Twice A Target (Task Force Eagle)

by Susan Vaughan

  He held Bobby securely with his right arm. In his right hand he gripped a short-barreled automatic pistol.

  Bobby bounced excitedly, his plump hands batting at the lethal steel.

  Her mouth was suddenly dry, but she managed to swallow past the lump in her throat. Pain and exhaustion receded, and her entire being focused on the baby. He was helpless and trusting, cradled in the arms of a killer. Her hands itched to snatch him away, but she had to act cautiously. Impulsivity in this case might mean disaster.

  She pushed the door closed behind her and leaned against it. “Señor, I am grateful you have not harmed the child.”

  A sneer contorted his harsh, pockmarked face. He snorted his disdain. “I am not a baby killer.”

  Perhaps not directly, she nearly retorted, but how many babies have died because of their parents’ addiction? She’d have angered him and he probably believed deaths the fault of the drug users, not himself. To an extent, he would be right.

  Determination kept her knees from wobbling, and she inched toward him, an eye on the gun. “I am told that in Tijuana you used the name Perez. I prefer that to El Águila.”

  His sunken-eyed gaze flat and unreadable, he made a small bow. “It is my name.”

  She doubted that, but it didn’t matter. “How did you get here? I saw no car.”

  His cold and lethal smile showed two gold teeth. “My driver has hidden himself well. He will return for me soon.”

  Her heart throbbed painfully against her poor ribs. She took another step closer. “Señor Perez, may I take the baby from you? I should feed him.”

  With his free hand, he stroked Bobby’s head tenderly. He laid his long fingers over the vulnerable soft spot on top. “You took so long to return. He was indeed hungry. I found formula and fed him, just as I have fed my grandson. He is a fine boy.”

  Her gaze riveted to the sight of the cartel leader’s hand on the baby’s head. Her breath stilled and she forced herself to raise her eyes.

  Perez spread his lips again in that shark’s smile. He caressed the downy head once more. “I think he may need a nap.” He supported Bobby’s head and held him out to her.

  “Gah!” Bobby waved his arms and gurgled. In his wriggling, he kicked her side.

  She inhaled a painful breath, but held on. She cuddled him close. Thank God he was whole. She pressed her lips to his soft forehead and breathed in his sweet, milky scent.

  As if he knew cooperation was imperative, the baby rubbed one eye and yawned.

  Anything to get him out of this man’s reach. “I believe you’re right. I’ll go put him down.”

  Perez pushed slowly to his feet. He held the gun pointed at the floor, but followed her, watching her like his namesake while she laid the sleepy infant in his crib.

  When they returned to the kitchen, leaving Bobby out of harm’s way, she said, “If not the baby, have you come to kill me, to finish the job others have botched?”

  “Pah, the fools.” He sank heavily onto a chair. His tone was tight and sharp as a dagger, but his blunt features remained impassive. He gestured to the other chair. “Sit down, please. I dislike people standing over me.”

  She sat. Whatever he wanted. She had to keep him talking until Holt and the others arrived. What was keeping them? And what if this man’s driver came first?

  “Señora, I have been the fool, for trusting lesser men to carry out my orders. To answer your question, I came to see that this affair is finished.”

  That this affair is finished. Did he mean to kill her or not? Her heart tumbled. “How did you track Holt? He was based in the Boston DEA office.”

  “Computers are wonderful instruments. My Tijuana police connection was most efficient in tracing his family ties to this valley. The rest was up to the man I hired. He was what you norteamericanos call a loose cannon. He overstepped.”

  She frowned in confusion. “That man Riggs was supposed to murder Rob, but not Sara?”

  “He was supposed to be discreet. Riggs had a capricious temperament. In a professional, a disadvantage. He made an unwise remark on a public street to the hot-tempered Señor Donovan about his beautiful wife.”

  “I learned of that only the other day.”

  “When Donovan threatened him, Riggs unfortunately chose to eliminate them both in a spectacular way. An unauthorized, brash move that invited attention to my plan too soon. I do not, as St. Paul says in Corinthians, ‘suffer fools gladly.’ A couple of my men were observing. When I learned of Riggs’s foolhardiness, I had them eliminate him.”

