the snap and crackle of the fire. It could have been human, or it could have an animal. Pops didn’t care. Conor moved in the direction of the sound and the dumb ass was running full tilt directly into the woods. Moose yelled for him to stop.

  “Shit.”

  The fire was starting to top out—igniting the crowns of the trees and racing along fueled by the wind. They were in imminent danger of being trapped. At the same time, he couldn’t leave the game warden to a fate that truly was worse than death. Burning alive wasn’t quick and it damn sure wasn’t an easy way to die.

  “Let’s go,” he ordered, and took off after Conor at a trot. His crew and the big-city firefighters followed close on his heels.

  Conor had stopped dead. A wall of flames engulfed the clearing in front of him. Pops could see the eerie silhouette of a man. He appeared to be wearing hunter’s camouflage. As he ran up behind Conor, the man’s clothing burst into flames. In a fire this intense, the radiant heat was just as deadly as the flames themselves. Time was up.

  “Take cover,” Pops yelled to the others who were straggling behind. Then he tackled Conor, taking the game warden to the ground. He dug in his pack and retrieved the survival shelter they all carried in case of this very scenario. He could only pray that his guys and the other two firefighters were as quick on the draw as he was. He wrapped both himself and Conor up in the silver, flame-resistant shelter. Ideally, they would have had a chance to dig trenches to get into before pulling the shelters over their bodies. Getting below ground level would give them a better chance of survival. All they could do now was hope that the fire stayed high in the trees and swept over them.

  The roar of the flames was so loud Pops couldn’t hear a thing and the air was so hot it hurt to breath. He forced Conor’s head deeper against the dirt. Anything was better than searing your lungs by breathing the superheated air. Pops kept his own face buried against his arm, breathing against the fire-resistant material of his turnout coat. He counted off the time in his head. Minutes passed. The sound decreased, the air cooled slightly. Conor kept trying to get up. Pops pushed him back down every time. It wasn’t safe. Not yet. He continued to count down in his head. At least ten minutes passed before he rolled off Conor, and they carefully checked what was going on outside their shelter. They both sat up, pushing the shelter off them.

  Conor’s expression was filled with horror. The fire had passed over them. Without the shelter, they’d have been crispy critters and the other man knew that. Wordlessly, the game warden extended his hand, the horror now suffused with gratitude. Pops shook it.

  The others began to crawl out of their own shelters and Pops took stock while Conor pushed to his feet to look around. “Wow…” Conor mumbled, noting some of the trees were nothing but charred stubs while others looked almost fine.

  “It’s because of how fast the fire was moving,” Dirty-D explained as he shook out his shelter and began folding it up. “Even though it was hot, the flames didn’t have time to catch some of trees on fire. We were lucky. The worst of it seemed to be higher up. If we’d been standing, we would’ve been in big trouble, but because we were on the ground and covered, the heat and flames skipped right over us.”

  Conor looked to the center of the clearing. A body lay not too far from where they’d sheltered. Walking closer, Conor nudged the still-smoking body with the toe of his boot. The man didn’t move. Before Pops or anyone else could say anything, the game warden knelt and turned over the body. He fell back then scrambled away.

  Bodies burned beyond recognition was not something a person saw every day and it was a shock to the system. Pops knew this to be true, even for experienced firefighters. It took a strong stomach to deal with such a sight. Someone gagged and suddenly, Conor was back beside the body, turning it face down again. Just as well. There’d be no reviving the guy.

  As they scouted around, Conor found a melted crossbow and quiver. He looked confused, then concerned, something obviously going through his mind. The rest of their crew gathered around, the donkey still sticking like a burr to Penelope. They exchanged stories, and Conor insisted that Pops had saved his life. Moose was all up in Penelope’s face about her covering the donkey in her shelter, the two of them bickering like close friends—or an old married couple.

  Pops missed those days. He jerked his thoughts away from the past and concentrated on the present. They needed to report the body and the fact the guy had been armed.

  Buff, his face hard, stared at the remains. “That the guy who kidnapped your woman?” he asked.

