Hope is Calling (The Evans Domination, Book One)

Table of Contents

Books by Collette Scott

Dedication

Author’s Note

Title

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Coming Soon

About the Author

Books by Collette Scott

Forever Sunshine

Hannah’s Blessing

If We Dare to Dream (The Evans Family, Book One)

Through Winter Skies (The Evans Family, Book Two)

Eyes on Tango (The Evans Family, Book Three)

Kat’s Last Chance (The Evans Family, Book Four)

Terri’s Gift (The Evans Family, Book Five)

Cooper’s Choice (The Evans Family, Book Six)

Sunshine Rising (The Evans Family, Book Seven)

And they cried with a loud voice, saying, ‘How long, O Lord, dost thou refrain from judging and from avenging our blood’…

(Revelation 6: 10)

Dedication

For Janka D., Judy S, Karen, Cheri and Jenny. You are the best!

Author’s Note

During my research for Hope is Calling, I came across a Mexican drug kingpin from the 1970s who went by the name El Padrino. My character is not based on the real El Padrino; he is a pure figment of my imagination, put together from what I have learned about the violence over the border in the present day. It is a serious issue, almost as horrible as the human trafficking problem that runs rampant all over the country.

Amazingly enough, a few months after I began writing this novel, a new Task Force was formed in Arizona with the help of the United States Government. I sincerely hope the brave men and women on the real task force gain the success that my new Evans series hopes to obtain…

Hope Is Calling

(The Evans Domination, Book One)

By

Collette Scott

Copyright © 2014 by Collette Scott

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cover design by Laura J Miller www.anauthorsart.com

For information address Marimay Publishing, P.O. Box 11821, Tempe, AZ 85284

ISBN-13: 978-1500315115

ISBN-10: 1500315117

Prologue

The Flying South Ranch

Karen and Cheri cried out in surprise when the loud crash startled them. Cheri’s book fell from her hands, but she met Karen’s unsettled gaze rather than reaching for the paperback. There was wind accompanying an oncoming storm, blowing the trees violently as the clouds rolled in, but the gusts were not strong enough to cause such a ruckus. They stared at each other across the living room, but neither moved for several long moments as silence descended again.

Karen fumbled for the remote, pressing the mute button before turning wide eyes to Cheri. Her sister’s hand was still pressed upon her heaving chest.

That came from the barn, Cheri whispered breathlessly. You need to check it out.

No, you look.

I went last time, she replied firmly.

It’s probably your damned cat, Karen snapped back.

It’s not the cat. He’s right here, Cheri whispered, pointing emphatically to her feet where the fat tabby cat lay sleeping.

You’re a chicken, you know that? Karen growled, slowly coming to her feet. You’re such a baby. You’re always afraid to look.

Like you’re any better, Cheri muttered under her breath as Karen stormed off.

For twenty years, she and her sister had lived together in the ranch outside Douglas, Arizona. They had taken it over following the death of their father, and now that Karen was a divorcee and Cheri a widow, they knew the time had come to sell off the land. Their combined six children had no interest in taking over such a large undertaking, especially a losing one. Ranching was hard work, and it no longer held the glamour and power of the past. Their kids were happily settled in their careers, and none were willing to give them up to join the world of backbreaking labor and the increasing threats from the Mexican cartels.

Yes, they were threatened, and they were coming in fast and hard, increasing in ferocity so that both women were afraid to leave the house at night for fear of being shot – or worse. The family home, the house they were raised in, and the land they had explored as children, was no longer safe. They faced the choice of leaving it behind or staying and suffering the consequences.

Sighing, Cheri came to her feet. Karen had gone out alone, and it was possible that it could be coyotes sneaking drugs or people across their land. Although they did their best to turn a blind eye to the happenings on their property – as they had been warned to do after they found the head of their most valuable bull perched on a fence post – that did not guarantee immunity. Thefts and vandalism plagued them as the illegals crossed their land, and secret bunkers had been placed in various locations without their knowledge or approval. It was too much. Unless the Mexican government squashed the cartels once and for all, Cheri feared it would soon become an all-out war with them trapped in the middle.

That was why their children begged them to sell. They believed it was a matter of time before they became victims of violence. They were old, and they no longer had the army of ranch hands they grew up with.

Cheri put her feet in her slippers then reached for the cordless phone before following her sister outside. Her hip ached in warning of an impending spring storm, and a bright flash of lightning over the Mule Mountains in the distance confirmed her suspicion. She shuddered as she powered up the flashlight. Darkness had come quickly as the clouds poured in, and she could see a towering wall of dust approach. They did not have much time before the rain started, and she hoped it doused them with plenty. They needed it.