  In this case it was the fool who suffered. This powerful man who organized murder as easily as he ordered lunch quoted the Bible. She suppressed a shudder.

  But she needed to know more. “You put yourself in considerable danger to cross the border, to come here personally. Why?”

  “I came to meet the man who killed my son and to finish what he began. The man who kept me in hiding across the border until it became too late.” His dark eyes narrowed and his breathing became shallow, gasping.

  Only too well she recognized the signs of pain. She remembered his shuffling walk when he accompanied her to the nursery. His shark complexion reflected not his character, but his health. “You’re ill.”

  “I am beyond ill, señora.” From a pocket he extracted a small pill bottle.

  She rose and poured him a glass of water. She waited for him to elaborate.

  After swallowing two tablets with the contents of the glass, Perez leaned back and sighed. “That encounter in March prevented me from entering the U.S. for treatments to combat the cancer that eats at my liver. The doctors tell me that it has now spread throughout my body.”

  She stared at him in dawning comprehension. “That’s why you went to Tijuana. To get into California for cancer treatments.” She was looking at a dying man. A dying man nevertheless bent on revenge.

  “We will wait for Señor Donovan together.” Clutching his belly, Perez struggled to his feet. “I will witness his knowledge of the debt his loved ones have paid.”

  “But you—”

  “Federal agents. Come out with your hands up.”

  At last! Maddy had heard nothing, but agents and deputies must have surrounded the house. She should be grateful, but the possibilities of a shoot-out tightened the gorilla grip around her ribs. Gasping a painful breath, she started to the door.

  Perez grabbed her elbow and pulled her backward. “No, señora.” With surprising strength, he banded an arm around her. He held the shiny barrel of his pistol to her head. “We go out there together.”

  *****

  Holt knelt between his Silverado and one of the sheriff’s department Broncos. Four vehicles in all blocked their quarry’s exit, and eight agents and deputies encircled the house. Bonnyman had taken Foley into custody, but Salazar stood with Luke.

  Where the hell was Maddy? He couldn’t see the corral or in the makeshift shelter to know if she’d made it back. And the baby, where was he? Was Bobby safe? Barbed wire coiled around his gut, sharp and spiked.

  “We are coming out,” a man’s accented voice called.

  The door opened, and two figures shaded by the porch roof appeared in the opening.

  The barbed wire coiled tighter. He flattened himself against the Silverado. “Don’t shoot. He’s got Maddy.”

  “If you allow me to leave, I will not hurt the woman.” The leather-jacketed man walked his hostage to the porch steps. He held her tight against his body with one arm. His other hand held a .357 Magnum snub to her temple.

  The drug lord seemed to have shrunk since March. Thinner in a leather jacket that hung loosely on his frame. The scarred face, the hooded eyes that hid his intent but not his corruption—those had not changed.

  “Señor Águila, you’re not going anywhere,” Luke called. “Your driver has been detained. Let Mrs. Donovan come to us.”

  “She remains with me.” He forced her down the steps with him. He edged them to the right, as if headed to the barn.
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  “Does he think he can escape on horseback?” one of the deputies whispered.

  “How many horses you got?” Salazar asked.

  “Three.” If he rode across the hills, they might not catch him. He could head any direction. What if he forced Maddy to go with him? Holt’s lungs ached so he could barely breathe.

  “Holt, Bobby’s all right,” she called in a strained voice. She grimaced with the pain of being gripped around her injured ribcage. “He’s safe in his crib.”

  Thank you, God. He fought down the urge to leap from cover and tackle the man. He inched ahead, ready to dash forward if he saw an opening.

  Maddy lunged to one side. For a long moment, she struggled with her captor. He wrestled with her. He held the high-powered pistol high, then between them. With a sudden shove at him, she dropped to the ground and rolled away.

  Holt vaulted to his feet and started forward. He raised his SIG with both hands. “Put down your gun!”

  El Águila fired three quick bursts toward the trucks.

