Did he just hurl one of those stones at me?
Her bike’s front tire was damaged, several of the spokes warped out of shape. A paver lay on the street a few feet away from her, dirt along its edge, like a tooth torn from the root.
Jesus. The boy is digging stones out of the ground and throwing them at me. For no reason whatsoever.
Behind her, Mr. Pinto was gaining on her, feet slapping against concrete.
She couldn’t believe her predicament. Had the entire world gone mad overnight?
Belting out a yelp of joy, the kid heaved another stone in her direction, but by then she had started forward again. The paver hurtled through the air and smashed into Mr. Pinto’s head with a sickening thud. The old man dropped to the street, the garden hoe spinning out of his hands.
“Score!” the kid shouted again.
Grinding forward on the bike, Emily gritted her teeth. She had to suppress the almost overpowering compulsion to go check on the man and try to assist him. She focused solely on escape. The damaged front tire wobbled, slowing her, but it was still faster than she could have traveled on foot.
She had to get somewhere safe and figure out what the heck was going on.
Her lungs ached from exertion, and perspiration had matted her hair against her face. She swung around to look behind her and saw that Mr. Pinto was on his feet again, blood covering his face like a port wine stain.
But he wasn’t alone. The boy was at his side, an armful of stones clutched against his chest. Both of them ran after her. The kid drew back his arm and heaved a paver after her, like a quarterback flinging a Hail Mary. The stone missed her by several feet, but smashed into the rear window of a Lexus sedan parked at the curb. The car alarm blared.
“Score!” the kid cried.
If I don’t get away from them, they’re going to kill me.
It was a perfectly illogical idea, the notion that residents in her upper-class neighborhood would be hell-bent on murdering her only because she had happened to pedal by on her bicycle. But in the new age of terror, when boarding an airplane could be the equivalent of climbing into a mass grave, when going to college could result in you getting gunned down by a stranger, when going to a street festival could put you in the path of a madman wielding his car like a weapon, perhaps it wasn’t so crazy after all.
At the next intersection, Emily veered left. Pedaling as hard as she could, bent over, heart pounding and sweat seeping into her eyes, she rode away from the madness, but deep down, worried that things were only going to get worse.
Chapter 5
Alex Vasquez didn’t like the man who sat in his shop.
Alex was a franchisee of Bimi’s Frozen Yogurt. His store was located in a prime retail spot in South Haven, smack dab in the middle of the action on Main Street. At eleven-thirty in the morning on that Friday, business was unusually slow for a sultry July day. The only people in the store were Alex, a teenage trainee named Chloe, and the man at the corner table, their only customer since they had opened half an hour ago.
From the safety of the management office in the back of the shop, Alex watched the guy via a closed-circuit, color security monitor.
The man was Latino, like Alex, maybe in his mid-forties, also like Alex. He was huge: easily six feet five, perhaps two hundred and fifty pounds, and Alex was willing to bet that much of his bulk was composed of lean muscle. He wore a two-piece, charcoal-grey suit and a white shirt, and an expensive-looking watch with a gold band. His dark hair was trimmed in a buzz cut and he was clean-shaven. He had deep-set brown eyes that took in everything, and gave nothing in return.
In anyone else’s opinion, the guy might have been a wealthy owner of a string of strip clubs or seedy bars, someone who’d started in the business as a bouncer and worked his way up the ranks through cunning and ruthless efficiency. But Alex saw him differently. Although the stranger sat calmly at a table, methodically eating frozen yogurt from a cup, occasionally glancing at his cell phone, Alex had pegged him as hired muscle. He noticed the bulge in the man’s jacket, the unmistakable shape of a concealed weapon.
But hired by whom, and for what purpose?
Alex had his suspicions.
Perhaps, after he’d been on the run for eight years, the Sinaloa Cartel had finally located him.
Alex had long suspected this day would come. Outside of exiting this world for good, few people truly escaped such insidious, far-reaching organizations. You enjoyed only a measure of temporary freedom.
He had begun to believe, after eight years, that he might have been one of the lucky ones. He had built a new identity in metro Atlanta, married a wonderful woman who loved him in spite of his sordid past, and opened a business that had no ties to his prior infamy. Life had never been sweeter.
He stared at the man on his monitor. His eyes narrowed.
If this was the end for him, he would not go quietly.
Alex unlocked the bottom right drawer of his desk, slid it open. The Beretta nine millimeter resting inside was already loaded, and lay alongside an extra clip of ammunition.
Rising, Alex nested the gun at the small of his back.
“Umm, is everything okay?”
Startled, Alex turned. The teenage blonde, Chloe, stood at the threshold of the doorway. Her blue eyes were wide with alarm. She had seen the gun, he realized.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The customer out front, he like, said he wanted to talk to you?” she said.
“Why? He appears to have thoroughly enjoyed his dessert.” Alex indicated the security monitor. The man was scraping the last traces of yogurt from the cup.
She shrugged. “He didn’t say. I’m sorry. I guess I should have asked?”
Chloe had the odd habit of phrasing most of her statements as questions, as if afraid to state her thoughts forthrightly.
