With Just Cause Read online

  He was tall, too. The cowboy hat worn low on his forehead only emphasized it. And he was fit. Muscled. Sculpted. He wasn’t wearing loose enough clothing to hide how much time he spent working out. And since Deandra had already dated two very body-conscious males, she knew how much time and work that kind of physique took. And how much narcissism usually accompanied it. That frame was exactly what she always went for. Only this guy’s physique was complete and total overkill. Especially when combined with his face.

  The guy was swoon-worthy. In spades.

  That must be what was happening. Deandra had never fainted. In her life. Now was a horrid time to start. The area about her nose tingled, and then it spread to her chin. Her neck... her chest, her belly. Her legs trembled. The awareness of something fascinating sent quivers rippling all over, lifting goose bumps. Over and over. As if she stood beneath a waterfall that spewed electrical current rather than water.

  He acted like he knew, too. A slight quirk touched his lips, not exactly smiling, but definitely like he might. He moved then, stretching the fabric of his upper sleeve about a bicep in order to lift a hand toward her, palm upward. Silently. Waiting for her to take it. Put her hand within his grasp. To go with him. As if she really was standing wide-eyed, in some dreamlike state. Enthralled. Entranced. Breathless.

  And actually considering it.

  Deandra’s breathing hitched and the Derringer dropped from numbed fingers, glancing off just-as-numbed toes. There weren’t words to describe the sensation. There was just this span of time. This moment. This unbelievable suspension of reality.

  The truck entered the courtyard with a whoosh, spraying grit with the way the driver slammed on brakes. Deandra’s eyes shifted, and when she looked back, the space before the window was empty. Completely and totally empty. Vacant. As if that man had been a figment of her imagination.

  “Hola!”

  A loud voice announced it as the engine died, the lights shut off, the door opened and then shut, sending a large swath of light from the interior dome onto the ground before it too disappeared. But he replaced it a moment later with a flashlight beam, demonstrating the newcomer had enough sense to keep one handy. Behind her Deandra could sense the others moving, hear the hint of a member of their group who actually started weeping. And then their hostess replied, stepping out through the bullet-ridden door as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “Good eve, Senior. You are Mister Griggins? Leonard Griggins?”

  It was impossible to see him clearly. Not with the flashlight he wielded at them.

  “Oh, please. Call me Len. Everyone else does. You got the message from my company? VAL? About the room?”

  “Si Senor. It is ready.”

  “Excellent. Looks like I got here just in time, too. What’s that fellow doing up there?” The light flicked to the intruder’s boots and then back.

  “He’s a man of the lowest order. A coyote. A plague on the land.” The sound of the shotgun getting cocked accompanied the end of her sentence.

  “Coyote, huh? Trafficker?”

  “Si.”

  “Drug or human?”

  “I do not think he cares. Whatever pays.”

  “Not good. If he had a human cargo tonight, they might still be out there. Injured. Hungry. Scared. You got a ladder?”

  “Ladder?”

  “Can’t interrogate him if I can’t reach him. Nice roping job, by the way. How about some duct tape. You got any of that?”

  “Duct tape?”

  “I gotta silence him again afterwards. Unless I decide to kill him. Never mind. I’ll use my own tape. Well... hello, ladies.”

  The man’s voice lowered and had a warm note in it as he probably saw the other members of the 2100 Radical Society spill out onto the porch. Deandra wasn’t paying attention. She was still riveted in place, trembling with the sensation she’d received from gazing into the man’s eyes. Just before he’d disappeared. And that was just weird. The entire evening was. She didn’t have this good an imagination.

  Actually...

  She had a very vivid imagination, but even it wasn’t good enough to conjure that guy up.

  “Anyone see what happened?”

  Most of the 2100 Radical Society answered at once, sounding like a mess of sound. The cacophony activated her. Bringing her back from the spell the cowboy had cast. Or whatever it was. And then she had to face her complete failure. She’d be a complete waste in a real catastrophe. She’d just proved it. Deandra bent to retrieve the Derringer before joining the group at the portal, her shoes crunching on pieces of broken window glass. Reminding her.