  As Holt squeezed off a carefully aimed shot, a bullet slammed into his thigh and knocked him to the ground. “Noooo!”

  El Águila staggered. He clutched his shoulder. The pistol dangled loosely from his bloodied arm.

  Two deputies slipped from around the house and tackled the gangster. One grappled him to the ground. The other stripped him of the weapon.

  Before Holt could drag himself closer, Maddy was at his side, pressing on his wound. She dragged off her flannel shirt and held it to the wound. Then she slid off her belt and wrapped that around the thigh.

  He felt no pain yet, only weakness. “Maddy, you’re safe.”

  Tears stained her beautiful pale face. “So much blood, oh, dear God. Luke, call an ambulance.”

  “On the way.” Luke directed the deputies to get the man to his feet. One of them read him his rights.

  “He says Juan Perez is his real name.” She sat with her arms supporting Holt.

  “Whatever you say your name is...you bastard, you’re nothing but filth.” Pain was setting his leg on fire, but it couldn’t match the hatred burning inside him. “You killed my family. You took my nephew and threatened my wife. You can never pay enough.”

  “You killed my son, my Ernesto. He was my hope for the future. All that I built is lost, torn limb from limb by my enemies.” Perez’s mouth twisted with the fervor of his words.

  “I shot a dirty drug-dealing, gun-smuggling snake who would have killed me. If I’d had one second more, I’d have sent you to Hell like you deserve.”

  “Give the word, Holt,” Luke said, “and I’ll send these guys away. You can finish it your way. He shot you. It’d be self-defense. Nobody here will say any different.”

  The temptation of vengeance vibrated the air, a resolution to months of horror and grief.

  Holt wrapped his hand around his gun, in the dirt beside him. He lifted it, pointed the SIG’s cold, steel barrel at his enemy. “I could snuff out your life with one bullet. But would that end it? Or only cause more grief? Unlike you, Señor Perez, I am no cold-blooded killer.”

  Juan Perez angled his head in a courtly bow. “The señor is a cruel man. You have won even if you do not know it.”

  The deputies led the notorious El Águila to one of the police vans. In the distance an ambulance siren wailed.

  Once they were alone, Maddy kissed Holt’s hot forehead.

  “What did he mean...I’ve won?” he said.

  “He knew there was no escape. I think he was taunting you only to lure you into shooting him. I didn’t pull away from him. He pushed me down. A quick death is what he wanted.”

  “A quick death? Why?” Holt visualized his enemy, his ashen visage and sunken eyes. He began to comprehend the meaning of the man’s enigmatic last words to him.

  “When a body is riddled with cancer, an agonizing, slow death beckons,” Maddy said. “A bullet to the heart would end his life too soon. While the wheels of justice turn, let the devil wait for him awhile longer.”

  Holt nodded. Savage pain seared his wound, shot up his entire leg. He turned his face to her soft breast, absorbed her comfort and breathed in her fragrance one last time as the blackness pulled him under. “Maddy, it’s...over,” he gritted out. “Don’t...leave...me.”

  Chapter 28

  During the surgery on Holt’s leg and the next few days of recuperation in intensive care, Maddy spent more time at the hospital than at home. She couldn’t bear to be parted from Bobby again, so she kept him snuggled against her in the sling carrier, or she carried him in the car seat.

  The big-bore bullet had torn through muscle, but mercifully missed the bone, major blood vessels, and nerves. The surgeon said he would have a nasty scar on both entry and exit sides, but no limp after some therapy. Holt’s only reaction was a thunderous complaint about having to remain in the hospital.

  “The bigger the man, the bigger the baby,” Espie said after a quick visit with him.

  Maddy tried to make light of his attitude, but optimism was difficult when monosyllables comprised his only utterances. Before passing out, he’d asked her not to leave him. What did he mean? He’d said nothing more since, only terse requests for water and food other than gelatin and soup.

  The pain in her ribs was an itch compared to the bed of nails she walked waiting for him to find more words. She loved him and she owed him so much. He captured a killer and took a bullet in her defense.