  “Don’t know, but if I had to guess, I’d say yes,” Conor replied. The game warden looked around before apparently coming to a decision. He headed into the burned area then stopped and turned back to the group. “I need to find her. I understand that you have a job to do.”

  Pops grabbed his radio. Erin was still out there somewhere. “Fuck that. The fire is way beyond us now, we’d have to go all the way around to get back in front of it. You said yourself that you thought Erin started this fire to either get away from whoever had kidnapped her or to bring attention to where she was. If that’s true, it’s possible she could be nearby. Especially if he was here. It’ll be easier to search with eight than with just one.”

  Conor’s relief was evident in the way his shoulders sagged and his chin lifted a hair as he met Pops’s gaze.

  “’Preciate it. Keep your eyes open for footprints or anything out of the ordinary. If she saw the fire or that asshole coming, she might’ve tried to hide.”

  The group fanned out, looking for any evidence that might lead them to Erin. Pops radioed the command post to tell them about the body as he covered his search area. Smoke puffed around him where some of the trees and brush still burned and patches of blackened grass crackled beneath his boots.

  He prayed that the girl was savvy enough to find a safe place to hole up or was in good enough shape to run from the fire.

  Pops caught the sound of running water and figured out where they were. He’d forgotten about this creek. There might be hope for Erin after all. It’d been a long, dry spell so it was with some relief to discover water in the stream.

  The donkey trotted directly to the creek and drank before wading into the water and flopping. Poor little guy. That had to feel good on his burns. Pops knew a good vet—he glanced at Short Shit—who could treat the thing. He’d talk to Dr. Angel Murphy, DVM, as soon as the situation allowed. Of course, that all depended on whether Penelope would let him take the critter. It was obvious she’d grown attached in the brief time the donkey had been with her. He was scanning the area for signs of Erin when he heard the female firefighter call out, “No, Smokey! Come back here.”

  Pops turned around as the donkey brayed.

  Moose moved toward the animal, yelling, “Conor, get over here!”

  Everyone converged on the spot. The donkey, head down, nuzzled something on the edge of the creek. From Conor’s reaction, this had to be Erin.

  She was mostly naked, her face swollen, and covered in scrapes and bruises. It was the swelling that worried Pops. He saw the ant hill and winced. He didn’t need Conor’s urgent proclamation that she was allergic to fire ants to recognize the symptoms. He dug into his pack looking for the EpiPen he always carried. He finally found it at the very bottom—stupid Murphy’s Law—and handed it to Moose.

  The big firefighter opened the case and slammed the injector into Erin’s thigh. The girl made no sign she’d even felt it. “Another,” Moose ordered, and Pops handed him a second pen.

  Conor knelt beside her as Penelope checked her carotid. She glanced up. “She’s not breathing.”

  Pops pulled Conor out of the way. He had a friggin’ combat surgeon—provided Buff’s PTSD didn’t kick in—and an ER nurse on his team. Plus the two SAFD firefighters. Tank and Dirty-D went to work on her as Moose began chest compressions
. Buff passed an oxygen mask to Penelope and the moment Tank stopped rescue breathing, she placed it over Erin’s face. That was a good sign. It meant the adrenaline was working and Erin was breathing on her own. Conor turned away and Buff stepped up next to him.

  Pops returned to Erin and checked her pulse while the others worked fervently. He grinned. The girl was a fighter. “I’ve got a pulse! It’s weak, but it’s there. Give her another dose of antihistamine.”

  Moose stopped compressions and sat back as Dirty-D gave Erin another injection. The big man grinned at Conor. “Fuck yeah, I knew she was too tough to give up.”

  Pop radioed their position and Erin’s condition. There was no place for a helicopter to land or a way to get a vehicle in. They’d have to walk her out. Buff and Short Shit went to work creating a makeshift litter out of shovels and their turnout coats. He handed a survival blanket to Penelope to wrap Erin in. The poor thing wore nothing but a bra and panties, both of which were soaked through from her time in the water. The mud helped preserve most of her modesty.

