Ripped Apart

by Miriam Minger

  Anyone that cold blooded and ruthless would not stop until he’d gotten exactly what he wanted, and Eduardo knew he’d only encouraged him by sweetening the stakes.

  Twenty million dollars would make most people do anything to attain it. Eduardo was counting on it.

  If he knew the Facilitator, Clare Carson was moaning and writhing beneath him at that very moment. Eduardo grew aroused again at the thought. He wondered what Luisa might be doing right now, and wished so intensely he was lying next to her naked body that his dick grew as hard as a rock.

  Damn Maria to hell, no sexual relief there. He hadn’t slept with her in months and didn’t envision doing so even from the worst horniness and desperation—all the more reason for Eduardo to return to Monterrey as quickly as possible. As the wailing at the back of the plane reached a fever pitch, he tossed down the phone and lunged out of his seat.

  He’d call the Facilitator again in a few hours. Let him enjoy his sick fun.

  * * *

  “Did you hear me? I can’t breathe.” Clare’s fierce whisper still didn’t get a response from Jake, both of them buried side by side under piles of clothing and supplies in the middle of the church van.

  She’d had a decent breathing hole but on that last turn some plastic bags shifted above her to cover up much of her air supply. She tried to stay calm, but she was starting to feel more than a little claustrophobic.

  “Jake, is it okay if I move things around a bit?” Clare shifted her foot over to where she judged one of his legs to be and nudged him with her heel. “Jake?” She heard a muffled response, incoherent and disoriented, and she realized with a start he must have fallen asleep.

  Was he crazy? They’d been traveling for no more than twenty minutes and might not have even reached the northern outskirts of Monterrey yet, and the man with the only weapon to protect them had nodded off.

  Her face burning, Clare couldn’t withstand the sensation of near suffocation any longer. She shoved her fist upward through the piles covering her and made a larger breathing space. She gulped air like a drowning person and immediately started to feel better. She hoped she still remained hidden. She doubted she’d shifted the bags and boxes around that much. Jake shifted beside her and his hand brushed hers.

  “You okay?”

  She pulled her hand away. “Sure, now that I made myself a bigger hole so I can breathe. Enjoy your nap? Not the greatest timing—”

  “Sorry. Passed out is more like it—a few minutes, anyway. Should keep me going for another day. Why don’t you try to get some rest?”

  “Too nervous.” Clare stretched out legs, fearing her limbs might be falling asleep. “I wish I had that gun I left in the church.”

  “Won’t help much if we hit a roadblock. Odds are we’d be outnumbered, but if we haven’t been stopped so far, we’re doing better than I expected. Father Gregorio knows to avoid the main roads which is probably where they’d be waiting—”

  “Oh, God.” Clare froze as the van suddenly slowed down to a crawl, then came to a stop.

  “Relax. He told me he’d punch the brakes if there were any problems. Must be a traffic light.”

  Clare reminded herself to breathe. Jake might have told her to relax but he didn’t sound that way to her. He sounded tense and extremely alert, which gave her some comfort. Better that than sleeping soundly through a host of armed men throwing open the doors at the back of the van and pointing assault rifles at them. She wished there were some windows so they could see outside but even without that outlet, maybe it was just as well they both remained buried.

  “Okay, here we go,” Jake said as the van accelerated.

  Clare didn’t respond and didn’t intend to. She had no wish to engage in any more conversation than was necessary to get them to their next destination, and she hoped her curtness had given him that message. She nursed her silence again just as she had her anger since leaving Iglesia San Jose.

  Anger was better anyway. Every mile they put behind them cut into her like a razor. If she thought too much about the terrible possibility that Tyler still remained in Monterrey, she might lose any last shred of composure.

  She’d trusted Jake, but that trust was gone. That reality cut deep, too, and made her feel like the world’s biggest fool.