  For eight years, she’d wandered the globe, running from her feelings for him, searching for a future anywhere but here. When tragedy finally sent her back to him, she found the love she feared she could never have, the love that gave meaning to her life.

  He’d hardly spoken to her since Sunday and glared at her when he did. Was he so afraid to trust? Would he again ask her to go?

  He couldn’t force her to leave, could he? She needed a plan for when he came home.

  *****

  On Wednesday Holt badgered the doctors into sending him home. He was supposed to keep his leg elevated and let it heal, but that sort of confinement felt like prison. Even in his own house he felt like a bear in a cage. A wounded bear.

  Maddy insisted he stay in the master bedroom with its own bath. Dammit, lounging in the king-sized bed or on the sofa in the living room seemed to be all he was good for. He read Western Horseman magazines and watched old movies and even a damn soap opera while she flitted around fluffing pillows and fussing over him like he was Bobby.

  She nursed him and tormented him with her damn breezy energy and smile that always brightened the dark corners of his soul. Her sore ribs had healed enough for her to perform light ranch chores. As if tending Bobby wasn’t enough for her to do, she took over care of the horses so Bronc could ride fence and check on the herd.

  All day long, even late at night, she dashed in and out of the bedroom because her clothes were in the closet and her shampoo in the bathroom. In his weakened condition, he shouldn’t be thinking about sex. When she popped in wearing nothing but that damn short silk thing she slept in, it just about drove him over the edge.

  For the first time, he noticed smudges beneath her eyes. A haunted sleep wasn’t surprising after what she’d been through. So some of her flip cheer was bravado. Maybe for his sake.

  He tossed and turned with images of her long legs wrapped around him. He ached for her, but his other aches made any moves as stupid as tickling a bull. Then there were her injured ribs. How could he even think of sex?

  Thinking was all he could do.

  And he hadn’t admitted it to her, but he had nightmares. Of El Águila holding that deadly big-bore pistol to her temple.

  When the nightmares woke him in a cold sweat, he thought about her.

  His wife.

  She was all he thought about all day as well. Her and where his loyalties lay. She was bold and courageous and full of a zest for life. Somehow along the way his desire for her had grown into more. Much more. She’d nailed it. He couldn�
�t deny he loved her.

  He couldn’t deny she loved the ranch and these mountains. And Bobby. A thrill coursed through him at the thought of her having his baby, their babies. With all his heart and soul, he wanted a life with her.

  It all boiled down to one question. Could he shake off the mistrust and guilt of the past and believe in her?

  In us?

  *****

  By Friday morning, he itched to get outside and back to work, but every time he tried hobbling around on those fucking instruments of torture called crutches, he broke out in a sweat and nearly collapsed from the pain. Instead he sat in bed and caught up on the bookkeeping and other ranch business.

  Maddy came in with a mug of steaming coffee as he hung up the phone. “Kind of early for phone calls.”

  He grabbed the mug and gulped down a swallow. The brew burned his tongue, but he gritted his teeth.

  “The coffee’s hot, but I see you’ve discovered that,” she said sweetly, folding her arms beneath her breasts. Her perfect breasts.

  “If you must know, I was calling Will. While the guests are having breakfast is a good time to catch him in the house. I decided to take him up on his offer to lease trail rights to Ghost Mountain.”

  Her smile began with her eyes and curved her full mouth in a way that had him craving a taste. “Fantastic! Keeping it in the family.” She cocked her head. “What else?”

  “The barn. Will’s sending a crew over next week to frame out the new barn. I won’t be in shape to do more’n supervise, but if they get a skeleton up, Bronc and I can do the rest soon enough. Before snowfall anyway.”

  She beamed an even sunnier smile. “I’m glad to see your stubborn streak’s faded a tad. Neighbors helping each other is a good thing, Holt.”

  “Seems like it.” He sipped his coffee, but it was her smile that warmed him. “While we’re having True Confessions, I might as well tell you I’m giving Bronc and Espie a little land to build a house on.”

  “Down that side road off the drive.”