  “One at a time, ladies. One at a time. You?”

  He gestured to Edna. Probably because she was at the front. Deandra slunk around the back edge of the crowd, since they were packed together in one section of the porch. Huddled. Obviously failing that portion of survivalist training, too. They were supposed to keep at least five feet between them at all times. It made it them more difficult targets to hit.

  “That man,” she gestured up to the trafficker fellow. “He—he shot up the place.”

  “You handle it, did you?”

  “Uh... no.”

  “You see who did?”

  “No.”

  “Did anyone see what happened?”

  “I did,” Deandra answered.

  The guy turned his flashlight on her, blinding her. She narrowed her eyes and lifted her barrel at him.

  “Whoa. No need for that, lady.”

  “Lower your light then.”

  He did. It took several seconds before she could see again. And it was even more indistinct and dark than before. Asshole.

  “You see what happened?”

  “Basically.”

  “You gonna tell us?”

  “You’re not going to believe it.”

  “Try me.”

  “There was a man here. Cowboy type. Big. Real big.”

  “Cowboy type?”

  “Yep.”

  “You get a good look at him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay then. You’ll be coming with me. When we find out where we’re going. Anyone fetch a ladder yet?”

  “Why her?”

  It was Edna asking it, in a fairly belligerent tone. That was probably because she took this survivalist stuff seriously, while Deandra was more of a biannual participant. The rest of the time she was elbow deep in filing patient charts.

  “Anyone else have a gun handy?”

  “Uh...”

  “That’s what I thought. You any good with that Derringer?”

  “I hit what I aim at,” she replied. Damn. That was just trite and stupid. And exactly what every actor said in a spaghetti Western.

  “Fair enough. Any movement on that ladder? No? Fine. I’ll handle that, too.”

  He grunted. The truck door opened, the engine turned, and then the guy maneuvered his truck right beneath the windmill. He killed the engine and they all watched him climb atop his cab. Even then he had to strain upward to cut the cloth gag on their coyote fellow. The moment he did, the fellow started cursing and whining and stumbling over his words. All spoken in Spanish. Few recognizable. Demonio. Diablo. Vampiro.

  “Where is your cargo?”

  The moment the fellow stopped for breath, Len inserted the question. All that happened was more garbled Spanish about demons and devils. And vampires.

  Vampires? Right. Deandra smiled slightly as the sound of duct tape getting yanked from its roll split the night next, and then the fellow started firing accented English. Finally.

  “You stupid gringo! You waste time on me? No! Can’t you see? I am not the monster! The devil is out there! You must stop him! The vampire... he already killed Manuel! Sucked him dry! Now he is after me! He will kill us all! You must—!”

  His words ended abruptly, turning into throaty gibberish.

  “Remember ladies, this is why you never go anywhere without a handy-dandy roll of basic gray duct tape.
Thousand and one uses for this stuff. One of them is silencing bad guys. That’s probably in the top twenty. No. Make that top ten.”

  Len jumped down, making the pickup sway. And then he was looking for her. Needlessly. Deandra was at the passenger door.

  “You carrying a crucifix, lady?” he asked.

  “It’s Deandra. And no.”

  “Holy water?”

  “Are you for real?”

  “You heard the man. We’re hunting a vampire. With our luck, he’s probably bullet-proof.”

  He was laughing at his own comments so she didn’t need to. Deandra climbed in. He didn’t even wait for her to fasten her seatbelt before doing a circle about a dirt bike in the center of the courtyard. This night couldn’t get much weirder.

  CHAPTER THREE

  What the hell was she doing?

  Deandra had some time to consider her sanity as they drove. She’d gotten into a pickup with a complete stranger. She was out in the Texas wilderness. Near the Mexican border somewhere. Without her wallet. Her purse. Her I.D. Even her cell phone. She subconsciously ran her forefinger along the trigger of her Derringer. She did have that. This Len guy looked unarmed. He wasn’t paying any attention to her. He was hunched forward slightly, concentrating on where he was driving.