  She wanted to lash out at him but knowing Father Gregorio drove the van made her hold her tongue. A plastic partition separated the cargo space and the front seat, and he probably wouldn’t hear her anyway if she kept her voice down. She just didn’t have the heart to attack a man that the priest thought so much of, not when Father Gregorio was being so brave to drive them north under such terrifying circumstances.

  Clare knew Mike Reed was out there looking for them, she could feel it. Fear tightening her chest made her want to close up the larger hole she’d made to breathe altogether so there was no chance she’d be spotted if someone looked inside the van. Her fingers shook as she reached up and drew the corner of a plastic bag filled with clothing a little to the right to narrow the space. Her movement made Jake shift beside her.

  “We’ll be there soon, Clare. I know it’s stuffy and uncomfortable but try to stay calm and breathe slowly.”

  She didn’t answer but at that moment, his whispered advice strangely soothed her. She closed her eyes and willed her body to relax. Her breathing slowed. Her chest ceased to feel so tight. She had a sneaking suspicion she might even be able to doze off until she heard Jake sigh heavily beside her.

  “Jake?” His name popped out of her mouth before she’d thought to stop it. “Something wrong?”

  He didn’t respond but kept silent. Clare had the sense he was lost somewhere deep in thought and staring straight above him though they couldn’t see anything in the dark.

  She wished she’d said nothing, angry with herself now and feeling ticked that he hadn’t yet replied. If she could have rolled over and turned her back to him she would have done so. She shut her eyes again and tried to forget she’d uttered a word.

  “First time I saw Isabella was at this orphanage. God, she was beautiful.”

  Clare felt a catch in her throat. This time she didn’t know what to say even if she’d wanted to respond. Jake’s voice held a current of something she hadn’t heard from him before—raw pain, the kind that ran so deep it touched her own for Tyler.

  “I’d known Father Gregorio for about a year but I’d never met his sister,” Jake continued in a low voice. “My men and I sometimes helped out with things at the orphanage—fixing a hole in the roof, bringing by some food. Isabella brought up a big load of blankets one day. I didn’t see her driving around the building and I nearly ran her car into the trees with my truck. Oh, man, she was spitting mad. Father Gregorio smoothed things over, introduced us, even coaxed a smile out of her. That was it for me. I knew one day I’d marry her.”

  Silence fell again and Clare blinked in the dark, left once more with not knowing what to say.

  If she hadn’t had a full sense of Isabella Wyatt before, she did now from the telling glimpses Jake had given of his wife—fiery, vibrant, and impassioned by the strength of her convictions. He’d said Isabella had hoped to change things for the better but that dream had gotten her murdered.

  “What exactly did Reed say to you about my wife?”

  Clare had to remind herself to breathe, her heart beating faster. Jake had read her mind again but she didn’t want to tell him. “He didn’t say much—” She jumped, Jake squeezing her hand.

  “Please, Clare. Tell me. I need to know.”

  She exhaled slowly, wishing she were anywhere else at that moment but beside him in the van. “Jake, I can’t, don’t make me. It won’t help things and he really told me very little—”

  “He raped her repeatedly.”

  Clare went still. She tried her best to block out the memory of Mike Reed groping between her legs.

  “The coroner at the morgue said he’d seen few worse cases—but he told me she fought hard to live. She had skin beneath
her nails, blood. Probably scratched the hell out of him. She didn’t get away, though. Not like you.”

  Jake’s hand released hers. Clare waited for him to say more but he’d become silent again and she didn’t dare to say a word.

  His voice may have been low and calm but she sensed his anguish like a bomb inside him ready to explode.

  Rage was there, too, deep boiling rage. She wondered if he might like nothing more than for someone to stop them just so he’d have a chance to release some of the torment that crackled in the air.

  “He must have hated me so much to do that to her.”

  Clare swallowed hard. She’d never heard Jake’s voice so strained, so tortured.

