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“Shit, was it the box he asked me to take this morning?”
“Yeah, Wyatt said his boss mailed it.” The toilet flushed. Ramie washed her hands and appeared in front of him. “It was Wyatt’s idea to try and get the package from the post office, but I’m pretty sure it’s been picked up to go to the sorting center. He got the guy out of the house, though, Brand. He protected me, and now he’s out there with this guy and a gun.”
The idea of his son out there, basically held hostage by some criminal with a gun, incensed Brand on a brand-new level he’d never felt before. Every instinct in his body demanded he protect Wyatt somehow. He had to solve this and bring him home safely. “We need to go someplace safe and then call the police.”
“We can’t. What if this guy hurts Wyatt?”
“Ramie, we can’t fix this ourselves. We’re a cowboy and a bartender, not exactly special forces here. How long ago did they leave?”
“I don’t know. It was around six thirty that I took my break, and we sat here for a while until Wyatt got home.”
Brand looked at his phone. Almost eight. If he was guessing correctly, this kidnapper was probably casing the post office right now. “What if the package was sent out already?”
She blinked hard several times, a sure sign she was fighting back a rare wash of tears. “Then they were going to come back, get me, and we were all going back to Glasbury to wait for the package. It sounded like killing us was a last resort, but people do crazy things when they’re stressed out and cornered.”
“No kidding.” Brand had the scar on his belly to prove it. “Look, first step is getting the fuck out of this house and to someplace safe the bad guy wouldn’t think to look for you. Then we call the police.”
“Okay.” She coughed once. “He protected me, Brand. I think he feels like he owes me for lying. He’s such a good kid.”
“Yeah. And he’s going to be fine. Believe in that.”
“Right.”
Brand led her out of the house and to his truck, then drove them to the diner’s parking lot. It was right on Main Street, fairly busy all the time, and the kidnapper dude had no idea what Brand’s truck looked like, so they were safe enough here. He called 911 and reported what he knew, where it had happened, where he suspected Wyatt and the kidnapper were now, and where he and Ramie currently were. The dispatcher promised to send cars and officers to all three locations.
He briefly entertained the idea of calling Jackson and giving him a heads-up on what was happening, but what could Jackson do? Nothing except get in the way or pace his motel room and worry. No, he’d wait until he actually knew something.
All any of them could do now was wait.
Wait and wonder and hope beyond hope that Wyatt was okay.
Wyatt was doing his very best not to piss his pants from fright. At the time, suggesting Smith try to break into the post office had seemed like a genius way to get him away from Ramie—and that part had worked. But the post office was in a brick municipal building that also housed town hall and two other businesses. Everything was closed for the night, but the parking lot was well-lit and traffic went steadily past on Main Street. Not exactly ideal break-in conditions, even for seemingly seasoned criminals like Smith.
Definitely not for unseasoned criminals like Wyatt.
Wyatt had been instructed to park around back and, after securing his hands with duct tape, Smith spent time testing windows and doors for an entry point. He’d left Wyatt alone in the car, behind the wheel, but Smith had taken the keys, Wyatt didn’t have his phone, and he was terrified that if he blasted the horn or tried to run he’d get shot in the back. So far Smith had been calm and rational. That could all change on a dime, though. He needed to keep Smith away from Ramie’s house until help arrived, or Wyatt came up with some genius plan to rescue himself.
Yeah, right. He couldn’t even muck a stall without getting a splinter. How the fuck was he supposed to get himself out of this mess? A mess completely of Jared’s making, and his anger at his best friend was tempered by knowing the poor guy was in pain right now, if not still in the hospital after whatever Smith did to him.
What the fuck kind of mess did you get yourself into, Jared?
The rear area of the municipal building was basically an alley with a tall wooden fence behind it, and residential homes on the other side of that. The fence was too tall for Wyatt to climb, and even if he could do it and got away, he might not make it back to Ramie’s house before Smith. God knew what Smith might do to her if he was pissed off. No, Wyatt had to keep Smith’s attention firmly on him. He’d brought this mess into her life, so he’d do his best to clean it the fuck up.
Smith never went out of sight of the car, so Wyatt didn’t have a lot of time to act any particular way. His only advantage was that Wyatt knew his car. He’d shared it with Jared for years, and he’d had it solely to himself for almost two months. The cigarette lighter insert was long gone so no help there. He’d removed everything of value after that first attempted robbery of his trunk, so the handful of tools and random shit that had accumulated was in a bag under his bed.
The only useful thing he’d left in the trunk was the tire jack and the iron bar needed to crank the thing, but could he get into the trunk before Smith shot him? Probably not, and he’d have trouble wielding it with his hands secured with too many layers of tape to bite through.
As discreetly as he could in the dim alley light, Wyatt leaned over and opened the glove compartment. Rooted around. Registration and insurance cards and a maintenance book? Not useful unless Smith was susceptible to infected paper cuts.
“What do I do? What do I do?” he asked the empty car.
Smith had disappeared from sight, so Wyatt took a chance on bending over and feeling as best he could beneath his seat, then the passenger seat. His fingertips brushed over a slender piece of cold metal and he grabbed it. An old box cutter from one of his college retail jobs. They were skinny and flat, and he’d frequently forgotten one was in his jeans pocket when he went home. The blade was small and not super-sharp anymore, so it didn’t make a great weapon, but it was useful. It had to be—he just had to think.
A scene from a movie he’d liked as a kid, because it had been one of Mom’s favorites, flashed in his mind. But he couldn’t count on Smith not putting on his seat belt. Back in the eighties, seat belts were pretty much voluntary but nowadays cops would ticket you for anything. Still no sign of Smith anywhere, so maybe he had managed to break into the post office after all.
Didn’t matter right now. Wyatt grabbed the passenger seat belt and tugged it over, then began sawing at the nylon fabric with the dull box cutter. He hacked through it more than halfway in one spot, then chose another place. If he had any kind of luck not related to his own clumsiness (because God knew he had no luck there), Smith wouldn’t notice the cuts.
A shadow moved, and Wyatt let go of the belt. Dropped the box cutter in the space between the two seats without meaning to, and there went his only weapon. Smith flung himself into the passenger seat, his face a thundercloud. “The box isn’t there,” he snarled. “Must have been picked up. Damn it.”