  She looked out again. The view hadn’t changed. The landscape was eerie and silent and arid. Full of shadows. Desolate. They weren’t on a road. Or even a track. Deandra grabbed at the strap atop the doorframe as they rumbled over another bit of incline that ended in a sideways slide, spewing rocks and dirt into the headlight beams. She returned to studying her driver. She might need it for a mug shot description, if nothing else.

  This Len fellow was probably over six foot, but not by much. Deandra was five foot eight, and whenever the cab leveled, his head wasn’t much above hers. She used what light came from his dashboard to study and memorize. He wasn’t remarkable. He had normal features. Normal sized nose. Not exactly plain. Not exactly handsome. Very few lines. No scars. No mustache. Not much she could use there. Hmm... She checked his frame next. He wasn’t muscled like the cowboy fellow had been – seeing two such ripped males would be hard to imagine twice in one night – but he wasn’t slim. She already knew he was athletic. He’d demonstrated it when he’d jumped atop his cab earlier.

  He didn’t look to have any distinguishing features that would help a police sketch artist. Great. She was failing at every facet of survival. And then it got worse. He noticed.

  “You got a problem with me, lady?”

  “What?”

  “You’re going to have a hell of a time shooting me and keeping hold of that chicken bar at the same time.”

  “Do you even know where you’re going?”

  “Sure. Look for yourself. Tracks.”

  “I don’t see anything.”

  “That’s because you’re looking at me. I can’t help it our bad guy drove like a maniac. But if you’d look, you’ll see the tire marks of a 350cc dirt bike. Good choice. Same one I own. Optimum vehicle for any situation. Easy to maneuver. Great on gas. Perfect for hauling five gallon jugs full of drinking water. And if you dump it, you can pick it up. Hard to find anymore, too.”

  “You can tell all that from tracks?”

  He grinned. “Got the size from the bike in the yard back there. The survivalist stuff is something you should already have learned.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “You belong to a survivalist group. And I have to say... you’re wet behind the ears. Or only half-dedicated. Haven’t decided which.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “That B & B is not for tourists. You’re the lone one there with a ready gun. And you don’t even have the holster.”

  “Your name’s Leonard Griggins. Right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Are you a Ranger?”

  “Nope. Have to be Texan for that. Shit.”

  They dropped a good foot into a dry ravine, the lights glancing off shrubs hanging over the sides. The move jostled most of the items in his cab and the space behind the seat, too. Deandra clung to the bar above the doorframe.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “So what are you? Special Forces?”

  “Nope.”

  “Then what?”

  “Uh... concerned citizen. Looking to mount a rescue of newly arrived immigrants. You heard the guy.”

  “All I heard was stuff about demons, monsters, and vampires. I think he was smoking his own merchandise.”

  “Yeah? Well, all I heard was coyote and trafficking. And something about Manuel.”

  “Manuel?”

  “The partner fellow. You were listening, weren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well... if that fellow had a partner that generally means he needed one. Why? Because he was trafficking something big time. I’m just checking to see if it’s illegals or drugs. Don’t care much about drugs. But humans? Well. Those I do care about.”

  “What about the cowboy?”

  He shot a glance over to her. Then back to the road. “What cowboy?”

  “The one I saw.”

  “Don’t have to look for him, Hon.”

  “It’s Deandra. And—”

  The rest of her question was a short cry as the truck careened into space, coming to rest more on its side than upright. The stop jounced everything that wasn’t tied down. It also cracked her neck with the backward jerk. The engine died and he killed the headlights, leaving the dim glow of the dome light. It took a few seconds to figure out everything was still in place and she wasn’t hurt, and a few more to attend to Len. He’d braced his feet against the base of the gearshift as he rummaged about the area behind the seat. He had two sawed-off shotguns when he turned back around. He made eye contact with her as he simultaneously cocked them against his thighs. It was intimidating. Forceful. And competent-looking. She felt like a complete novice. Then he smirked at her.