  “Mike’s hated me for a long time, I see that now. He said something about always being in my shadow—promotions, the best assignments. He decided to get back at me by using me. I was stationed in Colombia when his recommendation to my commanding officer helped to bring me to Mexico. He probably worked with Ruiz even then and saw me as a way to ensure the success of their operations. He knew our every move through Pablo, so all he had to do was divert their business in another direction. God, why didn’t I see him for what he was? I could have saved her life!”

  The clothing bags and supplies shifted above her and Clare knew Jake had thrown them aside in fury, his voice breaking as he cursed. There were no words to soothe such pain. She remained still beside him, understanding now that Jake blamed himself for his wife’s death.

  Why wouldn’t he have wanted to find her murderer? Clare couldn’t blame him for something so visceral but she’d never forgive him for playing on her own anguish and desperation to accomplish his ends. Never. Choking anger welled inside her, and the words that sprang to her mind for Jake weren’t ones of comfort.

  Her breathing space had narrowed, too, thanks to him shoving things around. Damn him. She decided she’d had enough of feeling smothered and claustrophobic and she began to push some bags away from her face.

  “Don’t move, Clare.”

  Jake telling her what to do only made her angrier until she felt the sensation of Father Gregorio pumping on the brakes to slow the vehicle.

  “Must be a roadblock. Keep quiet, Clare. Don’t make a sound, no matter what happens.”

  She didn’t have a voice to answer, her body rigid, blood thundering in her ears. As if from a great distance she heard the rustling of plastic and paper, Jake burying himself again under the boxes and bags just as the van came to a stop.

  “Someone’s talking to Father Gregorio,” Jake said in a tense whisper. “Shit, they want to look in the van. Easy, Clare, easy…”

  She started when something as hard as metal brushed against her arm, and she realized it must have been Jake’s pistol. Dear God, one weapon against how many? The men’s voices grew louder and someone began to work at the latch on the van’s back doors.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Clare’s fear rolled toward Jake in waves. He would have put his hand over her mouth and held her still if he could. He drew the pistol close to his chest as the van doors swung open. Father Gregorio’s voice rose as if on cue.

  “You see? Three armed men to inspect one van for some gringos, and a church van, too. Clothing, medicine, some food—I have many children hungry and awaiting these things.“

  “Step aside, Father,” came the raspy voice of the man Jake judged as the leader. “We have our orders. Every vehicle must be searched.”

  “I have my orders, too, but not from any earthly power—”

  “I said to step aside.”

  Do as the man says, Jake yelled out to Father Gregorio in his mind, the priest’s life already in jeopardy. The increasing lawlessness in Mexico bore little respect for God or country, only money.

  Jake knew at any second one of those men would climb up into the van and start shoving aside the supplies and he hoped Father Gregorio had gotten out of the way. The bright ray from a flashlight cut back and forth above Jake, and he wondered if he’d dug himself deep enough under the mass of supplies not to be seen.

  “I think you should spare us some of these nice things, Father, yes?” said the leader in more of a command than a query. “Go on, Alonso, climb in and tell me what you see—”

  “Get down, Gregorio!” Jake launched himself out of the pile and pumped a round into the man climbing into the vehicle, killing him instantly. A second round struck between the eyes of the one Jake had judged to be the leader. The flashlight hit the back bumper with a thud along with the body.

  A third man stood stunned for an instant and then turned to flee, but Jake felled him with a round that blew out a hole the size of a grapefruit from the opposite side of his chest. He was dead before he hit the ground. Jake jumped out of the van and looked around him for Father Gregorio.

  Relief flooded him when the priest hauled himself up from the ground a few feet away from the back left tire. Jake expected a look of reproach but instead Father Gregorio rushed toward him.

  “We have to get the bodies off the road. We might have a chance to continue unmolested if no one finds them.”

  “Or if no one heard the shots. Say a prayer, Father.”

  “Already done, Jake. God help us, already done.”

  The priest grabbed the legs of what appeared to be a policeman while Jake picked up the dead man under the arms.

  Blood was everywhere, the warm, metallic scent sickening him, but it wasn’t as if he hadn’t smelled plenty of it tonight already. He hadn’t heard a sound from Clare and he glanced over his shoulder into the van where she sat surrounded by mounds of supplies.