The crash had come from the older barn, and her eyes scanned that way in her search of her sister. There was no obvious sign of anyone in the dirt surrounding the house, only Karen’s slipper-covered feet making their way across the desert path. When they were children, one of their Native American ranch hands had taught them how to track, and she ran the flashlight over the sage, mesquite, and bougainvillea lining the route hoping to find freshly broken branches or footprints to prepare her for what lay ahead.

She was several yards away from the barn when a small bundle launched itself at her, and an ear-piercing scream broke through her lips as it struck her full on. Tiny, thin arms wrapped around her waist, and a smelly dark head with matted hair burrowed into her abdomen. Rapid-fire Spanish muffled by her bathrobe erupted from the pile of dirt clinging to her, and Karen’s worried shout was lost by the words the terrified child cried.

Spying Karen rounding the edge of the barn, Cheri waved her over with her free hand, using the flashlight to support the child against her. I need some help, she called to her sister. I have a kid.

Who must’ve been trying to hide in the barn, Karen finished. The door’s open, and the paint rack was knocked over like they were trying to barricade themselves in. I was just looking outside to see if anyone tried to steal anything.

Seeing that her sister was okay, Cheri turned her attention to the bundle clinging to her. Considering Cheri was only 5-foot-2, she guessed the child was only four- or five-years-old. She reached down and grasped her arms, tugging her away until she was able to see the tear-smudged face and large wide black eyes.

"¿Quién eres tú?"

"Mi mamá, mi mamá, was the garbled response, and the child lurched away to hurry toward Karen. Por favor, ayúdame, ayúdala, mi mamá."

She’s making no sense, Karen said, crossing her arms over her breasts as the child approached. A little thief.

Cheri frowned. The child’s nothing more than skin and bones. Obviously, if she’s trying to steal something, it is because she’s starving.

Rather than approach Karen, who was frowning in warning, the child stumbled toward the barn with her arms wide to maintain her balance. Even though Karen was showing a tough demeanor, her frown faded as she watched the child in obvious distress. The poor thing appeared as though she had not eaten or drank anything in days, unfortunately a common occurrence in these parts. As soon as the coyote took the illegal travelers’ money, they were on their own. Often they only carried small bottles of water, when in reality a person needed at least a gallon a day to cross the desert. In addition, coyotes would promise a three-day walk rather than a week. It was all lies, yet illegal immigrants continued to risk their lives. It was a never-ending battle for freedom.

At the entrance, the little girl paused and looked over her shoulder. Her long hair was tangled into knots and stuck to her tear-streaked face in dark clumps. However, she made no effort to wipe them away. Waving urgently, she gestured for the women to follow her into the dark cavern of the barn. Cheri knew the layout by heart, but it never had appeared as ominous as it did in that moment. With the wind picking up in intensity, it added to her growing misgivings.

Karen glanced at Cheri warily. What if it’s a trap?

You think someone’s in there waiting to hurt us? Cheri asked. That girl looks really scared.

Worse things have happened lately, Karen muttered with another wary glance inside the darkened doorway.

Unfortunately, her words were true. As the cartel wars in Mexico grew in violence, the crime wave made its way over the border. With the thousands of undocumented aliens crossing the border in search of safety were just as many criminals escaping their crimes and hoping to hide in the States. The two women experienced it daily, and it was growing worse. Glancing at the cordless phone in her hand, she saw that they were too far to have a signal.

Call Manny, she said firmly. Call him and tell him we have a young child on the property who can barely stand up.

Good idea.

Karen fumbled in the pocket of her pajama top and retrieved her cell phone. As she pressed the Border Patrol Supervisory Agent’s number, Cheri took several hesitant steps toward the barn. It seemed darker, the rumble of thunder more ominous, and the far-off flashes of lightning more sinister. However, there was a child in danger, and neither woman would walk away without trying to help.

She disappeared inside, her pleading echoing through the interior of the old barn. The ranch had fallen on tough times in recent years. As ranch hand after ranch hand resigned due to the increasing threats from the drug mules using their property as a thoroughfare, the sisters had been forced to downsize. To pay bills, they sold equipment. To buy feed, they sold off part of their herd of cattle.

Times were tough and seemed to get harder as word spread through the darker circles how vulnerable they were. They had been approached several times by cartel members offering them money to rebuild and convert their thousand acres into a dude ranch if they granted them access, but the stubborn old ladies continued to refuse. In response, the angry cartels took what they wanted and vandalized what little was left on the Flying South Ranch.