  “Coming?” he asked.

  “You know, I had you slated for an asshole already, Mister Griggins.”

  “Save it. We got work to do.”

  He clicked the dome light off, shoved his door open with a shoulder, and shrugged through the opening. Deandra would’ve been at his heels, but unfastening the seat belt while it supported her took time. Scrambling out a crookedly parked truck took more. And she dropped the Derringer somewhere in the cab, too. It made a loud clatter against the floorboard. Or maybe it was the passenger door. At least the gun didn’t go off, shaming her completely.

  She might as well face facts. She’d be a complete failure at surviving an apocalypse. Heck. She’d have trouble surviving a car-jacking. She wasn’t even wearing leather. Or denim. Only slim-fit twill leggings and a short-sleeve tunic made of some t-shirt material. Not even a jacket. She scratched her elbow on the doorframe as she exited, before landing on rocks that pressed through the rubber soles of her canvas sneakers. It wasn’t entirely her fault. She’d been dressed for an evening of tall tales.

  It could be worse. She could have been dressed like the majority of the 2100 Radical Society. They’d been in pajamas. It was still a good thing Edna wasn’t along to critique.

  Leonard was waiting for her, crouched at the front fender of the truck, eyeing a gray shaded van about 50 yards away. Windowless in the passenger compartment. Nondescript. A kidnapper vehicle. There wasn’t any movement, but it was hard to see with only a slice of moon assisting.

  “What are we waiting for?” she whispered.

  “Signs of trouble. And Tex.”

  “Who?”

  “Your cowboy.”

  Deandra caught a breath. “Wait a minute. You know him?”

  “Yep.”

  “Then... why am I out here?”

  “You’re a loose end at the moment. That’s why you’re out here. Alone. With me. Preservation of the company. Nothing else. No bad feelings?”

  Her entire body went cold. “What... does that mean?” Her voice showed her anxie
ty, damn it. And double damn her luck for losing the Derringer!

  “Exactly what you think. But don’t worry. I still have to speak with Tex. Find out why he let you live. For all I know, you’re a Hunter. I just haven’t decided if you’re a really incompetent one, or just especially good.”

  “A... hunter? Of what?”

  “Vampires. Bastards.”

  The world spun in a sickening fashion. Deandra sat. Ungracefully. Getting a good feel of sharp rocks through her stretch twill pants and hi-rise satin panties.

  “You’re insane,” she informed him.

  “Nope. Just cautious. Maybe you didn’t even get a good look, and this is all just small talk. You lose your little gun, did you?”

  “I got a good look,” Deandra replied.

  “And not one word about his looks? Every other woman who’s ever seen him can’t shut up about just how handsome he is, and you don’t say squat. Come on, Hon. Tell another Texas-sized whopper.”

  “Did you want a pickup full of women?”

  “What?” He looked over his shoulder at her. At least, that’s what his shadowed form appeared to do.

  “You’re forgetting the 2100 Radical Society.”

  “The who?”

  “My survival group. Those ladies back at the hacienda. If I’d mentioned this cowboy was drop-dead gorgeous on top of being extremely well built, you think they’d have stayed behind tamely? You didn’t get a good enough look at Edna if you say yes.”

  He chuckled. “Hmm. Good thinking. I like you. It’ll be a shame if—stow it. You any good with wound care?”

  “Wound care?”

  “We may have wounded to deal with. You heard the coyote. Come on. At my heels. Pronto, Sister.”

  He took off at a jog, bent at the waist with the shotguns hovering just above ground level. Deandra copied him, crossing more rock strewn ground that bit through the soles of her shoes before he stopped, hunching down behind a tree stump. Or a large rock. Or even a slight hill like the one he’d run into with the truck. It was hard to tell. She stumbled and sat ungracefully beside him, sent there by a movement of the earth beneath her. Or maybe it was a ground tremor. Or earthquake. Behind her the sound of metal getting moved carried through the air. Len didn’t even react.