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Okay. That gives me a timeline, at least. A couple hours ago, she was fine, still at the B&B when they left. If she was gone by the time that guest blew in and called Thelma looking for her, that must’ve been a good hour, maybe more.
Also, it takes time to load up valuable cars and a damn near priceless Corvette in a big-rig hauler. I haven’t worked on anything that huge since Afghanistan, but I’m guessing they can’t rocket down the highway—plus they’ll stick to backroads if they’re smart, keeping a low profile.
They have to be somewhere between here and Dallas, unless they went east. Drake has good reason to believe they’re heading west, though.
“Any guesses where they’re going?” I ask.
“Interstate to make time, then they’ll use the backroads,” Drake answers. “I’m thinking they’re heading toward the state line. Unless they’ve got an evil lair or something, they’ll want to head for the nearest coast to unload those cars.”
“I’ll hit the backroads now.” Before he can respond, I add, “It’s gotta be Hudson spearheading it, no matter how many minions he’s got. And I’ll bet you anything he roped in that Muddy Boots-Remington asshole.”
“Absolutely,” Drake answers. “I’d tell you not to do anything foolish, but I know you won’t listen. Neither would I if it were my girl in this situation. Just stay in touch.”
“Will do.”
I click off.
Fuck. He just had to call her my girl, didn’t he? A savage reminder of the chance I’ve lost if I don’t move.
Worried that calling her phone may draw attention, I send a quick text to Shel.
Where are you? Everybody’s worried.
“Weston? What the hell is going on?” Grady asks, racing to my side as soon as he sees me. “What did Drake say? I’ve already called up Ridge and Faulk for backup.”
Before I can answer, Marty tells me, “Bad news. Her phone’s still on the front desk at the B&B according to our guest.”
“Damn!” Already on my way to the door, I shout back at Grady, “Call Drake, he’ll explain everything. I need backup, but I need you to stay here with Aunt Faye. Have them meet me at my place ASAP.”
* * *
I’ve never barreled home so fast in my life.
The second my truck squeals to a stop in front of my place, I’m out, flying into the house. I run upstairs to my gun safe, then to the kitchen.
A quick look through the mail holder turns up something Shel picked up off the ground weeks ago. I remember seeing it because I loathed its sight, suspicious as hell from the very start.
Half a heartbeat later, I come bursting out, holding a plastic wrapper crinkling in my hand and that damn modified dog leash dangling from the other, plus a small bushel of bananas swinging from one finger.
“Herc! Herc, wake your ass up!” I say, tearing off a banana to unpeel and smacking it against his pen like a drumstick.
The pig shuffles up to my side of his pen, blinking, and mashes his nose against the opening between the slats, snuffling impudently.
“I know, I know. You’re tired from the ruckus and Drake bringing you back, but buddy—” I pause. I still can’t believe I’m asking the world’s worst behaved pig for help. “Come with me on a car ride. Help me out tonight and I’ll keep you in bananas and peanut butter for the next month.”
He grunts back, snorting off my offer like an insult.
My eyes narrow. “All right, damn you, the next year. Please. Please don’t be a dick and help me help Shelly.”
Reee! He gives back a shrill squeal the instant I say her name, bouncing on his stubby legs.
Despite the stress, I smile and push the wrapper I saved toward his snout.
“That’s right. Take a good smell,” I say, holding it out as I hop into the pen.
He goes hog wild—every pun intended—when he gets a good whiff of the bag, now empty of those rank-ass almonds.
I almost think he understands as I toss him the banana he wolfs down in two bites. Then I wrangle him into his altered big dog harness and throw the gate open.