Though frightened, Cheri followed her inside with cautious steps. Her ears strained to find any indication that there were others waiting, but all she heard was the child’s crying over the increasing wind. Holding the heavy flashlight at the ready, she entered the black cavern and fumbled for the switch on the wall. As the fluorescent light flickered to life, the color drained from Cheri’s face.

Her frightened scream was heard easily over the coming storm. Karen! Come quick!

Chapter 1

Tucson, Arizona

Carson Armstrong sighed heavily as she hefted her backpack over her shoulder and stormed to the door. Sheila smiled as she passed, but her cheerful grin did not receive a response.

Hey, have a great night, Sheila called out, ignoring Carson’s scowl.

You, too, Carson muttered.

Don’t let it get you down, darlin’. He’ll come around, Sheila said to the closing door. Carson heard her before the solid click of the reinforced steel, but she doubted every word.

Yeah, right, she mumbled into the night.

Carson, a post-grad student completing her program as a psychiatric mental health nurse practitioner, was feeling the pressure now that the school was no longer offering her program. If she did not finish by the end of the academic year, she would be facing a change of major or more expensive years in the doctoral program.

She was desperate for Doctor Brad’s help. After all, she had been working for him at the shelter for three years, giving him all her time to gain experience and help the families that came to his facility for assistance. She loved working with the battered women and children, and she knew Doctor Brad did too. So why had he just flat-out refused to help without even granting her the courtesy of giving her a reason?

She was so distracted by her distressing new development that she hardly noticed the couple crossing the parking lot. She glanced up as she backed out of her parking spot, seeing for the first time how the man had a tight grip on the woman’s arm to subdue her struggles.

The girl was far too skinny and probably a drug addict, and the man holding onto her was most likely her pimp. Carson knew this because the shelter was deep in the heart of the worst part of Tucson, and scenes like the one playing out in front of her were too common. Every day, women would come in like that, their bodies battered, their hearts broken, and then they would sneak away without a word after a day or two, too frightened to file a report with the police or stay and get help. It was a vicious cycle, one of Carson’s worst pet peeves, and a cycle she had hoped to break with her therapy proposal.

Cracking the window, more from curiosity than a desire for fresh air, she began to listen. It was a cold night for early spring, too chilly for the scantily clad girl. No good pimp would have his girl out dressed in a bra top and mini skirt. Of course, she reminded herself, what pimp was good?

Keep moving, the man snapped at her in English. We’re already late.

Please, don’t do this, she whispered in a voice so low that Carson almost did not hear. She struggled to keep up in her spiked high heels, but she weaved on her feet and appeared ready to collapse.

Carson rented an apartment close to the university, and the more dangerous areas of the city were just a few blocks away. Her trick was to avoid those and stick close to the students. She was eager to get home, so she turned her attention from the sad scene and returned to her sulk. What she needed was to cry out her frustration in her cat’s silky coat. Mozart was her life; a huge fat black cat with pointy ears that reminded her of a witch’s hat. He was her closest companion and best friend.

What made him special was that he did not mind when she pulled him close and buried her face in his fur.

She pulled away from the two mismatched companions thinking of Brad’s refusal. This would change everything. She was too close to give up, but she was facing a time limit that she could never attain without his help. Sighing, she shook her head, refusing to give in to despair. There had to be other options, and she needed to sit down with her advisor to find one.

Although lost in her thoughts, she spotted the scrawny girl suddenly break away from her pimp’s grip and run toward a young student emerging from the Circle K gas station. Without breaking stride in her obscenely high heels, she snatched the student’s purse and ran straight for Carson, her spindly legs weaving and wobbling. Carson watched in horror and slammed on her brakes, but she had no time to stop before the girl collided with her car. Carson’s ear-piercing shriek almost masked the sound of the girl hitting her fender then sailing over the hood to slam into her windshield. The sickening thud caused all the blood in Carson’s body to sink straight to her feet, which were planted on the brakes so hard that the girl almost fell off the hood.

This was a nightmare. It had to be. This could not be happening.

Oh my God, oh my God, Carson cried, fumbling for her phone as onlookers hurried out of the gas station. She was dialing 911 as she shut down the engine and got out to check on the girl’s health.

Please don’t be dead, she whispered repeatedly.

The 911 operator answered, but the girl’s pimp reached her first. He snatched Carson’s phone and threw it on the ground. Don’t do it.