  In a short time, they were ready to head to the nearest road—nearest being a relative term as they were approximately two miles away. As they hiked out, Conor was on his phone making his own calls to someone named Juliette. Someone else could recover the body. They had a live patient and Erin needed a hospital ASAP.

  They all took turns carrying and his guys were in great shape. So were the other three. After finishing his conversation with Juliette, Conor told them the fire was 80% contained now that heavy equipment had made it to the scene. That was good news. The fact Erin was still breathing and beginning to come around a little was even better.

  When they hit the dirt road, an ambulance was waiting for them. Pops stood back as the EMTs transferred Erin to a gurney and loaded her in. Conor got in with her, along with Moose and Penelope. He raised his hand in a salute as they took off then laughed as the little donkey took off after them, galloping like a racehorse to keep up. Yeah, no way would Penelope let him take the little guy.

  Just as well. He didn’t need any more strays hanging around the ranch.

  Chapter 2

  Shadows gathered beneath the bridges crossing the San Antonio River Walk. Only a few tourists and workers remained as a faraway clock chimed the half hour between two a.m. and three. Elena Rodriguez, chin up and shoulders squared, walked with deliberation. This post-midnight stroll was beyond stupid, but she couldn’t help herself. The face of the young girl had haunted her for the past week. She’d wanted to help, but the girl ran the moment two bikers approached. She’d faded into the crowd and disappeared. That’s when Elena realized those bikers had been looking for the girl.

  Hell Dogs. She’d recognized the insignia as soon as the two brutes pushed past her, bulling their way through the throngs of people. State and local police were well aware of the outlaw motorcycle gang. Was the girl a daughter of one of the members? Or worse? Which was Elena’s biggest fear. Human trafficking wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. The idea of that pretty girl being used so horribly knotted her stomach.

  Fighting exhaustion and despair, she continued her search. Bands of runaways congregated along the length of the River Walk. Bars, restaurants, and shops kept tourists coming and the kids could beg or steal money and food. Her supervisor had warned her on more than one occasion to stop doing this. And she had. Until she saw the girl. Young. Too young. And terrified but with a strength that sang to Elena’s soul.

  She knew what that was like. She’d grown up in a big Mexican American family. She’d lost brothers to the Hispanic gangs. She’d lost sisters to drugs and booze. Her mother went to church and prayed. Her father got drunk and kept her mother pregnant. Not all families were like hers. She’d managed to avoid the pitfalls of growing up poor. She’d graduated high school. Went to community college and then found enough grants and scholarships to get through The University of Houston with both her bachelors and her MSW.

  Something moved in the dark recesses of an overpass as she walked under it. A couple. Kissing. Must be nice, she thought. She hadn’t had time for a social life in what seemed like years. Her case load was loco, her supervisor demanding, and now she was losing sleep over a kid that likely didn’t want her help and would just take off again. Except somewhere deep inside her, she knew. The girl had a story. And the eyes that haunted Elena’s sleep had shown terror the moment those bikers came into view.

  She kept walking, peering into the shadows. The homeless were bedding down for the night. Drunks wove and dodged along the walkway, the perpetual dance of light-night stragglers. Tired service workers slouched toward the stairways that would take them up to street level where they could catch public transportation and go home for the night. A group of teenagers sauntered by on the opposite side of the canal. Elena paused, perusing them with an eye sharpened by experience. Her girl wasn’t among them. They were too well dressed to be runaways. Just a group of friends out on the town, way past curfew.

  She passed an old man rolled up in a colorful serape. He snored softly, a bottle in a brown bag tucked into the crook of his arm. Three people stood just inside the shadow of the next overpass. Money was traded for something in a small plastic bag. Hands flashed in a series of gang signs. Drug deal. She didn’t look too closely. She wasn’t stupid, despite this errand. Her boot heels clapped against the flagstones of the walkway. Wearing jeans, western boots, a tooled leather belt with a big buckle that anyone could buy at any souvenir shop—because a woman alone wearing a big silver buckle that was real? Borderline stupidity. Again. No, she was dressed to blend in and appear not a victim.