“It’s okay.” He motioned to a chair. “Why don’t you wait back here while I speak to him?”
He offered her a smile he hoped was reassuring, but she nervously twirled a strand of her hair.
“Do you, like, know that guy?” she asked.
“I’ve no idea who he is. I’m only going to speak to him. Please wait here.”
Twisting her hair, she settled into the chair. After this frightening encounter with her boss, the girl would probably submit her resignation.
He left the office, shoes whispering on the tile floor. The Beretta felt good at his back, like the steadying hand of an old friend.
When he emerged from the corridor, the customer—Alex told himself to keep thinking of the man as merely a customer until he learned otherwise—was already focused on him from across the room. Intensely. Alex could recognize the cold gaze of a killer. He was certain that many had died at the hands of this man.
The shop was built around a self-serve design concept. Twelve dispensers arranged along the circular-shaped wall provided a range of frozen yogurt flavors: standards such as vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate, and more adventurous selections such as mango-banana and salted caramel vanilla swirl. A separate stainless steel station offered all manner of dessert toppings. Once customers had created their frozen treat to their liking, they brought the cup to a digital scale at the checkout counter in the middle of the store and paid for their purchase based on a per ounce price.
It was a simple, profitable business that ran virtually on autopilot, especially during the sweltering Georgia summers. It required only one employee on most days, someone to keep the toppings refreshed, refill the yogurt dispensers, ensure the basic cleanliness of the facility, and contact Alex if machinery malfunctioned. Alex would be saddened to give up this dream of an enterprise, and hoped he was wrong about this man’s identity.
“I’m the manager, Alex,” Alex said. He approached the table, but remained just out of reach of the customer’s muscular arms. “Thank you for visiting our store today. How may I help you?”
The man grinned. His teeth were perfectly white. He may have been a hitman,
but he certainly believed in cosmetic dentistry, bespoke clothing . . . even manicures, it appeared.
“The yogurt here is fantastic, my friend.” The man raised his empty cup. He had an unexpectedly soft voice, like a choir boy, with the faint accent of one who hailed from Culiacan, Alex’s hometown and the base of the cartel. “Everywhere I travel, and I travel frequently, I make it my mission to locate a frozen yogurt establishment. I believe this is the best I’ve had yet.”
“Thank you, we appreciate the compliment,” Alex said. “Are you in town on business?”
“Yes, always business.” His eyes glimmered darkly. “But I’ve learned how to mingle my business with small pleasures such as a delicious cup of frozen yogurt.”
“How did you find us?” Alex asked.
“Oh, I’ve a knack for locating things that I want,” the man said, and offered a small chuckle. “My friends, they call me El Sabueso.”
Alex had to smile at that revelation. El Sabueso. The Bloodhound. He believed he had heard of this man, though he had never seen a photograph of him. He had developed quite a reputation in the organization. He should have expected they would dispatch an assassin of his renown to track him down. Alex was, after all, no ordinary defector.
He had not merely left the cartel. He had turned traitor, leaked incriminating information to the Federales—a select few individuals not already on the cartel’s payroll—and stolen from them, too, using those funds to bankroll his new life in America. A betrayer such as he would have earned the attentions of their best.
For a breathless moment, the two men watched each other, neither of them speaking. The Bloodhound’s large hands rested on the gleaming table, thick fingers splayed. Hands at his sides, Alex waited next to the self-serve station.
Make a move if you dare, Alex thought. His fingers tingled.
The Bloodhound finally smiled, but it was the expression that might as well have been painted on a mannequin, as his eyes reflected only cold calculation.
“Adios, my friend,” the Bloodhound said. “Hasta que nos encontremos de nuevo.”
Alex nodded, thinking, We will indeed meet again.
Moving with the casual grace of a dancer, the Bloodhound rose from the chair and exited the shop.
Alex exhaled. He stepped around the table and went to the doors. He locked them.
Chloe rushed out of the back office, eyes flashing with anxiety.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I’ll pay you for your entire shift now,” he said. “We’re closing for the day.”
He had to get to his wife, and he didn’t have much time.
***
Alex lived in South Haven. Four years ago, he and his wife, Melissa, had purchased the five-bedroom contemporary home, intending to fill it with children and life. The children had yet to come, and they had recently begun to discuss adoption.
Considering recent developments, Alex was relieved that they didn’t have kids. It would have been terrible to subject a child to the experience that loomed on the horizon.
It was time to activate Plan de Escape.
Alex parked his Toyota Tacoma truck in the driveway. After he shut off the motor, he sat there clutching the steering wheel, teeth gritted in a grimace.
I cannot do this, he thought. I’ve sacrificed too much to get here to leave it all behind.
Sweat trickled into his eyes. His hands shook on the wheel. He felt charged with so much emotion that if he had tried, he thought he could have ripped the wheel out of the steering column and hurled it like a Frisbee through the window.
The Escape Plan, as disruptive as it was, was the only plan that would allow them to find peace. If the Bloodhound failed to kill him, the cartel bosses would dispatch more assassins, in endless waves, until the streets of South Haven resembled the blood-soaked grounds of the San Fernando massacre. Innocent people could die in the crossfire.