Shaken and scared, Carson watched as he reached for the girl and dragged her off the hood, causing her to moan in pain.

Wait, no! Carson cried, the nurse in her jumping into action. She’s hurt. She needs medical attention.

She’s fine, the pimp snapped. Just stay away, lady.

Carson opened her mouth to deny him, but the student’s cries about her stolen purse brought more people into the street. The pimp stared at the approaching crowd apprehensively and began to drag the girl away, but Carson reached for her at the same time. As her hand wrapped around her bony wrist, Carson’s instincts told her not to let go. This girl was in danger, and it was not just the punishment waiting for her. Something else was wrong. Why else would she have run into her car? Wait.

That’s her! She’s the one who stole my bag, the robbery victim shouted.

The pimp cursed loudly, but he released his grip on the girl and took a step away. Big mistake, lady, he growled at Carson.

As the crowd surrounded them, the front door of Hanson’s Safe Place opened, and Sheila ran down the street toward her. Carson? Carson? Oh no! What happened? Are you okay?

The pimp turned back to her, his black eyes spitting a mixture of fury and panic. Carson, eh? He stepped into the darkness. "I’ll see you soon, Carson."

The thief had remained silent, but she turned to Carson with desperation in her blue eyes. She was younger than Carson initially thought, maybe 18 at the oldest. Please, don’t let me go, she whispered. He’s going to kill me.

Assuming she meant a solid beating, Carson clucked her tongue and wrapped her arm around the girl’s trembling shoulders soothingly. He’s gone. He’s not going to hurt you.

I’ve called the police. They’re on their way, one bystander said.

To Carson’s surprise, the girl sighed in relief. Watching the approaching mass of people and hearing the sounds of sirens, she turned back to Carson, her voice low and fast. Please listen to me…

Carson stared at her expectantly, but the girl pressed her hand to her ribcage before speaking breathlessly.

Please. I know you won’t believe me but please – just listen. They kidnapped me and brought me to Phoenix. There are more of us, and they forced us. They sold me to a Mexican brothel because I tried to escape. I stole that girl’s bag to get caught. Please… please believe me. I can’t go to Mexico; they’ll kill me. We need help. There’s more of us blondes – all taken. Please listen to me. I know the cops won’t believe me, but you have to. Please, oh God, please. My name is Hope Hawkins. I’m from Barrington, Rhode Island. Please... My parents… Tell my parents…

Before Carson could fully comprehend what she was saying, the girl collapsed, the stolen bag falling to the ground next to her tire. Carson glanced around helplessly as the crowd encircled her with congratulations for running into the hooker who robbed an innocent student. But Carson felt no victory. Instead, she felt fear, true fear. What on earth was happening? What had she stumbled into, or, more appropriately, run her car into?

Someone grasped the stolen bag and handed it back to the student, but Carson focused on the girl she lowered to the ground. She completed a hasty assessment and continued monitoring her vital signs until help arrived.

She felt a strange protectiveness for the girl when they placed her on the board and lifted her onto the stretcher, and she wanted to accompany her to the hospital. However, the police refused, and Carson watched helplessly as they wheeled her away. She had heard some crazy stories before, and lying was common among addicts, but there was beauty behind the blonde’s battered face. Beyond the worn-out appearance they all seemed to carry, she looked more like a student than a prostitute. That girl was more suited to be in the University’s honor college, not dragged behind a pimp and high on heroin.

There was something to her story. Carson was sure of it. However, she had to deal with the police first. As the girl had predicted, none believed her when Carson told them what she said. A few even rolled their eyes as if they had heard similar tales many times before. She was left with an accident report and a skeptical offer to follow up at the station if she wished.

Which was exactly what she did. Determined to help, Carson pulled out a receipt and wrote down everything she could remember before getting into her banged-up car and driving to the station. There had to be someone who would listen, and she would look for that person all night if she had to. Snuggling with Mo would just have to wait.

****

So much for cuddling with Mo tonight, Carson muttered three hours later as she sat in the police station waiting for the Vice detective assigned to her case.

I apologize for disrupting your plans.

Startled, Carson glanced up and blinked several times before she felt familiar heat rise up her cheeks. It was not so much that her words had been overheard; it was that the man who had heard her was the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on. He was tall and strong, and he filled his suit like a professional model on the cover of a fashion magazine. Although not made of the highest quality, he obviously cared for his appearance. His dark hair was cropped short with every thick strand in place, and his cheeks were so smooth it appeared as though he had just shaved. She felt the craziest urge to reach out and touch his square jaw to see if it was as soft as it looked, but the seriousness in his large deep-set brown eyes stayed her hand.