  She’d almost reached the last section of this branch of the canal where the River Walk dead ended by the Marriott Hotel when she caught a flash of a dark ponytail. Blue jean jacket. Jeans frayed at the knees—not for fashion but from hard wear. She followed, slowing her steps and pretending to not notice the figure in front of her. The girl, hands shoved in her pockets and shoulders hunched, reached some steps and paused, her face highlighted by a streetlight. She was young. Couldn’t be much more than thirteen or fourteen, fifteen at the oldest.

  Elena kept walking, pretending to ignore the girl until she drew even with her. She smiled and said hello. The girl shrank back from her.

  “Please, don’t run,” Elena implored. “I want to help you.”

  The girl shook her head, panic plain to read in her expression. “No one can help me,” she whispered.

  “I can.” Confident, blunt, and with a promise, those two words said everything in Elena’s heart. “My name is Elena. I work with kids like you.”

  The girl backed away.

  “Please. I’m not one of the bad guys.” She pulled a case out of her back pocket, opened it, and held it out. “You might think Protective Services are the bad guys, but we aren’t.”

  “You work for the state?” Was that hope in the girl’s voice? Elena prayed fervently that it was.

  “Yes. I’m a social worker with Texas DFPS. Are you in trou—” Before Elena could finish the question, the color drained from the girl’s face. She whirled and dashed up the steps, taking them two and three at a time. “No, wait!”

  “Get the little bitch!” A deep voice bellowed behind Elena. Moments later, two men wearing leather vests sporting the scary Hell Dogs patch blew past her at a dead run. Before she could react, a powerful hand closed around her biceps and jerked her around.

  Terrified, she screamed and lashed out with a fist. The guy who’d grabbed her laughed and ducked her blows. She balanced on one foot and nailed him in the thigh with the pointed toe of her boot. He grunted but didn’t let go. Instead, he backhanded her with his closed fist. Her head rocked to the side and she saw stars. A detached part of her brain marveled at that revelation. If you got hit hard enough, you did see stars. Odd and amazing. And it hurt! That slightly off-kilter part immediately went to the scene from “Pretty Woman” where Julia Roberts commented about how a man automatically knew exactly where to hit
a woman’s face so it hurt the worst.

  The biker’s words—mostly curses—washed over her but she only heard what sounded liked the teacher in the Peanuts movies. Wah, wah-wah, wah, wah, wah-wah-wah-wa-wah. Her eyes weren’t focusing either. It was only stupid luck that had her turning right as the guy threw a punch aimed at her stomach. His fist glanced off her hip bone and lord knew she had some padding there.

  “Hey!” Someone yelled from nearby. “What the hell? Get away from her!”

  The guy let go of her and dizzy, she dropped to her butt on the walkway. Grunts and groans punctuated the sounds of a scuffle, but she couldn’t focus. Her face hurt. Nausea was a real concern. And she didn’t know what had happened to the girl.

  “Are you okay?” The voice drifting down to her sounded gruff—and slightly winded. Heavy footsteps echoed in the distance. Her assailant, probably. Hopefully, the girl had been able to elude the two men who’d gone after her. She wanted to kick herself for putting the child in danger. Dios mio but she was an idiot.

  “Is she hurt?” A second voice joined the murmur of the first.

  “Go get some ice from the hotel. That asshole clocked her in the face. I’m on with nine-one-one.”

  His voice went wonky again and she closed her eyes. She’d rest a minute and then she’d be fine.

  Pops signed off from the 9-1-1 operator and squatted beside the woman. When he’d first noticed the altercation, he thought it was a domestic between a biker and his old lady. Then the bastard swung and punched her with his fist. That’s when Pops stepped in. He now realized this woman was not some biker babe. She wore cowboy boots, pressed jeans, and a nice shirt. Her dark hair was long and wavy and when he could get her to open her eyes, he thought they were a golden brown—though that might have been a trick of the streetlights lining the canal. She was a pretty woman, probably in her early thirties. She had real curves and for the first time since he lost Rosie, something stirred below his belt. He shoved those feelings away, aided by a big ol’ helping of guilt. Rosie was his “one” and no woman would ever take her place.