Alex couldn’t allow that to happen.
He had tried to contact his wife via her cell phone, and when that failed, the house landline. She had responded to neither. He was concerned. While she had remained in bed that morning, suffering from a migraine that prevented her from going to work at her hair salon, his worries had nothing to do with her illness.
He got out of the truck. Before getting in the vehicle back at his store, he had searched it for explosive devices, and found none. That did not surprise him. From what he recalled of the Bloodhound, the man preferred to eliminate his targets up close, with a trench knife driven deep into in the abdomen and twisted through the innards, granting a painful death underneath the Bloodhound’s impassive gaze. Only in an extreme circumstance would a man of his fearsome reputation have deployed a car bomb.
But Alex could not afford to take any risks. He would have to use the Toyota until they reached their other vehicle, stored at an offsite location.
He scanned the surrounding street, paying attention to vehicles parked alongside the curb. He did not notice anything out of order, but that meant nothing. The Bloodhound was surely watching. Perfect concealment was one of his skills.
He hurried inside the house.
“Melissa!” he called. “We’ve got to talk, it’s important.”
The first level of the house was full of deep shadows. He checked each room but didn’t see her. He raced up the staircase.
“Melissa?” he asked. “Are you still lying down?”
Melissa had endured migraine headaches before, and her doctor had given her a powerful prescription of triptan to alleviate the pain. When he had left her four hours ago, she had taken some of her medication and laid down to rest. He would have expected she would be feeling better by then.
Unless the Bloodhound had already paid her a visit . . . .
The door to their master bedroom was shut. He knocked. When he got no answer, he turned the knob.
Shadows filled the room. All of the blinds were closed. Alex had left them that way, per Melissa’s request. She said the sunlight intensified her headaches.
The bedsheets lay in a tangled knot on the floor, pillows askew on the mattress. The bed was empty.
He heard an unexpected but familiar noise. A mechanical buzzing, coming from the attached bathroom. Hair clippers?
The bathroom door was closed. He opened it and paused on the threshold.
He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
Melissa stood in the darkened bathroom, using the clippers to cut her hair. She had been a professional hair stylist for over fifteen years, had scads of loyal clients who drove many miles to sit in her chair, but she was buzzing the clippers across her scalp with no apparent regard for the final result. Layers of her lovely black locks littered the vanity and the tile floor. Several sections of her scalp were bald and glistened with red razor blade marks.
“Mel?” His voice was soft with shock. “What’s wrong, honey?”
She swung in his direction. That was when he got a good look at her face, though her features were partially obscured by hanging strands of hair. He noticed her reddened eyes, the flesh of her sockets puckered. Blood dribbled from her nostrils. Pinkish blisters spotted her cheeks and forehead.
“Down . . . down get to the dirty roots.” Drool trickled from the corners of her mouth. She laughed. Her hysterical laughter was like chalk screeching across a blackboard, sending a chill deep into his marrow.
“The dirty, dirty roots!” she cried.
The clippers slipped out of her fingers and into the sink. The device continued buzzing, flopping around like a beached fish in the wash basin.
Melissa seized another hair cutting tool that lay in the stylist’s kit on the vanity: a long pair of stainless steel scissors with needle-sharp points. She studied the blades with a dull gaze, as if unsure of their purpose.
“Melissa, please,” Alex said. He stepped forward, one hand raised. He had a lurid vision of her driving the scissors into her eyes while cackling. Some strange illness had taken hold of her, and he could not be cer
tain that she wouldn’t injure herself.
With a screech, she slashed at him. The scissors streaked across the palm of his extended hand. Pain seared his flesh. He bit back a cry of pain, drew backward.
Melissa advanced on him. She swiped the blades back and forth through the air, steel glimmering. “Get dirty roots!”
Alex spun around to run.
That was when he saw The Bloodhound standing in the bedroom doorway, wearing a grin of anticipation and brandishing his infamous trench knife.
Chapter 6
“Come on!” Emily said. She shook the doors of the math tutoring center where her boyfriend worked. They didn’t open, and when she cupped her hands around her face and peered through the glass, she saw only a darkened, empty office space full of desks, chairs, and monitors.
Closed, she thought. Perfect. Although according to the operating hours posted on the front door, the center should have been open. But that morning, nothing was as it should have been.
It had required the bike ride of her life to elude the crazed Mr. Pinto and the stone-throwing teenager. When she finally got away for good—after taking several gut-turning turns on various streets, powering up steep hills, and even cutting paths between houses a couple of times—she needed several minutes to catch her breath and rest her burning thigh muscles. She was almost convinced the duo would track her down regardless of where she went, half-believed they could locate her by her scent alone, like a pair of wild animals.
It had been that kind of morning.
Once she had found safety, she had called the police, of course, and reported the bizarre assault. The police shared that they already had units on site in South Haven, and wanted her to go home and wait until an officer came to see her—though they could not give her any idea when that might happen. She wasn’t willing to sit at home cooling her heels, not without doing everything she could to find Zack. Her boyfriend’s silence was alarming.
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