Despite the late hour, his suit was neatly pressed, his tie immaculate, and Carson had the feeling he was not with the Vice Unit. Although she could blame it on a preconceived notion, she had envisioned them in jeans and tattered T-shirts under their bulletproof vests. However, she did not watch much TV, and this man held himself too proudly with an aloof intelligence. She was convinced he was not who she thought he was.

He was studying her as she stared at him, but after a quick sweep in which she suspected he found her seriously lacking, she learned that she was correct. He reached out his hand in greeting and spoke in a deep voice that was as smooth as warm chocolate. I apologize for the delay, Miss Armstrong, he said politely. I’ve just arrived.

Finally scrambling to her feet, Carson reached out and shook his hand, feeling rumpled and ugly in comparison. His hand was as warm and strong as the rest of him, and his brown eyes appeared sympathetic to her stress. Best of all, his expression gave her the impression that he did not view her as a naïve lunatic. She had spent the entire evening begging everyone to listen, but most of the officers had shown more interest in the snatch-and-grab and the deliberate attempt to be run over than her pleas to investigate her story. However, this man appeared to be interested, and she quickly learned why.

My name is Agent Ryan Harmon. He showed her his badge, and Carson’s eyes grew as large as saucers. Would you come with me so we can talk?

Carson hesitated. You’re FBI? I thought I was waiting for someone from Vice.

You are, he said with a fleeting smile at her wide-eyed appearance. They called me in. I’ll explain momentarily.

He held out a hand indicating to the closed door leading to the back. Please come with me.

Without waiting for her response, he nodded at the front desk to buzz them in then led her down a hallway. She followed silently, staring at his broad back until she saw a long glass window with several men and a woman sitting at a polished table in a conference room.

All them for her, she wondered nervously.

Have a seat, Ms. Armstrong, one man said as they entered. Can I get you some coffee?

He was older, with black hair sprinkled with gray and buzzed short to hide the thinning on top, and his nod was abrupt when she shook her head. Intimidating and weary described him, and she felt a twinge of sympathy for the man in charge of the unit that dealt with the grunge of society.

Aside from Agent Harmon, the older man had three others present, one woman and two men, all of whom fulfilled her earlier vision of detectives, and they all rose when she entered.

Panic began to form in her breast, and she took an instinctive step backward. This was not what she expected, and she was not sure she liked it.

However, the agent’s hand settled on her back, preventing her from fleeing. She could feel his stare on the top of her head and glanced up nervously. I gave my statement at the scene.

We’re aware of that, he said with a reassuring pat. We just need to ask you a few questions.

Carson’s concern grew. Was she being arrested for hitting the girl? Did they believe she had committed a crime? She tensed up, and her palms grew sweaty as her fear increased. Should I have my lawyer present?

A ghost of a smile crossed Agent Harmon’s lips before he shook his head. No, Miss Carson –

Armstrong.

Excuse me… Ms. Armstrong, Harmon replied quickly.

Carson saw the others exchange amused glances and immediately regretted humiliating the only person who seemed willing to listen. She had been teased about her first name so many times that the corrections came out automatically. I’m so sorry. It happens so frequently that I can’t help it.

Not a problem, the older man said, cutting her off abruptly. Have a seat, and we’ll get started.

The agent released her to pull out one of the office chairs directly across from one with a briefcase. She sat with a smile of thanks as he rounded the table and took that spot, opening his briefcase while the older man began speaking again. I’m Lieutenant Jose Santa Maria of the Tucson Police, and with me are Detectives Umber, Kelley, and Philips. You’ve met Agent Harmon.

A series of nods went around as Carson glanced at each in turn. Detectives Umber and Philips were large men with scruffy faces. Both were Hispanic with longish black hair, and Umber had a full beard. Their casual appearance was the exact opposite of Detective Kelley, the only other female in the room. She wore a crisp white blouse, and her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail that showed off a series of freckles sprinkled across her nose and down her cheeks. Compared to the other two, it was hard to believe this woman carried a gun for a living, but her clear blue eyes held a tough, cynical look as she studied Carson closely.

There’s no need for an attorney, Ms. Armstrong, the lieutenant continued. We wanted to discuss your story with Agent Harmon present.

Why is the FBI here? Carson asked, turning her attention back to the man seated across from her.

Even with the table between them, she could smell his cologne, and it was so appealing that she felt hot all over. She could get lost in the deep brown of his eyes that watched her so intently and made