  If he lived to be a hundred, he would never forget the look on her ashen face.

  Horror, shock, disbelief—she must have stared at Doug McKain’s body the same way and it made a hard lump rise in Jake’s throat. He could do nothing for her right now. He turned his attention back to carrying the dead man off the dark two-lane road and into the trees, where he and Father Gregorio dumped their load unceremoniously and went back for another one.

  When their grim task was done, Father Gregorio paused a moment over the three bodies and made the sign of the cross before he murmured a quick prayer. Nothing else was said as Jake climbed back into the van and Father Gregorio slammed shut the doors behind him. Jake propped the lit flashlight he’d retrieved into a corner so it wouldn’t be so bright and sank onto his haunches next to Clare.

  She hadn’t moved. Her expression remained unchanged, her eyes staring straight ahead. What the hell did Jake expect? Clare had witnessed more death and destruction in a few short days than a lot of people saw during their entire military careers.

  “Clare, it’s over—at least for now. It’s okay, do you hear me?”

  She blinked but she didn’t speak, and she made no move to grab onto him when the van jerked into motion and they both pitched sideways. Jake caught her but she recoiled from him as if stung. She shoved supplies out of the way to scoot to the other side of the van where she turned her face away from him.

  “Clare…”

  Nothing. Silence. The interior of the van had plunged into darkness again when the flashlight rolled between several bags of clothing.

  Sighing to himself, Jake gave up—for now.

  Clare might be in shock because of the grisly shooting she’d just witnessed, but beyond that she’d been rebuffing him for hours. Something he’d said or done had deeply upset her and he intended to get to the bottom of it as soon as he found the right time.

  The orphanage lay another ten miles to the north. With luck, they might reach it alive.

  * * *

  “So you’re telling me you have no idea where Father Gregorio went with his two friends.” Mike shoved the barrel of the pistol deeper into the fat priest’s mouth and wiggled it from side to side for emphasis. “No idea at all, right?”

  The priest gagged in answer and Mike withdrew the pistol in disgust and pressed it to the man’s temple. “Okay, try again.“

  “They drove a
way…twenty minutes ago, twenty-five, maybe, that’s all I know.” Sweating profusely, the priest licked his dry lips and rolled panicked eyes to the handgun Mike held to his head. “He took one of the church vans. He could have gone anywhere—”

  “Not fucking good enough.” Mike shoved the priest backward with such force that the man toppled to the floor, the wooden chair shattering beneath him. “Who else here would know where they went?”

  “No one—Jesu, please don’t kill me. Everyone was asleep but myself. I opened the door and let them in, then went to wake Father Gregorio. I went back to my room and later showed the lady to the sanctuary but nothing more. I didn’t see them leave but went back to sleep until I answered the door for you—ah, God!”

  Mike couldn’t believe it. The sweating pig of a clergyman had begun to sob like a baby when he’d suddenly kicked him in the gut. This little interview was going nowhere and precious time was slipping through his fingers. He debated shooting him but that might wake the rest of the rectory, if he hadn’t done so already.

  He should have brought a silencer with him. He kicked the man even harder in the lower ribs, and then leaned over him with the pistol trained on the priest’s forehead.

  “If I discover you knew more than what you’ve told me—what did you say your name was?”

  “F-Father Crispus.”

  “Okay, Father Crispus, if you’ve held anything back you’ll hear from me again. Understood? You say a word to anyone about my visit here and I promise you’ve done your last Mass. Now, you said they left in a van. What color—”

  “White, bone white.”

  “Good. Stay on the floor and don’t move a muscle until morning. Think you can do that? Oh, shit.”

  The priest had turned his head to the side and begun to vomit, dark brown bile mixed with blood, leaving Mike to think maybe those few well-placed kicks had served as effectively as the gun. He left the man and moved quickly down the hall to the rectory’s back exit.